Posts by Mitch

My Poems Are Like a Persian Rug

My poems are like a Persian rug,
in each there is a flaw,
a word, a phrase, a rhythm off,
an over reaching metaphor.
So close they are to what I feel,
but close is all they are,
like wooden spokes are to the wheel,
like children wishing on a star.

Give Everything You Have

Give everything you have,
and after you have given,
give what’s left.
After you give what’s left,
give what remains.
After giving that,
give the feeling of having given.
After giving the feeling
of having given,
give what you get
for having given.
Then give again,
never stopping, always giving.
And should it come to pass that you forget,
forgive yourself immediately.
Then begin again,
giving everything you have,
and after you have given,
give what’s left.

Standing at the Threshold

A few years ago I found myself standing in my closet, madly searching for clean clothes in a last minute attempt to pack before yet another business trip, when I noticed my 4-year old son standing at the entrance. In one hand, he held a small blue wand, in the other — a plastic bottle of soapy water. “Dada,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes wide open, “do you have time to catch my bubbles?”

Time? It stopped. And so did I. At that moment, it suddenly made no difference whether or not I caught my plane — I could barely catch my breath. The only thing that existed was him and that soulful look of longing in his eyes.

For the next ten minutes, all we did was play — him blowing bubbles and laughing. Me catching and laughing, too. His need was completely satisfied. His need for connection. His need for love. His need for knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that absolutely everything was perfect just the way it was.

The Great Mystery

Here is the great mystery:

There Is No Door

I could tell you that my Master
is the one who opened the door,
but that would be a lie.
There never was a door,
I was never on the other side.
We were always in this together, he and I.

If you call the realization of this Oneness,
the opening of a door,
then I guess we have the beginning of a very long poem here,
but since I’m in a really good mood today,
I’ll save you the trouble of hacking your way
through a love drunk’s excess of metaphors.
There is no door! Never was, never will be.
The knocking you hear
is only the sound of your own heart beating.

The One for whom it beats has always been with you,
so what’s all this monkey business about a door?