Unspoken Word
April 30, 2021
Poetry Written in the Parking Lot of My Health Club


I am a rosebush, pruned,
my flowers trimmed for the long haul,
the core of myself less visible than ever,
but bursting with life.
There is a season, I think, for everything,
even songbirds sleep,
lovers, spent for the night, stare into space.
Is it the sun now rising in my breath?
The moon?
Alone in my room, but not at all lonely,
I feel the flaming red bud of creation
opening in my cells.


Many years ago,
with my good friend, Bill,
I drove from Denver to Miami
in a Ford pickup truck
that had seen better days,
stars in our eyes, gas in the tank,
and only one CD --
the Best of the Eagles.
We must have played it a hundred times,
never once being bored
on our way to see the one
who showed us how to enjoy the ride.
We barely slept.
There was no reason to.
We talked. We sang. We breathed,
The Best of My Love
playing over and over again
many more times that made sense.
But you see (and you do),
when love is in your heart
and you are driven by it,
everything sounds good, everything,
there is no such thing as boredom or complaint.
Birds sing, water flows, flowers bloom,
and two young men drive cross country, singing along,
pounding on the dashboard, alive.
And when, many miles later,
we finally arrived,
unwashed but not unloved,
we listened to the one we had driven all that way for
hold court in the castle of the Kings,
a man, I surmise,
The Eagles, God bless their souls, would have loved --
such sweet harmonies
heard between the silences.


What is happening to me?
I am sitting here in the parking lot of my health club,
gym clothes on the seat beside me,
overwhelmed by poetry.
This is crazy! This is nuts!
I came here to move my body,
but it is my soul, instead, getting the workout
sitting in the front seat of my Subaru,
storm clouds above me,
wind in the pines,
James Taylor on the radio,
me not having shaved for days,
dazed as I am by what it really means to be alive.
"Goodnight moonlight ladies,
Rockabye Sweet Baby James,"
tears now rising in me
like a thousand suns.


There is an oyster in the shell,
a song in my heart,
a heaven in the hell,
a union when we part,
a birth inside the death,
a kiss inside the monk,
God within my breath,
A treasure in the trunk.
Such is the great mystery of life,
such is the game we play,
everything we want we have
and everything we have
will one day fade away.


Here is the great paradox:
The one you seek is seeking you,
the one you praise is praising, too.
The object of your devotion
is not an object at all, but a vibration
having taken human form,
the face of infinity,
the mask of creation,
the ultimate mirror
in which to look and see your reflection
and, upon seeing it, dance
even if you choose not to move at all.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:52 PM | Comments (0)

April 25, 2021
Three Line Practice of the Day

Crab apple branches thickly laden with red buds,
Grass missed by mower standing tall and elegant,
Bird feeder swinging gently -- waiting.

- Barbara Bash

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:40 PM | Comments (0)

April 02, 2021
Allowing My Dreamer to Dream


Allowing my dreamer to dream,
I free myself of having to make something happen,
my dreamer is in the incubation period.
Something in her psyche knows it will be
revealed through her to me.

-- Tina Lipson

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:53 PM | 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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