Even as I sit here
In deep wonderment I am;
It's something between awe
And ad nauseam!
Yet not that—but puzzlement.
I am not myself,
But another, yet unknown;
It is something in my finger
That I would seek to disown.
Yet not that—but imprisonment.
I would that I could control it
(It from my stylus pours);
It must be tamed somehow,
Lest I myself deplore.
Yet not that—but penitent.
This scourge that from my finger flows
Is sampled here upon this page;
It comes and keeps on coming—
I would to put it in a cage!
Yet not that—but banishment.
But I reckon that it's here stay,
So I'll let it do its thing;
I'll let it pour out on paper
All its foolish clamorings.
Yet not that—but accomplishments!
So I'll use this Gift from God
(He by His Grace bestowed it);
I'll nurture it and cherish it
And be a real composer-poet.
Yet not that—but His instrument!
- D. Benning
02 Dec 1982
