Unspoken Word
August 15, 2023
The 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 August 15, 2023 08:32 PM

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“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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