This Thirst
Some spoken word by yours truly
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:43 PM | Comments (0)
January 24, 2024I HAVE A GERMANIUM
I have a geranium,
or maybe it has me,
sitting there as it does
at the far end of my kitchen table
like a Buddha,
its tight buds
just beginning to open,
completely indifferent
to whether or not
anyone else is in the room.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:58 PM | Comments (0)
January 21, 2024Two Kinds of Poetry
There are some poems
that are nothing more than thoughts,
the kind of packaging you might
find around your house
after a quick visit to the mall
where lots things you didn't really need
you bought.
Then there are poems that sanctify
the celebration of pure feeling,
what lovers experience
on a lazy day
after a long, slow embrace
when they find themselves
wordless,
and dancing on the ceiling.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:11 AM | Comments (0)
January 20, 2024I FEEL A POEM COMING ON
I feel a poem coming on,
not like a cold,
more like a warm,
an unexpected visit from an old friend
whose name I do not know
but can always tell when she is drawing nigh --
there's a kind of perfume in the air,
a scent,
a sensing like a dog,
that his Master has turned for home.
Not having a tail, I'm not really sure
what it is I wag,
but there is definitely something
moving inside me.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:26 PM | Comments (0)
January 10, 2024Here's the Problem with Reading Rumi
Here's the problem with reading Rumi:
There's a very good chance you will never come back,
which might, of course, be fine for you, oh seeker of light,
but what about the person you are most committed to
here on planet earth? Won't they feel abandoned,
you having disappeared without a trace
your body now a shadow,
your heart having exploded into a thousand pieces,
each one a seed to populate another world?
What about THAT person, the one you
share your hopes and dreams with,
the one who holds you late at night?
If this, perchance, is what concerns you, my friend,
simply tell your partner this:
My darling, I would love you like my own self if I knew who I was,
I would sing to you each day,
which is why I read Rumi, the pied piper of my soul,
and why I breathe.
You and I are more than a couple, my dear,
we are couplets in a greater poem,
each one a moving line with its own rhythm and internal rhyme,
expressions of the ancient quest for love
now made greater by each other,
why I come home to you at night,
why you come home to me,
and time stops,
why I must forgive myself daily for forgetting
just how utterly divine you are, sweet bee to the honey of my life,
the endless sky I soar deeper into,
stretching my wings beyond what I think is possible,
and it's all Rumi's fault.
Blame him!
I had nothing to do with it.
Nothing.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:59 AM | Comments (0)
