Grief Waters

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: based on a true story.


GRIEF WATERS

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water

hoping to create a cathartic ritual
that would free me from
my burden of emotion.

I believed the opera I felt inside
required an ocean.
So I drove from the city
to a nearby bay
and after stripping down
waded out toward a red sun
dying on the horizon.

When the cold waters had reached
my hiccupping heart
I stopped

and stood
ankle-deep in the sediment muck
of that rank brown bay brew.
Amoebas of oil and gasoline
slithered on waves
bloodied by the sunset.

I then realized
I’d not bothered to formulate
any words or movements
for this ritual
so I merely waited--hoping
miracle healings do indeed come to those
who are sincere.

But in the quiet
of the ticking moments
I began to see this act
as a fancy performed by a fool
who’s seen too many movies

so I gave up in embarrassment
and just let the waters sway me.

Then, as my eyes settled on
a distant cloud aflame
I slipped into an accidental meditation--
I lost all thought--lost time

until brought back
by an electric chill
needling my clammy skin.

But with that awakening
I saw again
the glorious strangeness of this world
and our life in it.
Have you ever found yourself
by losing yourself?

Refreshed by a satisfying emptiness
I pulled my feet up from the muck
and walked myself back out.

My poorly-formed ritual
had somehow tripped a switch.
I drove home with a desire for life
missing since the death.

Years later
when I think of that loss
I still feel a lingering shadow of sadness
but I also remember
those blessed grief waters--
that wonderfully-strange sunset--
the flame that hides
at the end of our day
but never dies.

mythsteps · Grief Waters

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Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Wise Words of the Butterfly Soul

author’s note:

I’m trying to tell myself the truth.


THE WISE WORDS OF THE BUTTERFLY SOUL

According to legend...

when lost in battle
warriors sometimes come back
as phantom butterflies
to deliver wise messages of guidance.

So when I sensed
those wings fluttering
around my ears
I knew you’d returned to me

and I waited, hoping to hear
magical wise words
that would unlock my heart.
And then
in a sudden burst of freedom
I’d know true peace.

But you just whispered
this short flat instruction
then flew away:

before you can see the stars
you must first lower your eyes.

Dreaded action!--
but as the legend says:
the dead can see better than we do
because they have nothing left to lose.

And so I looked down to address
that mud heap of grief on my plate

while telling myself this second legend:

after the prison pauper ate and digested
his slop-mess dinner
lo and behold!--
the ceiling lifted
and his plate reflected
a fulsome night of stars.

Wise words can’t do the work for us
or give us strength
but without those wise words
I wouldn’t struggle so hard
to find the strength
to work for the peace of freedom.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Enduring the Best

author's note:

I don’t have to do an ultra-marathon.

My endurance is tested every day.


ENDURING THE BEST

After you, I realized:

we must endure
not only the worst
among us, but also
the best.

Though they use different ways
both overwhelm us--
both challenge us
to rise above
our petty selves.

But while one dares us to fight
to find our light
the other tries to enlighten.

However
their brilliant light may stun

and after our eyes clear
we feel responsible for what we see:

I often try to ignore what I know
but feel guilty when I again sense
your old owl eyes watching me
from a place unseen--
near, yet faraway.

I'm pleased you check on me occasionally
but sometimes I’d appreciate
a few words of encouragement

especially when doubt
agitates my thought
almost to blindness.

You could reassure me with a whisper--
you could

tell me again
why I must not slack
in this work--
tell me again
how the little I do
actually helps us all a lot.

Tell me I must
keep on lifting
these heavy feet--
tell me I can find
the strength hidden within

but only if I keep lifting.

Please, tell me
I will eventually
be able to maintain firm hold
on the peace
that always slips
from my grip.

Tell me
all you once told me--
tell me again.

I wait
but as with previous requests
I’m answered by Complete Silence--
I don’t even feel your owl eyes watching.

I tell myself I shouldn’t
feel rejected--
after all
why should you remind me
when I haven't forgotten?

Besides that
a repeat would merely be
temporary comfort--
not a cure:

no one but me can give me courage.

As my moment of weakness passes
I feel ashamed once again
but also think:

maybe in some hoped-for future
I can use this moment
as a story lesson--
the type of story you once used
to help teach me.

Yes, later--
when I become
the sort of person
others will gladly endure.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Glass House

author’s note:

I’ve often heard: those in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks.

I say: no one should throw rocks, because we all live in glass houses.

But some houses are clearer than others.


GLASS HOUSE

I can still see the light
beaming out
from the many windows
of your glass house.

That tough structure rests now
on gentle waters
while faraway
I fight to find my way
through cloudy nights
on heavy seas
that sink and heave.

Though some believed
your insight and brightness
was a natural gift
you let me know
how you’d struggled
to clear those panes.

I think you wanted me to see
the value of hard labor done.

But even now, many years later
I still have much work left to do--
I’m not half as bright
as the guide I knew.

Fortunately
I can look to your glass house
now and then
for encouragement

and for a little extra light
to help me navigate
on these dim nights.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Your Light

author’s note:

Once I was blind…

...now I’m a little less blind.


YOUR LIGHT

Your light remains
long after you
have left the room‑‑

a torch bearer, you were--
a messenger of light

still beaming at me--trying
to wake me to my own light.

Whenever I look at this world
through your luminous eyes
I see the light I usually miss:

perhaps shining behind
the shadow of a face.

An open hand beams.
But even a closed hand glimmers.

I can see the light of dead leaves.
Rich black soil glows.
I behold the firelight within stones.

I imagine you now among the stars--
another light to help guide navigators
when, in desperation
they turn their eyes to the sky.

But to keep from tripping
as I navigate
I also look down
and in so doing, I sometimes
I see the light
you told me lives
in every blind step I make
on the way of my path.

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33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Living Stone

author’s note:

Yes, we’re all stones.  But there are different types, of course.

I like to think of myself as a millstone.


LIVING STONE

I don’t think a corpse needs a grave
but the deceased still should have a stone--
just a plain flat rock in the grass
would be sufficient
if we add an inscription

such as:
this stone represents a stone
who endured
many quakes, many storms

as well as the mundane
slow relentless erosion.

Another rock in a construction
made of all the rocks ever born--
even if it disappears underground
this rock slab will still be around.

I say:
we’re all stones
and even the small or broken ones
contribute to the project.

Let’s give each stone
a stone marker
and at least a line or two.
Each marker a reminder:
we must stand strong
for the benefit of those
who will stand
on this stone foundation.

finding Beauty: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

After the Funeral I Create My Own Ritual

author’s note:

I have nothing against traditional rituals.

I say: whatever works for you.


AFTER THE FUNERAL I CREATE MY OWN RITUAL

Until late that afternoon...

I sent those small smooth round stones
skipping in delightful arcs
across the still water:

some making seven or eight or more hops--
others...only three or four

while a few, I regret to say
went ka-plunk
without jumping even once.

With every throw
I imagined that stone
excited to fly--joyful

then, whatever the outcome
content to sink, to rest

to be back with the lake.

When my arm finally said
okay--enough
I drove home in acceptance:

the beginnings of a peace.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Ocean Song

author's note:

Is there a human mouth that
doesn’t give out soul-sound?
         -- Rumi (trans. Barks)


OCEAN SONG

The day after a death
I feel the shock
of final loss
yet also the joy
of knowing that life--

I’m overwhelmed and tossed about
by capricious waters--
suddenly
lifted from my sadness
by a surge of loving gratitude

then in the next moment
yanked down again
by the undercurrent of grief.

Struggling mightily in this chaotic mix
I feel the power of my emotion
and realize myself to be
someone greater
than the one who does those daily chores.

But as my chest continues to tighten
I fear I’ll die if I don’t let loose.

So though I dread the work
I try…I try…I try
to express the inexpressible:

again and again and again
I aspire upward
riding a geyser of words

only to fall short
and slap down on the ground

in an overheated sprawling spill
again and again and again.

But I guess these messes
still reflect the blue sky above.

In any case
as a human being
you’re probably well-acquainted
with the blessed curse of feeling
so maybe you’ll tolerate
(or even appreciate)
a pipe who spouts lines
like these:

drowning in feeling
we try, in desperation
to empty our hearts
by shouting out
an ocean song.

© 2022, Michael R. Patton
Soultime: a novel