Unspoken Word
November 29, 2021

Here's how I want to love you --
as if we had both been told we only had a week to live.
I would hold you, stroke your hair, and sing,
each cell in your body throwing open its fabulous doors
to the sky and the great emancipation of the soul.
You would breathe and I would, too,
each breath a sacrament,
your eyes portals to the other side
where nothing dies,
my long looking at you
a large field you find yourself dancing in.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:44 PM | Comments (0)


This morning
when I woke up
no alarm clock, no birds, no appointments,
I noticed there was
a marching band in my head,
many costumed characters
wanting to make some noise,
express themselves,
play whatever it was
they held in their many hands.
They were already moving,
these horn-carrying players
of something or other,
going somewhere,
on their way up the street
and I had just awakened
feet not even on the ground.
Was I late for something?
Did I need to catch up?
Or was there another song to play,
the one with no notes,
no strutting, no sound?
That's when I sat up,
put my feet on the floor
and took another breath.
I breathed.
That's all I did.
I breathed,
nothing else,
an orchestra of love poised inside me,
glad for the pause,
conductor nowhere in sight,
baton in hand,

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:59 AM | Comments (0)

November 28, 2021


I want to say thank you,
but to whom?
Who is the one I want to thank,
the one for whom I was born
or should I say born through,
the source of it all,
the center of the wheel,
the hub.
Who is it, this one,
this holy, ever present one?
Do you know, my friend?
Do you know
the space between each breath,
the healer of your broken heart,
the ancient one
who is
gracious even in death,
your parents gone
or going
heroes, lovers, friends,
and all those unremembered words
whispered slowly in the dark,
the best of you
driftwood on the far shore of arrival,
stunned by all of this
coming and going,
this silence,
this laughter,
these tears,
operatic in your cells,
being made love to
by this very moment,
nothing else to do,
nowhere to go,
nothing to prove,
each atom a standing ovation before God,
your heart's hieroglyphics
still unspoken.

More poetry here

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:05 AM | Comments (0)

November 25, 2021
And I Have Seen Him Dance

And I have seen him dance.jpg

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:01 AM | Comments (0)

November 24, 2021

I am going to start the day with a poem,
this one,
well, actually, that's not completely true,
I started the day with a breath,
one I did not decide to take,
it was given to me,
giver nowhere in sight,
though some people say the giver is everywhere,
equally distributed, all over the place,
interpenetrating all beings
whether they know it or not,
which is why, I guess,
I've decided to write this poem,
the one you are now reading
when you could be doing something else,
like drinking coffee,
making a list,
or watering a geranium
just about to bloom,
you see, and you do,
the aforementioned breath,
(the first one I took this morning upon waking),
no... wait... please forgive me,
I didn't take it,
it took me,
it was given, bestowed, no strings attached,
a gift I return 22,000 times a day,
and when I say return I don't mean reject,
I mean give back,
like you would a smile
or a kiss,
the soul's way of giving thanks without thinking.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:13 AM | Comments (0)

November 22, 2021
It's All Foreplay

It's all foreplay,
every single thing you do
or don't,
each glance,
each breath,
the way you turn your head
or walk across a room,
no one there to notice,
every flower planted,
or twirled,
every pirouette.
It's all foreplay,
all of it,
the way you pause,
and check the time,
the way you don't,
if the perfume
through your half-opened window
is for you,
the scent of skin,
the way you close your eyes,
the oh so
slow anticipation
that precedes everything,
incense lit,
thin wisps of smoke
disappearing into a night
no one ever wants to end,
the unbearable beauty of simply being alive,
the touch of a hand,
the thought of a rose,
the way you reach for something you don't really need,
heart opening
like the eyes of a child upon waking.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:52 AM | Comments (0)

November 20, 2021
Letting It All Down

There are women in the world with long hair
who like to put it up,
twirl it and stack it and swirl it
high on top of their heads,
clamped and clipped,
held, sometimes, in place, with long sticks or pins
or multi-colored bands that come five to a pack,
or maybe, on a Sunday afternoon, just a simple red scarf.
It takes many shapes, their hair,
a bun, occasionally, tightly wound and worn
just before a formal affair,
perhaps a concert in the drawing room
or, on a more casual day,
a kind of waterfall splashing just for fun,
strands of silky hair going this way and that.
The reasons, if you can call them that,
are more than many,
perhaps it is a summer day
and the back of their neck is way too hot
or maybe it's time for a new look,
a subtle shift of personality,
here in this world where time is passing.
I really don't have a clue,
me being of an entirely different species,
and yet, without a doubt, there is a glorious moment
amidst all of the changes that happen
at least once in the grand opera of our lives
when the woman lets down her hair,
letting it fall to the place it can fall no further from,
nothing propping it up,
nothing holding it in place,
no style except the one she was born with,
wind playing with each strand
or, if the air just happens to be still (as we all long to be),
simply laying there, at rest,
done with absolutely everything,
nothing on her list
watching, for what seems to be forever,
a few birds, in the downdraft,

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:30 AM | Comments (0)

November 05, 2021
Writing These Words to You

All I am doing right now is writing these words to you, small helium- filled balloons I offer for all your birthdays I missed. I do not know exactly where these balloons -- some red, some purple -- will take you. It all depends on you -- the way you hold onto the string (or maybe there is more than just one string). Well, of course there are -- we're talking about balloons, multiple, not singular -- lighter-than-air-transportation devices for you.

They may SEEM to be words, but they are actually balloons -- or could be, at least for this moment in time.

Go for the ride! Wherever you are or end up is the right place to be at the right time. It is! Always remember that and the way butterflies move in a breeze, and, please tell me, kind madam or sir, how in the world did butterflies ever get created in the first place and am I still expected to pay my taxes? What if I forget my name and wherever I go gardenias spring up all around me, hoping as only gardenias can hope, that one day the one they call the "Master" will find his way there for no particular reason at all, he being completely "of the moment" or perhaps I should say (and please forgive me if I mess up the translation, but it goes a little something like this:)

"You were made in the image of God. You were. You are. Of that you need not have any doubt. As you are you are. How great is that! How simple! As you are you are. I may even have to make a t-shirt with those words on it, an advertisement from our sponsor -- both yours and mine. Nothing has to change with you. You don't need to get better... or work smarter... or be worthy of anything. As far as I can tell, you are worthy of EVERYTHING, though if you recall George Carlin's perspective on it: "If you had everything, where would you put it?"

And now, one last thing (though I do intend to return to this space later on), the best book I've read in quite a while is Hear Yourself: How to Find Peace in a Noisy World by a man (Prem Rawat) who is the most astounding human being I know (but more about that another time).

So much love! So, so, so, so much love. Heaps. Buckets full. Mucho, mucho love. What Rumi, Hafiz, Mirabai, Kabir, and YOU on a good day are plugged into full-tilt boogey, hang ten, high five, walking the high road home to the essence of who you truly are. Welcome to the fountain of laughter and tears! Welcome to remembering and forgetting and then remembering again, opening like a lotus or a clenched fist.

And with that, dear brothers and sisters, daughters and brothers, wizards, fools, home run hitters, flash back Frankies, little Joey from Brooklyn! Yo, Joey, how did you find your way onto my blog post? But I know why. I do. I really do. This massive, bodacious love and presence is who and what you are. How could you be anywhere else?

Praise the Lord! And praise the praisers, too!

250718820_10158611679671158_5191493216484685541_n.jpg Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:02 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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