A Song of Praise for the World
What follows is a piece I wrote and performed at the Woodstock "One Voice" event, produced by Evelyne Pouget, three months after 911. For maximum value, read this piece aloud.
I speak today with one voice,
here in this town known around the world for peace,
a place that is metaphor for the highest aspirations
of the human soul: Woodstock.
What I have to say existed long before speech,
long before teachers and those who thought
they needed to be taught.
I speak of the time before time, before us and them,
before otherness, separation, fear,
or the need to make amends.
Pure presence there was back then,
isness, first light, love --
what the wise ones among us call by many names
according to their faith, but it has no name,
this impulse to be, this pulsation of life, this truth --
what poets feel before they pick up their pens,
why dancers, quivering in their own skin,
look around the room for space in which to move.
Back then, before the yes and no, the good and bad,
the East and West,
before our addiction to naming and knowing
and the curious claim people make that
God is on their side and their side only,
there was only one thing,
one infinite expanse of grandeur, one breath.
The human voice was quieted with awe before it.
I speak of presence and wonder and the state of
divine receptivity,
I speak of being at home in ourselves and with each other,
what children feel before they sleep, alone in their beds,
knowing their parents are awake in the next room --
the place where no fear of death abides
and even more importantly, no fear of life.
In this beginning,
(which comes with each and every breath)
the only path there was
was the one we made by walking on it,
the path Mohammed walked and Buddha,
the path Jesus walked and Krishna.
Moses, Rumi, Kabir, Lao Tzu, the Ba'al Shem Tov,
Masters known and unknown,
your neighbors and your friends,
each on fire with the possibility of living life as it was meant to be,
each ignited by the very same power some call God,
the God, whose name, lovers, no matter what their path,
invoke at the height of their passion,
the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Abdul,
the God of wizards, the God of fools,
why the earth turns
and the sufis
and the seasons.
It is this unreasonable force, this power of love,
this mirror of our selves to whom we pray,
while preying on each other,
that joins us together today --
why men dig deeper underground half a world a way
and others penetrate the sky,
each fueled by what they think is noble enough to die for.
The question, my friends, is not what to die for,
but what to LIVE for.
What is your calling? Your dream? Your gift?
What is your responsibility?
The choice, as always, is yours.
The messenger abides within you,
comes to your threshold,
sneaks past the guards you've posted at love’s door
and speaks:
"The cave you seek is the cave of the heart,
the air you patrol is your breath.
Walk whatever path you choose, but know that
each step is also an arrival.
Slow down, breathe deep, trust,
Give roses to people you barely know,
make someone tea,
embrace humanity all you want, but don't forget
to embrace each other -- now, the only time there is.
Let your weapon of choice be Cupid's bow,
see God in everyone,
have fun, wake up, be real!
Live as if this was the first day of your life, or the last.
Men, be men. Women, be women.
Win the war inside you --
the battle between the darkness and the light,
rejoice in the undeniable fact that you are alive!
Find your voice
and when you do, use it wisely.
Sing! Dance! Praise!"
Photo: Humphrey Muleba
MitchDitkoff.com
My book of poetry
Storytelling for the Revolution
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:46 PM | Comments (0)
November 24, 2018The Slightly Overweight Modern Art Museum Security Guard
He stands there, barely,
a kind of slow moving
piece of performance art,
just a bit off-stage,
not comprehending
the apparently fabulous shapes
recently described in the New York Times,
though he is, indeed, dressed for the part.
His hands, lightly clenched behind his back,
hold no brushes, no paint, no cloth.
His eyes, unsure of much,
here in this large white room,
glance off into somebody else's distance
while the rest of him,
curious for the moment,
wonders if the tuna fish sandwich
his wife packed for lunch
will be quite enough today.
Now he is leaning up against the wall,
now is he not,
now he is not leaning up against he wall,
now he is.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:00 PM | Comments (0)
November 14, 2018SILENCED
Now that I have seen what creates me
I no longer need to die
or speak of moonrisen eyes of others
gone wild for me.
Amazed, I stand alone now
at the sight of the one
who lightens the stones
and tunes my ear to the sound of my own heart
no longer locked behind bones.
Outside,
leaves are turning the color of old men's teeth
and I blush at the thought
of ever being alone with you.
How can I explain?
Driftwood here I have become,
carried to a shore beyond my sight
where you forever wait --
cave of undiscovered gold,
pure earth,
first ray of sun,
moonbeam in the slow night of my arrival.
Excerpted from Full Moon at Sunrise
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:12 PM | Comments (0)
November 08, 2018An Infinite Amount of Poetry
There is an infinite amount of poetry
in every drop of water,
an infinite,
always-being-written
book of psalms
in each and every breath.
There is milk and honey everywhere,
milkmaids, magic, and gypsies
who steal your heart,
then give it back
ten thousand times infused
with secrets that take
far more than a full moon
and a lifetime to decipher.
No automatic alt text available.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:56 PM | Comments (0)
November 07, 2018Longing Wells Up from Within
TimelessToday
Heart of the Matter
Words of Peace Global
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:29 PM | Comments (0)
