THE ULTIMATE HOST
You have given me everything
or should I say,
you have introduced me to everything,
it being impossible to give anything
to anyone who already has it all
(which is everyone),
or maybe I should say,
you have reflected
everything back to me,
like a mirror does,
free of dust,
revealing what already exists.
Still waters you are, my Friend,
the surface of a cool lake
high in the mountains
showing me my real face
before I dive in or drink,
parched as I've been
from all those years of wandering.
Yes, introduced me is what you have done,
like the ultimate host of a fabulous party --
you the one who greets me at the door,
bows, smiles, laughs and,
with a sweep of the hand,
invites me to enter.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:09 AM | Comments (0)
August 15, 2023The Only Question Left for Me Tonight
The only question left for me tonight is this:
Do I write by candlelight or moonlight?
Both, you see, have their advantages.
They do.
Candlelight, softening everything in its path, evokes
lifetimes of lovers,
none of whom ever want to take their leave,
only breathe slowly into each other,
luxuriating in the moment that never ends,
nowhere to go, nothing to do,
no future, no past,
silence the manger they find themselves having entered into,
fused breath rising
like a sun inside the same shared horizon.
Ah... yes... candlelight...
a mighty fine contender, it is,
candlelight, the poet's muse,
and I haven't even yet gotten to the moon yet --
the moon,
lighting the way to monastery walls
and all those haiku years
tending plum trees
in a garden swept so clean by monks
that the Master of the Estate -
the one for whom so many traveled so far
to catch a single glance,
a smile, a turn of the head, a word.
Such liquid sweetness there is in this grand elixir of life
where only love exists,
only love, my friends, only love,
love and the second question of this poem:
"Who is it that moves my hand just so?"
A weed in the wind, it is,
bed sheets being shaken out on a far hillside,
God's mime, somehow able to see without looking,
holding his pen
as if it was a 17th century sword,
its handle so heavy
only a light heart
could lift it tonight.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:32 PM | Comments (0)
August 01, 2023Scrolling
So there I am, scrolling
through my long list of Facebook friends
when I see the name of someone who died last year.
It's not like they were my best friend,
they weren't,
but they were a good friend, a pearl,
someone whose company I very much enjoyed,
someone I laughed with and listened to,
whose stories moved me
not to mention their uncried tears.
Their name is staring at me from
the cold screen of a laptop
I bought to stay in touch with people I love,
but they are gone --
gone their smile,
gone the scar above their eyebrow,
gone the curious way they turned their head.
I am not scrolling now, just looking at their name,
and then I scroll again.
Five people down,
I see another friend
no longer here to check their inbox or send me a joke.
I pause,
take a long, slow breath,
and scroll again.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:07 AM | Comments (0)
