Sunday, May 10, 2015

The Poet’s Secret

I go to make some poem,
and as I start, this one is
not yet there on the page but
it lingers in his brain’s mind.

This poem at this juncture 
could go in a number of 
directions, I’m aware, but
for now ‘tis like I, unformed.

It might speak of direction,
itself, . . . seeking to answer
the query, Who’s directing?,
which at once begs the question,

Just what is the origin 
of this poem?  So far, then,
the whence and whither of it
come precisely into play.

In a way I’ve clued you in,
for already you’ve been told 
the poem’s fine location,
it doth linger, his brain’s mind.

Of course, you cannot see by 
his eyes, only through your own,
and your very view pertains 
but to you, and you alone.

So, dear reader, you also 
are very much in play here, 
and under such conditions
I will it no other way . . .

be-ing the One, the Only,
who at once, here and now, is
seeing through every eye 
all around and all the while.

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