What I Tell Myself while Dangling in the Dark

author’s note:

Hang in there.


WHAT I TELL MYSELF WHILE DANGLING IN THE DARK

Moonlight whitens a spider
bobbing up, then down
amid the shadow leaves.

The sight elicits a visceral response—
I identify with that daredevil:
we’re both dangling in the dark—
hanging in mid-air.

However
the metaphor isn’t perfect:
the spider knows his own string well
unlike me—
I don’t know what holds me.
So I worry

then worry about the amount I worry:
doubt could pull me down
into a night without moonlight.

So every day I try to lift myself
with these thoughts:

“I am but a puppet
   moved by higher forces.
   And those gods will not let me fall.
   Because I serve them.

“Yes, they keep me suspended in suspense
   but only because I must learn to trust.

“Yes, it’s good for me to be here:
   this instability forces me
   to find the strength needed
   to deal with our uncertainty.”

To be honest
these ideas don’t ease my anxiety much
and yet
I repeat them often
because
the story they tell
gives this precarious life meaning
and without that significance
I might just say:
I have had enough.
I give up.

mythsteps · What I Tell Myself while Dangling in the Dark

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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Hungry Man

author’s note:

I’ve always been hungry.


A HUNGRY MAN

Having failed to find a way
to distinguish himself
through normal group activity
our hero decided on a project
where success depended solely
on his own effort and resolve:

he would prove the strength of his endurance
by starving himself.
Not so much as a mere morsel would pass his lips
for as long as he could resist
the temptation.

So after leaving a note
that fellow lay himself down
in a dark cell below
and welcomed the pain
of claws tearing at his stomach walls—

an agony he withstood
until his digestive system finally
stopped sending messages
and grew cobwebs down the tract.

For days
our wasted hero lay curled on the floor—
pleased with how he’d repeatedly said “no”
to that stubborn demand.
Nonetheless
after all the failure in his past
he felt he needed to prove more.
But what more could he prove?
Well, he could open the scariest door of all:
Death.

Fortunately, at this point
a team of experts
saved him by saying:
if we allow you to go on
we’ll be somewhat responsible
for a loss that helps no one.
So here—come on
have some chicken soup.

Just the excuse he needed:
our skeletal hero could now stop
and feel proud of his willingness
to sacrifice all for achievement.

But he didn’t boast of his triumph—
hunger had taught him humility.
Besides, he’d already silenced
his biggest critic:
himself.
Now he could accept
being an average human being.

But maybe he wasn’t so average now.

During the darkest part of the ordeal
his gray eyes had shown
with a deep silvery glow.
No, that light didn’t last
however
associates now sense
a strange power emanating from him—
even as he ambles
in those scuffed brown shoes.

Nonetheless
none of those who marvel
at the change in him
have chosen to starve themselves
as he did.

Perhaps they understand:

Daily mundane life provides
every hungry human being
with plenty of opportunity
to lift
to lift
to lift
themselves up.

mythsteps · A Hungry Man

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Improving My Vision

author's note:

Dedicated to you.


IMPROVING MY VISION

For my own protection
I worked to comprehend
the mad behavior
of the human being

and saw so much
in the course of my investigation—
naturally, I became confused.

So for clarity
I looked to the only person
that could grant me full access
to the heart and head of a human—
I sat down in the shadows
and turned my eyes within.

And felt both amazed and blessed
by the motley bounty I found inside.

But as I understood more
I also understood less:
whatever illumination I gained
was overshadowed
by the expanding mountain of information
I gathered in my inquiries.

I tried hard to sort it all out
but in time, I needed a rest.
So I turned my eyes back out.

I then discovered
my vision had improved
during the turn:
now
when I looked at someone
I often noticed something
I had already seen in myself.

And so it was with you:

As soon as I saw you, I saw
you held quite a lively mix inside
and so I wanted to look deeper.
And so I saw your pain

and so I felt compassion for you

then also felt compassion for myself—
or at least, the part of me
you reflected.

You say you now want to turn away
and look within yourself.
Well, I’ll miss you, but please do—
yes, explore the wonders
of that Universe—
take in until your head spins.

You may become even more confused
but at least you’ll feel empathy for
all those overwhelmed by the mix
who react in spasms of bad behavior.

mythsteps · Improving My Vision

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

While Waiting in a Distant Province

author's note:

Written after reading the anthology The Clouds Should Know Me By Now: Buddhist Poet Monks of China, edited by Red Cloud and Mike O'Connor.  Excellent.


WHILE WAITING IN A DISTANT PROVINCE

Despite the good reviews
I’ve received for my song and dance
the Imperial Palace has yet to respond
to my request for an audience.

I’ve been stuck at this outpost for months now.

Initially I managed
to ease my impatience
by appreciating the gifts
of my rustic surroundings.
For instance:

How the morning sun painted
the round stones in the creek rose-pink—
each one the cheek of a lady-in-waiting.

And how the sunset shone golden
on the rusty gate of my humble abode—
as brilliant as the gold palace doors.

Such positive thinking
helped me ignore
my whimpering disappointment

until the night
I heard someone faraway in the dark
scream
then scream again—
ripping cries
aimed up at the moon—
burning cries
coming up from a deep wound.

I wanted to cover my ears
but I did not want to cover my ears
because in that pain I heard mine
and suddenly felt that old wound again.
And because I remained open then
I felt the pain of the scream deep down—
I felt the pain of our life deep down.

A day later I was told:
for therapy villagers sometimes go
into the dark woods
and scream
and scream
up at the moon.

More of them lately;
nonetheless
I never close my ears—
I need the release.

And during the day
I occasionally stop
and listen to my own pain
because I’m trying to discover
a dance, a song
that can help with the healing of wounds.

If I do find some mix
that seems effective
I hope to perform that medicine
at the Imperial Palace.
I believe:

when those at head heal,
those at the feet
will be royally relieved.

mythsteps · While Waiting in a Distant Province

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Pebble

author’s note:

A poem for our stormy times.


THE PEBBLE

On the ocean horizon I saw
a bouffant pile of mad black clouds
rushing toward my shore.

So I thanked my stars I'd found
that boulder on the beach—
a cleft on its leeward side
opened to a secret chamber:
a womb
where I could sit in safety
during the chaos of lightning and rain.


And indeed I did feel secure
as I hunkered down inside—
felt secure
even as the winds rose
even as the waves swelled high
even as bullets of rain
began to rattle down
on the roof of my rock.

But then the waves began to break
on the boulder’s backside—
with every four beats, an explosion:
One…two…three…boom!  One…two…three…boom!
Threat followed threat.
I could shelter my body but not my mind and heart
against those angry blasts.

In desperation
I dove into my depths
hoping to find
a solid stone foundation of being
somewhere down there in the dark

but no—
all I could locate
was a pebble.

But since I had nothing else to hold
I held it
and though the little rock didn’t elicit
a sense of security in me
I made myself believe:
as long as I kept a firm grip
on that strong stone
I would endure.

In that way
I was able to maintain myself
—yes, indeed!—
until
after a long short time
the endless storm decided
to wait and return some other day.

So once again I stood on the sunny beach
as modest waves retreated to the sea.

I wanted to unfurl glorious lines
to celebrate my triumph.
But honesty prevailed as I wrote:

Rock walls will not protect us
from the anxiety provoked by storms
but we can survive our fear
if we’ll find that little bit of strength
hidden down within

then hold it to our heart
as we tell ourselves:

pebbles grow into bigger stones
through challenges like this one.

mythsteps · The Pebble

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton