Unspoken Word
March 31, 2020
THIS THIRST

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There is an aching deep within my heart
that cannot be explained.
It wakes me in the middle of the night
and write these lines --
a kind of fishing in a great sea I cannot find by day.
This escapade is not the search for something new,
it is not the need to find --
more it is the being moved,
my being pulled by an unseen moon,
how small birds, when days get cold,
make their way across dark skies
to the place where they were born,
how a feather falls to earth
and a child, finding it, looks up,
why dogs pace back and forth before a door
as their master turns for home.
Ah, this restlessness, this thirst, this ache,
this silent undertow inside
that takes me back to the hidden spring
where lions come to drink,
and snakes,
why birds sing when they are all alone
and the long ride home on an empty train
often feels like an arrival.

Painting: Evelyne Pouget

Excerpted from Full Moon at Sunrise
Oil pastel: Evelyne Pouget

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:53 PM | Comments (0)

March 23, 2020
The Width of the Universe

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Astrophysicists, as of this precise moment in time,
believe the universe is 92 billion light years wide.
Please don't ask me how they know, I can't tell you,
especially since the half-life of scientific knowledge,
these days, is only five years,
meaning that 50% of what Earth's wisest think is true
will be proven false by the year 2023.
OK. So maybe the universe isn't 92 billion light years wide,
or maybe there isn't just one universe.
Maybe there are many,
what's been called, the multiverse, for lack of a better name,
kind of like this poem if I

leave a space between verses,

or maybe the whole concept of distance
is completely old school, like penmanship or Ritz crackers
and, in reality, absolutely nothing exists
except this moment
of you reading these words
and me writing them
or, perhaps, as my father used to say
"that and $2.50 will get you on the subway."

The point of it all?
Love!
Love is the name of the game.
Love and kindness and compassion and forgiveness
and gratitude and, of course, consciousness,
speaking of which,
the most advanced space craft ever reverse engineered
from another world,
had no moving parts,
no dials, no dashboard, no grommets, no chips,
no nothing.
It was powered by consciousness alone,
the mind waves of the beings who traveled inside it.
And this, my friends, is precisely why I love baseball so much.
The shortstop doesn't give a shit about how wide the universe is.
And the center fielder,
he of the big biceps and rugged good looks,
has just hit a 468 foot home run into the upper deck,
thousands of ecstatic fans high-fiving each other forever.
Now that's far.

MitchDitkoff

My clients. Trippy, huh?
Baseball

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

March 10, 2020
The Value of Nothing

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:27 AM | Comments (0)

March 09, 2020
WATERCOLOR

Today I wrote the most beautiful poem in the world,
something so pure I wouldn't mind dying,
the perfect song of praise
hewn from the dark forest of my secret heart.
Not a wasted word it was,
rhythmic, elegant and holy,
poetry for the ages, why sages dance,
timeless in its pauses,
with a long white beard and a thousand Santa Clauses
ringing their bells for love.
Yes, I wrote this poem today
or rather, it wrote me,
flooding through my body
onto a singular white page,
which I, amazed at having said it all
and having signed my name,
left, for a moment, on my favorite chair
beneath the willow tree just outside my kitchen door,
then turned inside again and took my leave
to celebrate this unexpected visitation of my muse
by listening, with great respect,
to Mozart in the living room.
I did not hear the rain,
not a single drop.
It was only later, after dinner, I discovered
the many ways ink drips down a white page
in a sudden, summer shower.
I could see, I think, small patches of blue,
a cloud, a flower, a silhouette,
perhaps a word or two,
my perfect poem now watercolor --
the many colors of my love for you.

Full Moon at Sunrise

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:00 PM | Comments (0)

The World Is My Day Job

The world is my day job,
but it's the night that is my calling,
when everyone is gone
and Adam's done with falling,
when there's nowhere left to go,
and nothing else to do,
just staring at the moon
and thinking,
as slowly as I can,
about you.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:23 PM | Comments (0)

My Uber Driver

My Uber driver, I just found out,
sings in a Mexican rock band.
80's covers. Spanish only.
That's why he asks me to sit in the front seat with him.
If I sit in the back, he explains,
the State Police will impound his grey Toyota
and he'll never get to a gig again.
They will keep his car for two months behind a barbed wire fence
next to a field where many dogs bark.
35,000 pesos it will cost him if he ever wants to see his vehiculo again.
You see, the Regional Governor, owns the local taxi company
-- 100 shiny green and white cabs.
That's why the State Police, in leather boots,
stop Uber drivers in my little town,
but only if their passengers are sitting in the back seat.
Not today, however.
I am sitting in the front.
Like his best friend.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:12 AM | Comments (0)

“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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