Our Slow Nervous Ascent

author's note:

Every day, a cliffhanger.


OUR SLOW NERVOUS ASCENT

I began to feel as if
I was dangling
so

I opened my eyes
and saw
I hung suspended on a rope--
apparently, I’d climbed
halfway up a tall cliffside
in my sleep.

Though my heart felt faint
I decided I’d gone too far to stop.

Yes, I often doze off.
But now I fear climbing blindly.
So I force myself to watch
my slow, nervous ascent.

However, occasionally
I need relief
so I pause and close my lids
and as I breathe I see
beyond my own dilemma.

Sometimes then
I see you--
I see you climbing
and dangling
just as I am

and to be honest
I find comfort when
I realize again:
you’re just as terrified
as I am.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Soultime: a novel

Thoughts from a Crawler

author's note:

“Kids, be concerned when they call you America’s most valuable natural resource.  Have you seen what they’ve done to the other natural resources?”
           -- Utah Phillips


THOUGHTS FROM A CRAWLER

Children must often play strong defense
in order to survive

but I believe
the battle we face as adults
may require even more courage

because as kids we work in our sleep
but to thrive as adults, we must awake
and work hard to break
the bindings of the cocoons we’ve built--
we must convince the child
still struggling to survive
the break will allow the child to live.

As I crawl along, I leave
a trail of shells behind me--
yes, I’ve must shed more
before I’m free
but what I’m leaving behind
shows this way can lead to success.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Maternal Tenacles

author's note:

The fossilized skeleton we call “Lucy”, is known in Ethiopia as “Dinkinesh”, which can be translated as “you are marvelous”.


MATERNAL TENTACLES

A year ago I saw a show
about an ancient ancestor

found under earth and rock
in dry savanna gorge--
they named her “Lucy”.

I immediately fell in love
with the poor innocent
and that night I dreamt
her tiny skeleton slept beneath
a blanket of my own ancient dust.

Yes, dreams tell incredible truths--
apparently the white man I am
carries this humble stone mother spirit
deep in his innards:

we hold more
than we’ll ever know
but
it’s good to know
as much as you can
about what you hold
because

I now feel the loss--
I now grieve the death
of this simple loving nature.
Now I will nurture
that maternal engine
back to life.

As I feel empathy for myself
I feel empathy for the world:
I can see this loss all over the world.
Men lactate in their own way--
a buried reservoir awakens.
I could stop the flow, but dare not--
for too long I’ve known
the pain of being dry.

Nonetheless, I’m tentative
as this milk spills over--spreads--extends
its tentacles
beyond the borders
of my domain‑‑
these feelers want to feel
but remain afraid:
    they’ve encountered
    blunt objects before
    and been blunted.

But with this fledgling spreading
the gray beneath Lucy's fingertips
slowly bleeds back to pink
and pink desert flowers bloom:

the prickly desert slowly transforms
into a desert garden.  Oh so slowly.
But slow change endures.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel

Pedro

author’s note:

I’m a pessimistic optimist.  But maybe that's obvious.


PEDRO

Yes, Pedro and I
still find ways to beam joy
during these spinning days
of confusion and blood.

While I sing
that child grins his cracked teeth, rings
his tambourine--
I pan for gold
with my banjo.

Yesterday, I took him to Congress
so we could sit in the balcony
and laugh at the show
but

I kept on seeing us
down below.
So

I brought Pedro back out
to bask in the sun’s rays
and witness the smiles
of the many wounded. &nbps;I say:
no one ever loses his soul‑‑
it only gets misplaced.

Many claim
that many children now
grow up
with their souls
outside their bodies.
But Pedro and I, we both agree:
it's always been that way.

Still, we’re hopeful fools.
Pedro says

if enough get mended
the balance might tip
then keep on tipping.

To that end
we spindle personal projects--
turning cranks inside our own mines,
hoisting up buckets of ash--
all the while searching for
the occasional
jitterbug diamond.

Satisfying yet also frustrating:
our hands seem so small.

Yes, reports from a thousand battlefronts
tell us we’re not working alone.
But losses seem to outpace gains--
a monster
on the opposite side of the wall
jacks the odds against us.

But maybe the wall is illusion.
So maybe we can bargain.

In any case, Pedro and I remain
determined
to task happy:
my banjo is banjoy
and Pedro’s tambourine
sings with ringing--sparkles
like the bright folk
who hold this world aloft.

Maybe no one hears us
but at least this way
our eyes don’t bruise
when the tears begin to sting.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

author's note:

Skylark
have you anythng to say to me?
          -- Skylark, by Hoagy Carmichael


Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

Our ancient ancestors believed
the souls of the departed
inhabited the bodies of birds

but maybe they got it backwards:

long ago on a quiet evening
I detected down in my heart
a restless rustling
of ghostly feathers and wings--

a meadowlark, I hoped
(but I could accept a starling).
In any case,
I then understood

why
I lift my arms to the open sky--
I want that union again.
I want the paradox
of being free while obeying
currents above the mundane.

Aren’t we all birds?

Maybe some will say: not me.
But if you feel those rustlings too
I’ll tell you what I do:

knowing I must wait before
I can return to my lark life
I ease the pain of desire
by quieting myself down
occasionally
so I can hear that bird sing
and then remember:
a bird on the ground
is still a bird.

Though I realize
I can’t recreate such song
I still try
because sometimes then
I meet the sky

at least, for a short time.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven's Song: a novel

Birdsong

author’s note:

With regret, I cut this line from the poem below:

“often you must become less / before you can become more”.


BIRDSONG

A bird outside my window
sang this song to me:

“Listen,
  I know something about hatching--
  I know
  you feel ready to break out
  but some invisible force
  seems to hold you back.

“Well, you can find the truth
  behind this dilemma
  if you listen to me
  inside yourself.”

I wished to learn more
but the bird flew away
so following its hint
I went within
and found in the dark a little cage

then as I worked to pry its door open
I began to hear a birdsong

that told me
while you ache for release
you tremble at the thought of freedom--

that told me
while you silently scream
from the pain of confinement
you also snore in security--

that told me
you’re building strength
through the tension
of this conflict.
Would you work so hard
to create peace
if you didn’t feel such distress?

The song also said
don’t forget to see humor
in the irony of your dilemma--
a few light notes can lift you
as you sing of your truth--
those light notes can brighten your light
for a world still living in a dark shell.

I’m trying to follow that advice.
But even when my notes
fall like sighs
the melody soothes the hurt
and in that way
bolsters my spirit
if not yours.

Dancing to Raven's Song: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

How to Sing in Public

author's note:

A pet peeve, but I not a petty peeve, I believe.


HOW TO SING IN PUBLIC

Another loud personality
proudly displays
her stitched wounds in public:
telling us how
life knocked her out

then gave her
many more blows before
she finally woke up

to begin the work of mending.

I truly admire such strength
but

while touting her own courage
the teller of that familiar tale
seems to ignore the bravery
of so many others.

If I’m ever asked publicly
about injuries from early days
I won’t shy away--
no, I’ll sing of my pain--
because someone
might hear her own hurt
in the sounds coming from my wounds.

Yes, I will sing
but not too loud, nor too long--
I don’t wish to diminish
your painful saga
by pretending that I’m
a stitched hero, sublime.

Dancing to Raven's Song: novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

A Small Tree at the Waterfall

author’s note:

I wasn’t trying to create alliteration in the poem below…

...but neither did I try to avoid it.
　

A SMALL TREE AT THE WATERFALL

leans forward with head bowed
on a ledge halfway down the wet cliff--
its roots grip
some shallow soil found
between slabs of brittle rock

as its scrawny trunk trembles
to the threatening roar
of the cascade constantly crashing
below.

Courageous--
I believe its strength
comes from more than mere survival instinct:
the tree hangs on because it loves
that fresh gossamer mist
and hears music
in the multi-layered cacophony
of water finding joy
even while obeying
the dictates of the river.

I know I don’t really know
what the tree feels and thinks
but this belief
encourages me to find beauty
so that I may endure
a world filled
with threatening roar.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Searching for My Best Beliefs: poetry ebook
searching for the new mythology