A star exploded deep within you years ago
and still the light has not yet reached your eyes,
not yet turned the night to day for birds to leave their nests
or monks their caves to play.
Blind to your own infusion, you insist there is nothing to see,
nothing to celebrate your reasonless being for,
and yet you feel it, you quake,
you quiver to begin.

An unseen trembling turns your head,
the way you stand, the wind,
the ground beneath your feet.
You think the shock of this bodily remembrance is fear
and do not sing,
do not burst into song,
do not wring the beauty of the sound
long buried in your bones.
You stop and throw a stone,
half hoping it will come back to you,
and wait

as if there was time,
wait,
like a beggar ashamed to ask for a bowl to beg with.

How can this be?
The sky is bluer than the eyes of your own mother
on the day she first beheld you
and still you cast your gaze down.
Don't you remember?
You were made in the image of God!
The creator!
The one who creates
river, eagle, ladybug, leaf.
If anyone else gave you the moon you'd call him a thief
or worse, refuse to look.
Give up the notion of stealing from God.
The only crime here is to hoard.

Prometheus?
Only bored of chilly nights
with no flame to write his poetry by.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:23 PM | Comments (0)

I have something to say to you and it is this:
This! This gathering of souls.
This timelessness. This space.
Nothing else ever happens.
There is nowhere else to go.
Only this!
This!
Every flower, child, breeze and breath is saying the same thing:
This! Wake up! Sing!
There is no other possibility or hope,
my friends.
What you call future is a dream,
your well-intentioned scheme
to more thoroughly enjoy what can only ever happen now.
This!

There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to go,
no one to come home to,
or if you are, shall we say, spiritually inclined,
no one to chant om to.
You see (and you do!) this... is... it!

Just this -- a chance like a leaf on a high branch, to come undone,
flutter down, land, and there -- at the root -- find rest.
Let it fall to the place it can fall no further from!
Live there!
And when, as you might, finally decide to speak,
announce your discovery of pure and perfect presence,
you will be struck dumb -- stunned like a child just before tears,
mute, like someone upon whose shoulder a butterfly has come.
Moved, but unmoving.
Proof, but unable to offer any.
The perfect fool.

It is into this space that music enters.
It is into this space that hearts become drums and we hear --
do not listen to -- but hear
music!

Can you hear the molecules and the atoms within,
the sound which ties us to God,
that like an identical twin knows exactly what we want to say?
It is into this space that music is made.

Can you hear it being played?

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:12 AM | Comments (0)