A Question of Beingness

A poem sticks deep in my throat.
I cough and cough, yet
it will not rise.

I ask the poem, Why do you rebuff
the poet's embrace?

Comes the reply, Why do you not
disrobe and go naked as you are?

I say, Out of the question- I am a man of Earth
and depend on this body.

The poem, And insist on hugging a corpse
when a Universe is there to court?

Such is the enigma baffling
a poet humanoid- a question of beingness.

Vacant in a motion like wind,
set and established like time.

Intangible as love,
manifest as a sugar maple
spurting forth spring syrup
and consumed by sweet lickings,
each and every one.

Like sun, doling out alms for the needy.
Like a painting, guardian and trustee
of the artist's beauty.

But some only worship ugly,
and scoff at you who seek perfection.

They lack the truth which is
you are soul and sand,
a spirit WITH a body.

You are the light making sky
and the seer of skylight.

You are words making verse
and the poem making words.

The beams that fall ahead,
the shadows stretched behind,
each sealed by your signet.

Enough of this silly argument!
I come to my senses and wave the white flag.

The terms of surrender are,
indeed, benevolent.

The poem tust the pen with its whimsey.
The pen trust the poem to show the way.

The flood gates of consideration open wide,
freeing the living stream to run its natural course.

And I, resolved, as one again,
the boat and the guide.
~~

Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.