Opening My Nose

author’s note:

I envy the Bloodhound.


OPENING MY NOSE

Born with a poor sense of smell
I decided I should work to develop
the few olfactory nerves I possessed

and in the process
of stopping to smell smells
I discovered many surprising benefits--

for instance:
how the crisp scent of frost
clears the mental faculties

and
how the fragrance
of wet decayed leaves
leads me deep within.

I swear I once detected
the odor of mushrooms
on a spring breeze
and for a moment at least
I became a big-headed gray alien
visiting a wonderfully strange planet.

I can even enjoy a whiff of chlorine
on a summer’s afternoon--
such pungent scents wake me
and in waking
I become more aware
of what I see and hear and feel.

Yes, I appreciate the presence
of every strong smell.

Well, maybe not every.

But I dare not close my nose
to what disgusts
because by cutting off
I would also lose the beautiful.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Kissing Fish

author’s note:

“I’m gonna do what I gotta do to get the union back!”
               -- from the movie Hoffa


THE KISSING FISH

As they do
nearly every evening at this time
the kissing fish
arc out of the lake.
One coming from the north.
One coming from the south.

The two trout
meet in mid-air
and for one still moment
their mouths adhere

and all the people who’ve gathered
around the pond to witness
this twilight summer ceremony
hold their breath
as they experience
the wondrous union
as a union of their own, within.

But impermanence is the cost
of living on this planet--
in the next moment
the rainbow arc made
by the two trout
breaks

with a collective sigh
from the crowd
as the spent bodies
flop helplessly down
and land on the water,
creating two rings of spray

then disappear under
the orange autumn leaves
rolling with the waves.

Some couples
now drift into the woods,
hand in hand.

But the truth is:
everyone here has become
a lover again
by opening to
the glorious perfection
of this gentle event.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Delusional Bird

author’s note:

While doing research for this poem, I discovered that use of the word “delusional” has sharply increased in recent years.

Just thought I’d throw that out there.


THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD

Why was the bird so madly ambitious?

We don’t know we only know
from a young age, the bird
wanted to create a song
that would endure after its death:

a song to be sung
down through the generations--
the beat would become part
of the heartbeat of this planet.

Though at first its tune
sounded quite puny
the little bird sang on

believing its sincerity

would one day transform the ditty
into a symphony worthy
of sophisticated orchestras.

A silly notion, yes
but one that encouraged the bird
to keep singing

through all those years
when its song of life
only had enough life
to shake the leaves.

The bird kept singing
even as its frustration
grew from a mild irritation
into a torment
and then a torture.

The bird continued then because
it could hear how that heartrending pain
actually helped to strengthen the song

and could feel how
its voice now sounded all the way down
through the trunk to the roots of the tree.

This development continues to develop
and so, the bird still believes
its song will eventually
deliver listeners into ecstasy.

If no wandering composer
offers to score the notes
the bird plans to fly from its tree
when the song finally feels
ripe to the point of bursting

then that avian will sow the seeds
of its complex melodies
all over the world
so that choirs everywhere can chorus
the wondrous composition.

A grand ambition, but
that bird is obviously suffering
from a delusion.
I shudder to imagine
what might happen
to the poor creature
if it ever wakes up to reality.

But to be honest,
behind my pity
there lurks a bit of envy.

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Still Working to Reach the Angel

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
              -- Mary Oliver


STILL WORKING TO REACH THE ANGEL

Having lived among us for so long
angels have lowered their expectations.

Thus
they no longer feel angry at us--
they feel pity

for creatures so weak, so low.

One day
a winged shadow on the lawn
startled me out of the storm
in my mind.
Up above, I spied
an angel flying away--
tired of hearing me thunder.

At once I saw I was losing
the spirit that could save me
from my thunderstorm.

In desperation
I raised my arms
opened my hands
and began to beseech with a song.

I’d hoped to let flow
the lovely notes of a dove.
Instead, my voice cut the air
like the sharp dry caw of a crow.

But to an angel
any cry of humility sounds beautiful
because the supplicant openly admits
the painful truth.

And so, in response to my plea
the cherub circled round
to perch in an elm tree near me

as if to say:
since you now see my value
I will stay

but if you want me
you must reach me.

Fortunately, angels know
how slow we humans grow
and so
they’ll wait patiently--
as long as we keep trying.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Those Blessed Incognitos

author’s note:

I think if we want to see the light at the end of the tunnel, we've got to be that light.


THOSE BLESSED INCOGNITOS

I’ve grown aware
of a powerful positive conspiracy
involving an obscure confederation
of priests and priestesses

usually unknown to the casual observer because
they don’t wear uniforms
or carry placards—

for that matter, often even members
don’t realize they belong to a club—
don’t realize
they’re connected by an invisible web
to souls all over the globe
who share their divine obsession—
noble servants content to work in the shadows:

apparently driven by higher instinct
they dig new wells
and map interior towers
that spiral endlessly upward.

My dreams have shown me
how their hearts swell
in depth of night
to overflow riverbanks
and soothe the wounds suffered
by eight billion human battlefields.

