Unspoken Word
March 13, 2018
Nothing is Going On

Nothing is going on
and that is precisely the problem,
nothing is not supposed to be going on,
nothing is supposed to be nothing,
nothing, as in zero, nada, zilch,
that which does not go on
and never wanted to in the first place,
but nothing, at least as I've heard it,
wanted to become something,
like a beggar a little too happy upon finding a coin
or that third olive in a dry martini
on a night when no wolves howl.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:32 AM | Comments (0)

March 10, 2018
Where in the World Can I Go?

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NOTE: I found this poem and at least 50 more, in a box in the back of a closet in my house, parked there more than 20 years ago. The poetry? Written at least 40 years ago, gathering dust. But no more...

Heart of the Matter

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:24 PM | Comments (0)

February 26, 2018
Here's a Little Secret

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:43 AM | Comments (0)

February 16, 2018
What You See


Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:59 PM | Comments (0)

February 11, 2018
Like an Old Mexican Woman

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:04 AM | Comments (0)

February 07, 2018
Off the Coast of Love

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:33 PM | Comments (0)

February 05, 2018
The Buffet in Your Living Room

In memory of Joan and Stanley Deutsch. Written by their loving daughter, Cathy, upon the passing of her father several years ago, and recently remembered as her mother left this mortal world.


The buffet in your living room
is now a shrine to your life.
Shiva book open to hold the names
of friends and family come to call.
A candle burns in memory
it's Hebrew markings a prayer.
A petition for mercy
that your soul rest in peace.
I have arranged the flowers differently
than the ones from my garden.
These carry a thorn of sadness
as I place them in a clear glass vase.
I strive not for beauty
but for some pictures of you,
the reds your fire
pink of tenderness,
elegance of rose and
simplicity of fern.
Many splendidly open
and others never to bloom.
This still life set for a stilled life
sits not for the painter's eye.
It hold fast your memory
and too will find you in its return
to soft brown earth.

Cathy's email: crotoncath@aol.com

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:11 PM | Comments (0)

February 03, 2018
The Beautiful Sadness of Longing

Continue reading "The Beautiful Sadness of Longing"

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:53 PM | Comments (3)

January 30, 2018
Laugh Lines

The only lines
I want to wait on
are the ones
around your eyes.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:07 AM | Comments (0)

January 25, 2018
There Is No Door

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:07 PM | Comments (0)

January 18, 2018
When You Walk Into the Room

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:46 PM | Comments (0)

January 15, 2018
Why Am I Always Waiting?

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:02 PM | Comments (0)

January 09, 2018
Does Anyone Really Understand?

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:49 PM | Comments (2)

January 06, 2018
Harvest Me

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:23 AM | Comments (0)

December 29, 2017
I Used to Write Love Poems

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:53 PM | Comments (0)

December 18, 2017
Radiant Being of Light

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:03 PM | Comments (1)

December 13, 2017


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 that 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.
Only board of chilly nights
with no flame to write his poetry by.


Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:56 PM | Comments (0)

December 08, 2017
Come to the Edge of the Shore

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:57 AM | Comments (0)

December 05, 2017
There Is a Poem I Will Write

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:43 PM | Comments (0)

November 26, 2017
Ah... This Restlessness


Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:21 PM | Comments (0)

Want more? Read our Archives:
March 2018, February 2018, January 2018, December 2017, November 2017, October 2017, September 2017, August 2017, July 2017, June 2017, May 2017, April 2017, March 2017, February 2017, January 2017, December 2016, November 2016, October 2016, September 2016, August 2016, April 2016,
“I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.”
— John Cage

Welcome to my new blog — brief ruminations on what it is that moves me (and maybe YOU, too). If any of my poems inspire you, please forward them to friends. Good muse travels fast. Or could, with your help.

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