Yet despite their strength
at times, our heroes and heroines feel exhausted
by these birthing labors
and must escape
to the forest that mothers.
There, they surrender once more
to the black earth

to decay and resurrect
in three days—
sometimes less

and though these warriors may hesitate
before returning
they return, nonetheless:

as priests and priestesses
they understand:
despite appearances
no effort ever goes for naught—
every step is another step
up the stairway—
they understand:
as they rise they help
the rest of us step up.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Freedom Feet

author’s note:

As I see it, there’s foolish risk and there's wise risk.


FREEDOM FEET

Hoping to wake myself
from a stupor induced by security
today
I set my feet free:

no socks, no shoes--open again

to many hazards--
such as shards of broken glass
lurking like sharks in the grass

but I could feel

the freshness
of that wet spring grass
and squeeze
luscious cool mud
between my pale toes.

The shock of touch
created bursts of interior fireworks.
My body saw the world once more.

Today
as my eyes felt
the flow of clouds
my soles listened to a river
coursing through the veins
of an underground cave.

Today
I resurrected myself
through a small act of courage.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Modest Woman Who Glowed

author’s note:

A poem about modesty for these immodest times.


THE FABLE OF THE MODEST WOMAN WHO GLOWED

When he said she glowed
she replied,
“I only reflect some distant sun.”

But later
after they became more familiar
he placed his hand over her heart
late one night
and told her:
“I can feel the deep fire of spirit.”

“No, only heat from
 the pumping of blood,”
 she sighed.

“So, would you prefer I see you
 as merely something mechanical?”
 he asked her.

“Well, okay then, if you insist:
 I glow with the deep fire of spirit.”

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Gray Paper Heart

author's note:

I feel I'm learning a lot--though often I'm not aware of what I'm learning.

Looking back, I'll sometimes realize what I learned at a particular time.  But maybe not until long afterwards.


GRAY PAPER HEART

I once explored a stationery store
for an hour
in search of a sheet
from which I could cut
a gray paper heart

to match the one that’d vanished
when I reached down in a dream.

Somehow I knew
texture was even more important

than color in my choice.
So I traced my fingertips
across sheets of many grades and weaves--
each held its own particular pleasure.
Some felt almost right
which meant:
they were not the paper I sought.

Finally
like a magical moment in a fairy tale
I spied the one I knew was the one
at the end of the middle shelf:
a light-gray standard-size sheet, it was--
the fiber, somewhat coarse
but perfect in its imperfection.

I touched with trepidation
and in turn, was touched
by a material so quiet
yet so alive.

Something inside silently said:
I am that.
To which I replied:
“I don’t think I understand.”
And then no longer felt that something.

Not until the evening
when I began to work my scissors
tenderly into those fibers
did I remember
someone I once saw leaning
against the side of a stucco building
deep in shadow.

No, I didn’t see her face
just the back of her long plain gray dress.
I could hear her tears--
not dramatic, not bereft--
her sighing calm suggested
she didn’t want to but knew
she needed to cry.

I felt pained because
I desired to help her but could not.
So I soothed myself
with this understanding:
she didn’t need me.

Now, as I touch that cut heart
I feel the woman’s strength again.
Though quite human
she was also a vision.
Another lesson
in my education.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Advice Columnist Answers "Missing the Magic"

author’s note:

In memory of advice columnist Ann Landers, 2018-2002.  One source of wisdom in my youth.


ADVICE COLUMNIST ANSWERS "MISSING THE MAGIC"

You say you're at a total loss...

Well, my advice is:
sharpen those senses
dulled in the daily rush
by turning off the lights
and tiptoeing through the dark.

As you sneak and creep
the too-familiar can transform
into many fresh discoveries--
luscious and wonderfully strange.

I myself often lose touch
but fortunately dead people can feel
how dead they are
and so I eventually realize
I must tiptoe once more
through sumptuous sensual darkness
until I arrive at the precipice
and understand, as before:

wise though I am, I’m a fool
when confronted with the mystery.

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

As the Duck Crosses My Path

author’s note:

Ducks don’t lie.


AS THE DUCK CROSSES MY PATH

At first, I'm impatient
because I must pause

but then I'm distracted
by the comical waddling--

by the little head held aloft
in an aristocratic manner

while the eyes seem so blank, so dumb.

Then the duck hesitates
and a moment becomes a minute
but I use the time to appreciate
the delicate durable neck feathers:
miniatures woven together
to form a dense overlay
flashing a green sheen

cut by the ring
of a neat white neck-band.

But then the duck opens its beak
and makes a hard nasal quack
that breaks my spell--
then another quack
then another quack.

I’m ready to say “Scat!”
but with the next quack
to my chagrin, I hear an echo
of my own reedy voice.

Only then I do realize
what the duck means to tell me:

“you and I are the same--

“clowns waddling around flat-footed--
  proudly announcing their presence
  to the world
  with a one-note song
  both sharp and dull.

“Nevertheless
  if the beholder looks closer
  she will perceive a beauty
  that is the birthright
  of all us foolish ducks.”

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton