sky rope (subterranean rappel)

Your Voice

2012-02-09T19:10:00.007-06:00

author's note:

Aren't we all singers?

YOUR VOICE

I can hear how
your voice
has changed

as your life
has changed--

as a girl
that sweet instrument
spawned butterflies--

but apparently
a piccolo can also
work as a shovel--

as you continued to sing
you began to delve

with each song
with each note
just a little deeper
down--

instinctively at first
then awakening
as you began to sense
something down there--
something faintly echoing
the gold of your voice--

yet you still don't know
why you want that unknown--

is your burning merely
a cat's curiosity--?--

or do you burn because
whatever it is is
just out of reach--?--

I would say
what anyone who's ever really heard you
says:
you were born to burn with this deep need...

whatever it may be
you have no choice now
but to sing--how could you stop--?--
even if you closed your mouth
you could not close your heart.

Nor can I close mine
--having heard--
no matter where I go
I hear you...

deeply, more deeply now.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Forward Back

2012-02-06T19:36:00.007-06:00

author's note:

The poem below refers to "my way". But to be clear: I think we're both headed the same way--just taking different paths to get there.

FORWARD BACK

One morning on
a two-lane highway
patched with
black ice

my car swerved

turned a full one-hundred
eighty degrees--

then stopped
with its ram head
pointed in
the opposite direction.

The road had spoken
and so I listened:
I drove straight on,
back the same way
I'd come--

the choice obvious to me
after learning long ago
not to fight the dictates
of this determining beast
I call "my life"--

its driving lessons
have taught me
I must follow--must obey--
the curves and roundabouts
of my way...

I must follow my way.

So I returned
though I did not want
to go where I'd already been--

I pacified myself
with this thought:
the road would not be the same
since what was once right
would now be left

and I would be looking forward
not traveling in reverse--

besides...
what was behind me
would still be there
after the thaw.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Answering the Why Baby

2012-02-02T19:30:00.000-06:00

author's note:

After "going long" for the last month, I thought I should offer a shorter poem.

Just a few lines--and yet it took years to write them.

ANSWERING THE WHY BABY

“Why--!--?

Oh why!”

is what a baby cries
in the pain of birth.

But, to my credit
I grew out of it--

I grew out of it
when I realized why:

we need to grow, that's why!

but why, oh why
do we need to grow?--
to so painfully grow?

"We just must--that's how come!"

is the fact
I grew to accept

and thereafter, began asking
better questions--

that is: questions
I might someday answer--

if, through asking, I grow
enough to know.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

The End of the Line

2012-01-30T19:16:00.005-06:00

I am still raw, and at the
same time well-cooked, and
burnt to a crisp!
-- Rumi (trans. Coleman Barks)

THE END OF THE LINE

During his life he'd often cursed
the arrogance of those clouds--

monoliths, so callously ignoring
the pleading of human beings

or else chucking down
lightening bolts
without apparent provocation...

He cursed until
that December morning
he stood waiting
in the graveyard--

the moment when the sunlight caught
a little wisp of cloud
issuing forth with his breath

and in a bolt, he realized
those gods also dwelt
devilishly inside him--

but of course--!--
how could they rule him
from so far away--!--

he now felt much better about himself:
he must have been an important man
to rate such powerful attention--
yes, his gods had been strong medicine--
poking his eyes, twisting his nose--
often, stepping on his toes
when he desperately wished
to go forward--!--

then later, kicking his backside
when he wanted to hang back--

tricking him
down cold dark alleys--
pitching him
to the hungry fire--

yes, he'd been burnt
again and again
yet he felt he still
wasn't done--!--

even at the end, still not done--!

Now he saw how
the worst of it
was as good
as the best--

there were no longer any lines--
no divisions
between one and the other

between one breath and the next--
between your breath and mine--

no longer any lines
between whatever he believed
himself to be
and whatever he'd believed
his gods to be--
the gods that'd loved him so:

so mercilessly--

so blessedly--

he saw it altogether--but who
was he now--?--
as the line between
the part of him that knew
and the part of him that did not know
finally dissolved completely...

like a vapor, dissipating...

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
my dreaming steps

Living Proof

2012-01-26T19:32:00.000-06:00

author’s note:

After finishing the poem below, I realized I could indeed support my thesis with a mathematical proof (see graphic above).

LIVING PROOF

My proof, I know
is not so obvious--
being as it is, invisible--

nonetheless, I will argue
we get better, therefore...
so does life--

get better, despite our regrets
over blind decisions--

in our regret, we fail to see
how life gets better
as age breaks us down--

gets better, as we lose and lose--

I proclaim: I must've gained
more than I have lost
because I wouldn't want
to begin again--
at least, not
where I began.

Yes, the ambulations of this life
contain some weird wonderful magic:

no matter what I do, where I go
I keep heightening
--deepening--

somehow in diminishing
I grow--!

But how can I say I see
such states of being
when this magic hasn't yet
healed my sight?

Well, though I'm still purblind
I can sometimes detect
the truth
in the dark--
when I use the darkness to feel,
because in deep feeling, I know
for certain: beyond reason:
I am closer to becoming
the one I hope to grow to be.

The one I now know I can be
despite appearances
to the contrary:
because in deep darkness, I can see

and in seeing myself
I can see you too:
see you're also taller
...deeper.

So therefore, I say
we keep getting better
as we keep losing--

maybe we'll finally
lose enough
to finally see
how we have always
only gained.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

My Best Belief

2012-01-23T19:27:00.007-06:00

author's note:

The above illustration is based on a dream--a sleeping dream.

Since dreams don't lie, what I believe must be true: we are indeed climbing.

MY BEST BELIEF

Sometimes when I stop for air
I then have time to feel my fear--

naturally, I'm afraid--
climbing as I'm climbing--!--
apparently, I grow smaller...
as I ascend--ever
smaller--

yes, the greater
altitude gives me
perspective...

nonetheless
when I look down
my heart--
       so instinctual, so animal--
drops

and then...when
I look back up
my tiny eyes see
only cloud--

but who among us
can truly say
where we're headed--?--

without pretending to be God--?

I can only tell you: I woke up
and found myself climbing a hill
that then became a mountain
when I woke up--

not knowing
what else to do
(still so drowsy!)
I kept on going up--

but now, as I see it
we don't really
have a choice--

however,
I no longer
pretend to understand
whatever would be God.

Anyway, to continue
to live by my beliefs
I must push myself
whenever I stop for air
and again feel nearly
overwhelmed by fear

so I tell myself:
"Maybe when I'm high enough
  that animal fear will...give up
  and finally fall away!"

Though I also honestly admit:
maybe not.

In either case, as I continue
crawling up, I hold secure to me
what I believe
may be my best belief:
     no better way
     to endure this life
     than embracing
     my only choice--!

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Brief Wings

2012-01-19T15:46:00.005-06:00

author's note:

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

BRIEF WINGS

For a moment this morning
I again felt those wings...

beginning when
I saw a small bird
hopping among some leaves
then in a flutter, in a breeze
it disappeared--

though I walked on
I could suddenly sense those wings again--
opening slightly--just a bit more than before--
prying my shoulders blades
another inch up, subtly broadening
the band of my chest--

but I dared not push the wings
to unfurl more fully--
in the past, I've used impatient force
and lost and lost again

so I continued on
down the street
keeping the same pace,
trying to be nonchalant

even when I felt a little lift
as the wings yawned open
to the first pinion joint

--sprouts drowsily waking--

no, I did not
try to spread--did not
jump into the air--no--!--
I tried not to hope--
tried not

to desire what I desire so much--!

Yet despite my careful balance
after only a few breaths
the wings collapsed back
as if I'd only dreamt them
at the long night's end.

Yes, I know they'll return--
but I can never guess how long
between now
and the next blessing--
from past experience: maybe months
but maybe tomorrow.

In any case, I know only too well
I can't wish them open--I know
I can't spur the movement
by meditating upon
another hopping sparrow...

so instead, I try
to distract myself--I try
to forget my fervent wish--
after assuring myself of what I know
to be true: one day I will fly--
though I can hardly believe
I will, I know I will--I don't know
how far, how high, how strong--
I only know I most definitely will:

not fly all the time, no, but I will

because I have wings--still so small
you can't even see them...still so faint
I can almost convince myself
they don't exist...can almost

ignore them growing
under my shell.

Meanwhile...

to keep my heart
from hurting, I tell myself
I'm perfectly content
with this long, tedious
wonderful walk.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Arcs, Not Arks

2012-01-16T20:36:00.005-06:00

author's note:

Mythological traditions all over the world contain stories of a big flood. But that makes sense...

"Flood" is a part of life.

ARCS, NOT ARKS

When the voice said "arc"
the builder heard "ark"

and so saved his family
by hammering together
the fort of a big boat--

not realizing we actually
needed an arch
to bridge the waters--
to bridge one side
to the other:

a means to connect
black and white
shadow and light
day and night.

Even so, we respect the builder
for his trust, his courage, his sincerity
under the hammer of mockery--

like so many of us
he accomplished much
in his wrong-headedness--

give us credit

but now let us learn
from our brave mistakes--
let us learn a better bravery--

the answer is made clear
after every rainstorm:
when the arch spans the sky
we are told to join
right to left, left to right--
one side to the other--
both to each other

in a band of all colors.

So now we no longer
have an excuse
for our misunderstanding:
no excuse for building
arks that can no longer save us--
no excuse for not building
arcs that can.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Eloquent Bullfrog Song

2012-01-12T19:05:00.004-06:00

author's note:

“I have sounded the very bass-line of humility.”
             -- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I

ELOQUENT BULLFROG SONG

I know the bullfrog doesn't
really feel driven to express
its tender wound by croaking
through the burden of night--

I know the bullfrog doesn't
really try to ease its grief
by covering its stricken body
with dark water for hours
under the willow...

I know my words are merely poetry...

and yet...and yet....

when I hear its insistent dull sounding
I know the bullfrog is a heart imprisoned--
--unable to fully wail, because of the sharp pain
   yet unable to stop, because of the sharp pain--
the bullfrog is a heart
speaking to me of the life
that comes from death...

when I witness the frog's long lonely baptism
I realize how the solitude of darkness fosters healing:
allowing soul to slowly rise from the depths.

My words are poetry: my words
tell me my ears and heart tell the truth:
how the croak is more than biological impulse--
     such flat monotonous noise
     is actually an eloquent song
     a song of the great relentless striving patience--
     a song of promise,
     a song to give us hope.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Contemplating Nefertiti

2012-01-09T19:17:00.006-06:00

author's note:

This poem refers to the famous statute of Nefertiti that can be found in the Neues Museum of Berlin. However, it can to me through a photograph in a book.

Nonetheless, my response is authentic.

CONTEMPLATING NEFERTITI

Maybe I sang to Nefertiti
in a previous life

because her slim sculpted neck
now looks so familiar
to the eye of my heart.

Unlike her, I seem to be made
of ragged junkyard edges
and yet
I can feel her ancient eyes--
    eyes that say nothing,
    eyes that say all--
calling to a quality
deep within me--

how can I ever find
the strength to descend
to such a sound?

But as my eye sees more and more--
as my eye understands--
    as my eye sees
    what can not be said--
    as I hear
    Nefertiti's quiet lips--
I experience my life
as being part
of that same mystery...

then, despite my doubt, I resolve
to keep diving--to go as far
as I can stretch--
                             to reach
and by reaching, express
what I now realize
can be found
at such great depth.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Inconspicious Giants

2012-01-05T19:26:00.004-06:00

author's note:

For the record...

...as I recall, they really weren't so big back then.

INCONSPICIOUS GIANTS

Yes, there were giants
in the earth in those days--
but don't worry

giants will appear again--!--

only these will be
of a different breed:

no more flowery
than a common weed--
not one will call herself
guru or priestess--

not one will bang his chest
with the histrionics of an ape
or pretend to be Nefertiti--

and nary a one will beg
to be elected President--

no, they will continue
to bend and tend
as quietly, as steadfast
as the Golden Retriever--

ordinary...extraordinary
plain gold street lamps

whose light we take for granted
during the sunny Summer's day

but whose light
will show the way
in the long night--
when the distant
moon and stars
no longer suffice--

whose light
in the long night
will finally reveal them
to be giants.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Big Stone

2012-01-02T19:02:00.006-06:00

author's note:

As Buckminster Fuller told us, we are on a spaceship.

But in the course of our mundane daily activities, it's often easy to forget.

BIG STONE

I'm told a big stone
sits--moves--turns
under our world--

supposedly this spinning foundation
keeps us from falling
down through space--

keeps this Earth
from descending
into a black ocean void--
forever lost--forever alone--
in the darkest depths...

yes, the stone holds us
as this planet races
through an alien Universe
uncomfortably vast--

this stone holds us--
though the temples
have all fallen
and the prescriptions
no longer nurse us
as promised...

but though I know
about the stone
I still feel scared

except in those times
when this fear overwhelms me
and I must find the fortitude
to stop...

because when I stop, I can sense
the round grindstone way down there--
a feeling so subtle as to be unbelievable
and yet a feeling strong enough
to give me strength--

the stone speaks to us--
not in words but with the solidness
of its security...and also with
the great power of its spinning--
a power frightening--

but even when our fright pins us down
we continue to spin, to spin along--
(we have no choice)--held as we are
by that stone.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Vertical-Thud Gift

2011-12-29T19:10:00.000-06:00

author's note:

I thought this poem might be appropriate for the beginning of a new year...

...as we look back to see where we've been, as we look ahead, trying to see where we're going.

VERTICAL-THUD GIFT

How discouraging--!--
to receive
the unexpected gift
of being lifted

straight up--vertical!--
for a brief sweet moment...

only to drop--
to land too soon
with a thud--

how encouraging--!--
to now know that what I'm aiming for
is worth the work--

to know the value
of the slow tedious climb...

to know the necessity
of having something solid
under my feet at all times

as I adjust and readjust
to a perspective
expanding so gradually
but steadily expanding.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Double Emptiness

2011-12-26T20:42:00.000-06:00

author's note:

Apparently, “exultates” is a word of my own invention. Anyway, I couldn’t find it in my dictionary.

The root word would be “exult”, so you can draw your conclusions from there.

DOUBLE EMPTINESS

I have experienced
two types
of emptiness:

blank exhaustion

and also: the blankness
of clarity

which exultates so deeply
--magic!--
though it can produce
the same the vacant stare
as the first...

but not only do they often
look the same: one may actually
lead to the other:

sometimes, after a difficult fight
I surrender in exhaustion--I give up
something I've held so tightly to myself--
something that once seemed
of such substance
disappears...

but after this loss
I may then dawn
into an astonishing
moment of clarity:

as the clouds
in that well water disperse
I can see a little
farther down

before my vision again dims
in the fog and the dark
of the greater depths.

Thus, even in this success
I'm frustrated
by my limitations--

thus, even in frustration
I'm motivated
to keep on working--

to continue
trying to surrender
that which I also try
so hard to maintain--

to continue
to struggle with myself
'til I'm once again
exhausted and blank.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Gold & Gold

2011-12-22T19:07:00.001-06:00

author's note:

May you find gold in these dark days.

GOLD & GOLD

Someone said
here's gold--touch it

then you'll understand

but even afterwards
I was not sure
I understood...

and yet, dull as I was
I could still feel enough
to know
the one touch
had awakened something
within me--

in touching that gold
I'd somehow touched
my own gold

and instantly realized
what I'd but dimly sensed before:
my life would be devoted
to finding gold--

a travel with its frustrations:
what I poked often did not provoke me
in the way I'd hoped

and what had provoked me at one time
might later lose its charm...

eventually, I began to fear
if I'd exhausted all external
possibilities--
with nowhere else to go
I began to dig

and when, alone within, I again found my gold
the landscape outside started to shine--
      I finally saw what I'd always felt:
      how everything in this world
      touches me all the time.

And though I too often forget--
though I too often lose touch--
remembering has become easier
with years and years of practice.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Bright Seed

2011-12-19T19:15:00.000-06:00

author’s note:

This seems a good poem to post as we near the winter solstice.

BRIGHT SEED

You admit to yourself
you’re dead

but despite how you feel
you can sense
some small nucleus
in some far place...
is not dead--

somehow you know
a miracle birth waits
underground--

a single star appears
high in the black winter sky--
this winter
depth has replaced
excitement.

All the petals fell
from the star...
the leaves followed--

revealing
a bright seed.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

A Taste of Green Sky

2011-12-16T19:28:00.000-06:00

author’s note:

I meant to post this poem of thanks during Thanksgiving. So again, my thanks come too late.

But I suppose our giraffes are big enough not to desire any thanks at all.

A TASTE OF GREEN SKY

I hopped astride
the neck of a giraffe
to eat at the top leaves.

But when that ruminant
bowed back down
I slid all the way
to the hard ground.

I've so far to climb
before I can reach
those leaves again.

So I thank the giraffe
for granting me that taste.

For making my hunger
that much stronger.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
myth steps

Star Eye

2011-12-15T19:32:00.000-06:00

author's note:

Poetry seems to me the best way to try to say what can not be said. To try.

STAR EYE

Sometimes I wish
I could ignore
that star eye spur...

After all, I found
my solid foundation
not in gazing up
but in burrowing down--

I wasn't even trying
the one time I ascended
into the blazing silver center
of that star diamond

but such accidents
happen by design--

that once was enough
to keep me working
to return to a deepness
as deep as the Earth--
but different--a brilliant
night sky depth...

if I now say to you: "I can't explain"
maybe you'll understand
what I mean:

if you already know
how words are insufficent--

if you already know
how the held memory
of these brief events
makes one's fire burn
hotter, sharper
(even years afterwards)
then you must be a dazed fool too--

struck maybe only once
but once is forever--!--
struck by that blessed
star lightning...

(Maybe at the end
of this lonely journey
we'll talk together
and try to say
what can not be said
but must be attempted.)

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

My Dreams Are Yours, Your Dreams Are Mine

2011-12-12T17:42:00.003-06:00

author's note:

"In dreams we are all geniuses."

I've seen that quote--or some version of it--attributed to a number of persons, including Albert Einstein and Akira Kurosawa.

But to me, it's not quite accurate. We all make mistakes in our dreams. Or, at least, our ego-self does.

I would alter that quote to say instead: in dreams, we have access to that which is genius...

...to an intelligence that can show us what we're doing wrong.

MY DREAMS ARE YOURS, YOUR DREAMS ARE MINE

Frustrated by the limits of my crib...

I try to soothe the wound
with the expansion granted
by nightly dreams--

dreams that are mine alone

yet belong to all of us.

I can understand why such wisdom comes...

but when I ask, "From where?"

the question echoes
without answer
down the tunnel
of a bottomless well.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Batty Christmas

2011-12-08T18:47:00.000-06:00

author's note:

This poem, written on Christmas Eve 2007, has become my Christmas tradition.

It's changed over those five years. But perhaps the traditions that remain with us are those that do change.

BATTY CHRISTMAS

A bat poem came to me
when I thought it should not:
on Christmas eve.

I wanted to give a gift sweet
but following the laws of poetry
this verse stubbornly refused
to recognize my ideal Yuletide--
the poem told me,
“I will--I must--sing of bats!

When I continued to contain
the lines hollered all
the way from the crown of my head
to the soles of my feet.

And what did that poesy proclaim?--:
        “Batty bats,
          cave
          and dung--
          dismal damn dung!”

--and for the second stanza:
        “Stalactite--stalacbite...
          when bitten by that bad bad bat
          I woke up. I woke up
          and I walked out.”

How could I allow
such speech to fly
on this most holy day?--
this day of bright new life
in the darkest dark?

On the other hand,
I couldn’t keep swallowing
that bat back down--
every scribe must obey
his sentence.

But after I gave up
and finally released the verse
the child in me
then said, “Okay,
now what about Christmas...?”

I tried--but in vain--to placate
that hungry innocent
with this honest observation:
        don’t all my poems
        speak of Christmas?

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Song in the Shadows

2011-12-05T18:29:00.000-06:00

author's note:

Just to be clear: when I say "we", I include "me".

SONG IN THE SHADOWS

He dared not deliver
such lightning--such lightning
might rupture his vessel--!--

but though the electricity retreated...
a corralled storm still lurks
in the shadows--the storm song
waits, watching

as the man produces
popular notes
that do not penetrate
but mold to the sofa folds
of the dull outer ear--

yet no one who hears
seems to care
about the missing charge
or if someone ever did
no one listened
to what someone said--

apparently, we sleepers don't like to be disturbed...

the singer dozed along with the audience.

Even so, I know such power failure
is felt in the far reaches of the heart
and as the feeling festers
--ignored for so long--
too much heart wisdom is lost.

So perhaps
the singer goes about
with a vague sense of lack--
a lack the rest of us also sense--
however, neither he nor we
can bear to reveal
this pain to ourselves...

But that abandoned song
doesn’t idly bide in sadness
like a lonely frozen lady--no
that lightning storm works in secret
against her captivity--
sending a tiny ion--a little laser gnat--
out from the crypt to prick
the man as he poses
in the lukewarm spotlight

because sometimes these irritating
microscopic high-pitched augers
can bore through the shell
encasing the inner ear--
can cut through
layer after layer of wattle,
mud brick and stone wall--
to carve a painful trail
all the way down
to the deepest heart.

If not tonight, then maybe
tomorrow--
and if not his heart
then maybe
our own--

maybe ours will cleave open
to a voice in the shadows--
a singer waiting so desperately
to be heard.

Which I suppose
is another way of saying:
Hope.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Moon Heart

2011-12-01T18:41:00.006-06:00

author's note:

From watching the moon
      I turned
      and my friend old
shadow led me home
         -- Shiki (trans. Beilenson/Behn)

MOON HEART

Why do I desire to touch
what seems so far
from my stunted reach--?--

until finally my feeling
becomes unbearable

and I must turn
my burning eyes down
and trudge back through
the midnight wood

but now, no longer so alone--

now I can hear
the thousand
creeping things--

now I can feel the moon
beaming its weight
onto my back--
the saturated sack
heavy with something
creamily luminous

--pulling deeply
   tides of the heart--

ahead on the path
I can now see my shadow
watching me
with a darkness
that perceives
the many possibilities--
that appreciates
the strength of desire
pushing, slowly pushing
my fearful steps.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

At the End of All Our Spinning

2011-11-28T18:43:00.005-06:00

author's note:

With appreciation to Robert A. Johnson, Marion Woodman, and Robert Bly, who showed me how our world myths are also our personal myths.

AT THE END OF ALL OUR SPINNING

At the start
of our small but heavy planet
stood a man and a woman

but the man stood
at the north pole
and the woman
     who could be fierce
     who could be beautiful
     who could be both

stood at the south

and as she began to run
after him
he began to run
after her

and from the treading of their feet
the world began to spin
and has spun
ever since--

yes, we've kept it spinning
ever since--

hasn't this been
one wild race--!--
yes, a storm chase
for so long--

which brings me to wonder

how we will deal
with the still peace
that comes
when we both stop
and finally embrace
with whole heart...

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Rocket Pain

2011-11-21T19:17:00.005-06:00

author's note:

“...suffering not carried on the nightly news is still suffering.”
-- Rick Steves

ROCKET PAIN

After your rockets--our rockets--
explode!...you act so relaxed--
so self-assured

or do you merely pretend
you don't see or feel
people being killed--?--

you say you can sleep
but I know we never
stop dreaming...

Pain doesn't just travel
in one direction--

once our pain lands on a target
it goes all over the place--
you can feel
the shocks reverberate

if you listen
because all those rockets
have a string attached
and the other end
remains knotted
to our fingers...

look at my hands--look
how twisted up...I've been
a rather decent fellow--and yet
look how bloody!...

now, having seen my hands
look around
at other hands, look
at your own hands...

now what do we do...?

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Blessed Descent

2011-11-17T14:29:00.000-06:00

author's note:

This poem was prompted by a story in China Men, by Maxine Hong Kingston--

--a story about men being lowered in baskets so that they could place explosives in canyon walls during the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad.

Somehow that story correlated with my own life experience--with our life experience.

BLESSED DESCENT

My fear was the cause--
the reason for my selection--the reason
I was placed in this basket
and lowered down
into the narrow ravine
to try to find
what can only exist
in such precarious places.

When the overseers scanned our group
they could see I was the one
trying hardest not to be seen--
the one afraid
that the earth beneath his feet
was only cloud.

They realized
I needed this trip--
this ordeal--more
than anyone else.

So they turned the crank
and I began to descend--
accepting my fate, because
though I feel anxious
and small...

I also feel special--

and I am lowering still--
down farther still--
into the darkness
that welcomes me--joyfully...

that threatens
to cure my blindness.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
new steps

Bright Shadows

2011-11-14T20:35:00.001-06:00

author’s note:

Since hair is a metaphor...

...even with your short locks, you can sail me to that place.

BRIGHT SHADOWS

The way her hair
spills down
the porch steps

to spread across the lake...

sails me to that place
where the far shore meets the trees--
that secret border where
glittering water sprites converse
with the shades of the forest...

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
100 Best Poetry Blogs

The Future of Cats & Dogs

2011-11-10T18:56:00.001-06:00

author’s note:

“There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love.”
-- Martin Luther King, Jr.

THE FUTURE OF CATS & DOGS

Half
of our humble poem
was written, originally,
in the language of the cat
and half,
in the language of the dog.

So we assigned the translation
to a scholarly feline and canine.

But we asked the cat
to work at night
and the dog
during daylight--

we doubted
the two of them
could coexist
for the duration
of the assignment.

Even they feared
--sooner or later--
their better natures
would be subverted
by animal instinct.

And then civilization
would suffer
yet another
tragedy
in our battle for peace.

However, the dog and cat
did agree to be
photographed together
to celebrate completion
of the project.

And to their credit...
you could see restrained sadness
in their smiling eyes--
a bemused disquiet,
an awareness of shared grief
from all those centuries--centuries--
of dog and cat fights.

I can not help but feel hope
when I see such tortured hearts
struggle with all their history.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Cinderella Ascending

2011-11-07T19:13:00.005-06:00

author's note:

The Cinderella story came to me via a coloring book, before I could read--or for that matter, even color between the lines.

It may have been the Disney version. In any case, that Cinderella told me much about the value of humility.

CINDERELLA ASCENDING

Long ago, I was told
that the woman in the cinders
felt put-upon
up to the moment
of her deliverance.

However...
wouldn't someone so beautiful
not only accept her lot
but actually find pleasure
in sweeping the walk--?--
      tending to their fractures
      she'd give those pure stones
      her heart.

She'd learn to tolerate her sisters
--their obstreperous, obstructionist ways--

through endurance, she'd rise above--
and so, be able to look down upon them
with love instead of frustration.

Thus, she ran from the palace--
      even as her royal servant
      begged her back--
      truthfully telling her
      she'd earned the gold--
      that the horses
      only masqueraded as mice--

nonetheless, she didn't want release
from a life that had provided
so many blessings.

But Change rejects the pleading
of the strong--
metamorphosis
is irreversible.

And so, ever humble
she acquiesced
and thereafter, walked in shoes
that revealed who she truly was.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

They Don't Belong to Me, I Belong to Them

2011-11-03T16:23:00.008-05:00

author's note:

A companion poem to the last one posted.

THEY DON'T BELONG TO ME, I BELONG TO THEM

All your children
climb up me
and shake my limbs
for acorns--

assuming I am
a tolerant tree house
for their whims--
their abuse...

they won't hear
my complaints
because they believe
gnarled oaks only talk
in cartoons.

Since I'm taller
I see no choice
but to shelter them--
to honor them
by protecting our garden--

playing the role
of a silent patient
nature god...

though I often wish
I could be a goblin.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

The Man Who Didn't See His Own Wings

2011-10-31T18:57:00.005-05:00

author's note:

Years ago, I overheard a conversation in which a middle-aged man said, "My kids took away my caprice."

To be honest, at first I thought the man's offspring had driven off with his car.

THE MAN WHO DIDN'T SEE HIS OWN WINGS

A man once complained to me
about how he'd lost his wings...

Yet I could see him holding
those wings outstretched--
giving shelter
to all those gathered
underneath--

such a man--so tall and resolute--
but still, he railed...

I now realize
he'd lost sight
of his broad steady wings
because he was always
gazing up
to curse
an unseen god.

If he'd just looked down
he would have seen how
the household gods below
helped raise him up.

Maybe if he'd written a poem
he would have known--

because our own words
can teach us so much--
for instance:

not until I searched
for these lines
did I see how
that man's indignation
helped fuel his holding power.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Fable Lesson for a Walking Boy

2011-10-27T19:30:00.001-05:00

author's note:

As Hollywood so often says: "Based on a true story."

FABLE LESSON FOR A WALKING BOY

Once as a boy
I stepped on a broken dead bird
beside the road:

such surprise and confusion then
as I watched that dormant heart
suddenly jump up
and fly away
in a blur of wings.

Not until years later
did I realize
I'd received an augury
and lesson:

shadow lightning falls
!--as if to finish us off--!

but the bolt jolts us
back to life.

When I could see
I was the bird
then I could see
I was also the foot.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Furlough

2011-10-24T19:03:00.005-05:00

author's note;

‘Cause you can never tell
What goes on down below!
This pool might be bigger
Than you or I know!
                   -- Dr. Seuss

FURLOUGH

Thank you
for revealing
the pink
of your slip...

thus, distracted
I let the thread
of my sensate memory
guide me out
of the labyrinth--

you broke the spell--
I no longer wanted to follow
the dense shadow music
of a murmuring well--
its many voices blending
into a symphony so deep
--and so distant:
   I drive myself hard
   to hear it more clearly...

But in the midst of discovery
I can become lost
so I needed to return--
I needed the freshening
of your purling spring tones--
a melody deceptively simple...

a short furlough, before I'm lured
to descend again
by a soft yearning summons
--persistent, the cry
   faraway in my heart.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Reversals

2011-10-20T16:08:00.004-05:00

author's note:

I almost discarded this poem, because I thought it lacked--what?--complexity, I guess.

But when I posted the first version on another site, someone unknown appreciated it.

So, in appreciation of her appreciation, I'm giving it again.

REVERSALS

Falling down...
I found my strength.

Standing up...
I felt my humility.

Telling you...
I heard the voice
of a stranger.

Hearing you...
I finally knew
my own words.

Looking down
at the bare earth...
I sensed my sadness.

But lifting these eyes...
that sadness
heightened my joy.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Resuscitation

2011-10-17T19:28:00.004-05:00

author's note:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."
-- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

I’m grateful for the opportunity to live in both times.

RESUSCITATION

Yes, this world has always churned
but now--oh wow!--

I can barely breathe
with this ground tremoring
--ready to erupt--
beneath my feet--

I can't stand to stand still

yet I must--!--I must stop
and live with the trembling
that comes from me
that comes from all of us--

the rattling of our confusion
in turn, shakes an Earth
that might finally explode
just to be done with it--
to be done with us.

To help end such conflict
I must still long enough
to feel my strength...

long enough to create
a rare great moment
of true silence...

a resuscitation of air
from a deep cave...
from a heaven.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Prometheus of the East

2011-10-13T17:12:00.003-05:00

author's note:

Usually, it irritates me when a poet references an ancient god--when a poet uses an ancient god to deliver his message.

But Prometheus, that's different...

Prometheus hardly seems ancient. Prometheus seems so close to us...Anyway, he's close to me.

PROMETHEUS OF THE EAST

Bound
to this cliff rock
I curse
an unseen god

yet at this waterfall
I also praise all
the drops of god
I see.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

The Kick

2011-10-10T19:34:00.004-05:00

author’s note:

A companion poem to the last one posted.

THE KICK

Frustrated, after finding
so many things in my way that day...

when I saw him
kneeling on the floor
by the bookshelf
with his back to me--

I believed he knew
he was blocking me--
he just wanted
to assert himself--

so right then, I felt justified
in giving him a little kick--
nothing physically harmful--
just a tap on his shoe heel
to reverse the subterfuge
and thus, score a win.

But as soon as
I touched his foot
I felt my mistake
and said "I'm sorry"
in the same moment he said
"oh excuse me"...

I still feel bad
long after the fact--
disappointed

because I have
such grand ambitions
for myself--

(secretly, I desire to be a beacon)--

but the ego I need
to realize such designs
too often prompts me
to act so very small.

Then after I've shrunk
I must fight the impulse
to punish myself--with a kick.

Through such foolishness
I come to humility.
So I suppose I'm growing

...slowly, oh so slowly...

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

This Nemesis Earth

2011-10-06T18:55:00.004-05:00

author's note:

I may not feel at home in this world...

...but at least I feel "housed".

THIS NEMESIS EARTH

This world--even in its great open spaces--
so often seems so physically confining--

too much stands in my way--
too many haystacks
and computers--

too many deserts
and rivers--

too many orbiting bodies
--including my own--

so many mountains--
too many
grains of sand.

Though I know
all those molecules
make music

I'm anxious to arrive
on the other side
of such things--
I want so much to reach
a quiet I'm told resides
beyond the far horizon.

Yet I've always doubted
I could find the peace I seek...
trying to ease my worry
in the past, I pushed
and pushed

until I finally realized
why progress must be slow--
I have no choice
but to take my time.

So now, as I crawl
over or through
the relentless obstacles
I pause long enough
to feel
how I truly love
the music of
this nemesis Earth.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Blank Space

2011-10-03T19:25:00.003-05:00

author's note:

Many times, in many ways, I've knocked on doors, any number of doors.

Then suddenly, a door opens--even without me knocking--and I don't know what to do.

BLANK SPACE

A door opens without warning-–

the dark space seems
to dare me
to go in...

I wouldn't worry so much
but I've only myself
for a guide--
having cast off all others
because they think
they know me.

Though I hesitate
because the depth
is unknown

I know I'll soon take that step

because the depth
is unknown.

Though I realize it's a dream
I'm nervous because I can't imagine
what I'll find...but because I'm nervous
I try to imagine what I'll find
even though I know
I can't possibly imagine.

Shamed at such weak foolishness
I bolster my pride by acting bold.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
100 Best Poetry Blogs

The Nourishment of Fog

2011-09-29T16:17:00.000-05:00

author's note:

As a boy, walking to school some mornings, I would indeed chase fog--as told in the poem below.

Truth be known, in my adulthood, I also chase.

THE NOURISHMENT OF FOG

I've had a frustrating relationship
with fog--

when I try
to enter its cloud...
what was here--just a moment ago--
disappears
only to reappear
over there

but then when I run
over there...
those dense fibers vanish again--

magically returning
to the space where I began.

However...

when I finally admit defeat
and stop to collect my breath
I feel those wet wisps rasping
through my hungry lungs...

From this burn
I know I've imbibed
my nemesis--

I know
my sunny furnace
eats that vaporous dun dust--

I am nourishing myself
on what would seem to be illusion.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Wall-Eyed at the Union Cafeteria

2011-09-26T19:10:00.002-05:00

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: “The following was inspired by a true story.”

WALL-EYED AT THE UNION CAFETERIA

A tall white concrete wall
stood flat
five foot outside the glass

but since I wanted a table
by a window
I sat down anyway--

telling myself how
I'd meditate upon that wall
until I found
some beauty in its blankness--

after all
I once discovered
great depth
in a thin brown leaf.

So what did I see
that could move me--?:
the finish was smooth
but not too--
the concrete neither old
nor especially new.
True
it was stained
but in a general way:
its ivory slightly dimmed
from all the tiny gray particles
accumulated...

Growing frustrated
I then reminded myself
that its rock and sand
once resided
at the bottom of
a primeval riverbed...

But emotion refused
to listen to reason--
I was not inspired...

Only then--
having drawn a blank--
did I finally understand
how the wall was a mirror
reflecting what I felt that day.

When I encounter such walls
--walls that are
the very definition of "wall"--
I realize again what I fear:
I fear I'll never get out.

Having seen, I sensed
I'd seen enough
and so, stood up
to find another table.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Worm & Jaguar

2011-09-22T19:56:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

I've learned the hard way that I can't guess what's inside someone.

I can't even guess what's inside myself.

WORM & JAGUAR

I don’t doubt
those stories
of shamans
shape-shifting
into jaguars

because I’ve witnessed
some astonishing
metamorphoses
myself--

ever see a man
transform into a worm?--!

But sometimes one must
crawl under a rock
and you can't get there
by being a jaguar.

Perhaps once or twice
or maybe even many times
you must become a worm
in order to realize
you're really a jaguar.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
100 Best Poetry Blogs

Paradoxical Egg

2011-09-19T20:00:00.000-05:00

“Since my house
      burned down, I now own
      a better view
  of the rising moon.”
                      -- Masahide (trans. Beilenson/Behn)

PARADOXICAL EGG

In the tale of the man
embedded in an egg
we confront this paradox:

though his shell is starting to feel
a little too tight, our man believes
he will lose his source of nutriment
if he breaks out.

Yes, there's also sustenance outside
but how could this man know--?--
after all, he lives in an egg.

Fortunately, for all of us
a shell can only hold
so much--

thus, even if our hunched man
just takes small sips
sooner or later, he’ll exhaust
his nourishment.

Then what'll be left?

Excrement!

So he either leaves or he dies.

Yet even then, it’s not an easy decision:
after all, the shell has served as his shelter.
He might allow himself to starve
rather than go.

But perhaps we need not worry:
our man will continue to grow
as he feeds
so his egg shell
will most likely burst
from the pressure.

I realize this embryo man
may seem the fool...

but doesn't his example give us hope
...hope for our world...?

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
shameless self-promotion

Wholesome Zombie-Hood

2011-09-15T19:50:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

“Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown.”
-- Tennyson

WHOLESOME ZOMBIE-HOOD

I can’t spin here
anymore--there’s
a time to resurrect
a time to water along
with all the other
plains animals.

But before I leave this basement
--where I found my base--
I will tell you there's nothing to fear
--not even yourself--
if you now feel the need
to begin active zombie-hood
down here in the earth:

If your eyes appear blank
the eyes have turned inward.

If your mouth won’t speak
the zombie listens to itself.

If your walk looks robotic...

the zombie must still
go through
the motions. Heroic.

Though this cell has existed
for ages, today the sacred prison
is more important
than ever before.

Today--
having abandoned horrific ritual--
many of us must pass through
such catacombs...

we must perform this sacrifice...

we must bind ourselves thus...

we must submerge...

in productive zombie-hood.

Don’t worry--you won’t die--
this cave has just
enough space...
though too cramped
once you finally bury
what has died.

But don’t worry--
you won’t stay--
this cave lacks
just enough space
to force us to break out,
to force us to sprout
as our roots grow down.

Don’t worry--
this deep sea cave provides
the right nourishment
for us to resurface
from our sunken ship
feeling refreshed
and darkly wholesome.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio

Moments of Vision

2011-09-12T11:00:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

I now use the term "visibly-impaired".

Yet I still employ the word "blind" to describe myself, to describe us all.

MOMENTS OF VISION

As sunlight catches
a hidden spider thread
suddenly the thin prism
becomes visible.

But the sight gained in an instant
is lost in the next.
My eyes tear, wanting to see again--
straining only frustrates.

So I stop trying
and return to pretending--
thus, I'm comfortably blind
to the world I walk in...

until another act of life
begs for acknowledgement--

a curled red leaf, grounded
its raised points nearly touching...

In moments even more rare
I'm awakened by
some light and perfect construct
drifting down, unsummoned
to bless my mind--
      its quiet surprise
      stilling the noisy ricocheting
      of my scatter-shot thought...

who spun
that spider web net--?--
who spun
that orange autumn cloud
stealthing out of the North...?

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
shameless self-promotion

Deeper Listening

2011-09-08T19:48:00.000-05:00

author's note:

“We experience a dream as real because it is real.”
-- William Dement

DEEPER LISTENING

Though I seemed to break
its arc into eye dust
with the first blink
of morning--

in actuality, all day long today
I walked as I walked in the dream...
across a bridge immersed
in gray-white cloud--

the rock arch barely visible
but the cobblestones
clearly felt beneath my soles--

all day,
I strained to maintain this memory
because the heightened reality
is more of how
I wish my day would be--

yet in remembering
I become even more desperate
for release--
even more frustrated--

as I try to satisfy a desire
that demands ever-increasing amounts
of satisfaction...

but as I keep trying
I'm slowly recovering
as I listen more deeply
to rediscover

the walking drum of the dream--
the silent drum beat : an incantation--

as I listen--entranced
another--purer--spirit
fills me--a shadow spirit

barely known...
and yet a spirit
of my own.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Real Danger

2011-09-05T11:42:00.001-05:00

author’s note:

Sometimes, from the way we depict them and speak of them, we seem to have an inborn aversion to Neanderthal.

Makes me wonder...

REAL DANGER

We laugh at Neanderthal
but maybe they failed to survive
because they were brighter--

maybe
our sophisticated ancestors
killed them all
because
they perceived a threat

that did not exist--that only existed
in their darkly-evolved minds.

The altercation last Thursday
is a good example of what can happen

not to mention the rest of our violent past.

I heard of a man
who made a killing
selling water
to poor people
because he never
has enough money.

We must evolve now fast--
we can no longer afford
this fearful deviousness.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
hear these poems

Another Attempt to Piroutte

2011-09-01T18:42:00.004-05:00

author's note:

I was wondering, recently, if I was too self-effacing...

Then I remembered a Dorothy Parker quote. A friend had said that a mutual acquaintance of theirs was so humble.

"She has a lot to be humble about," Parker told her.

ANOTHER ATTEMPT TO PIROUETTE

How can I create
an act of grace
when my balance
still wobbles
so

erratically--?--!

But I keep pushing
myself out there
because I'm pushed
by an in-born need
to tell you of a struggle
for equilibrium--

frustrated--stumbling
to express what defies
full expression.

But though I feel as if I've fallen
when fail to relate...
by attempting to pirouette
I balance better longer.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Nebulous Crop

2011-08-29T19:14:00.001-05:00

author's note:

Years ago, I printed a sign and placed it on my refrigerator: "Nothing is for Naught."

I guess I just wanted to help myself feel better.

I no longer have such a sign--I no longer need one. Most of the time.

NEBULOUS CROP

I know they're still down there
beneath the floorboards--
dead

yet never destroyed--
those ghosts
who appeared in my dreams
as robots
or masks or
inquisitors.

In the process of killing them
I feared I'd lost
years of gold dust--
the bright goodness fell
between the planks
to smolder in the silent gray soil.

But now I'm able to feel
something growing
down there--some nebulous crop
has been materializing
for longer than I realize...

Though I've only glimpsed
a sprig occasionally--

I've seen enough to believe
the truth of what
I've been told:
such dying seeds life.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

In Sleep Before Birth

2011-08-25T19:43:00.001-05:00

author's note:

My dreams have so much wisdom.

The trouble is: sometimes I'm not wise enough in my waking hours to see into my dreams.

IN SLEEP BEFORE BIRTH

In slumbering, I see--

when I shut my eyes
I’m as smart as I was
the day before I was born:

before I was born
I knew of you--
so I knew you
when I first saw you.

I also knew of these shoes--
how else could I accept
their leadenness?

I knew this gold dust
would fall on me
if I'd work patiently
with all else that'd fall.

Those jewels in the net--?--
I knew--!--
even before I began
to travel its connections.

Though I feel caught
I accept the net's restrictions
--because I know.

I know, but I forget
until I'm again cradled in sleep--
closed, I’m as open as a new-born...

Then comes dawn
I go back to being
dull and dumb.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
taking new steps: http://mythsteps.wordpress.com

The Dog in the Dream

2011-08-22T18:50:00.003-05:00

author's note:

If I believed my poems only related to my own life experience...

...I wouldn't bother to post them online.

THE DOG IN THE DREAM

Though I did not know
the dog...

that black-smoke dog
with spiraling inferno eyes
and flames licking
from its cavern mouth
knew me

and so, stood ready
to lead me from my scrub land
into a forest so dense
the wonder would very nearly be
too intense.

But then somehow
I became distracted
by my shoelaces--day
or night, my laces
are tangled...

so I knelt down--I worked
to un-knot knots...while the dog
laughed silently
at the edge of the wood

but though I had much to do
I did not delude myself:
I understood
that torch would wait.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
a shameless self-promotion

Living in a Dream

2011-08-18T19:59:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

If Guinness had such a category, I'd hold the world record for day dreaming.

LIVING IN A DREAM

The apple I bit into
in the dream is like
the apple I bit into

last Sunday, as I sat
day-dreaming
beneath a watchful tree.

But that day apple
lacked the intensity
of this dream apple--

the dream tells me
I missed
some vital part
of that experience--

the dream returns
that missing part to me.

On a sleepy Sunday
I easily, lazily ignored
just how mysterious
this life is...

Now I’ve been reminded...
I must remember
I live in a dream.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton

shameless self-promotion

Dusting Before the Storm

2011-08-15T15:56:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

I hope the poem below doesn't give you the wrong impression...

I'm actually a good man with a broom.

DUSTING BEFORE THE STORM

Though I've worked hard
with this hammer
to clip away my block...

I can't seem to knock
all the maddening dust
from my shoulder--

so I pray--I beg
for the storm to arrive--
the storm I feel I've earned--
a storm
that will last 40 nights--

afterwards, my lifeboat
will ground ashore
between two mighty mountains
and I can begin this life again--

our breath is always a song
and my fresh free song will be
the first notes of a new world--

a world with new mistakes
for me to make--but this time
better ones--bolder, grander--
in new arenas I'll face my fear
like a matador smiling--
welcoming a bull who's never lost.

In this new song I'll pray my thanks
for the gift of another block of dust
another block to erode--

which will allow me
to leave another
trail of silt
for newcomers
to follow...
feeling their way
as I do--
on hands and knees.

But for now
I pray thanks for the storm
I know I'm to receive--
yes, though my dog still begs, I can feel
a storm coming to me--
I can feel what is destined
by way of birthright--

even so, I do not stop
working to brush
all this old dust
from my shoulder...

I think we need such clearing
to open the way for those storms
that will take us to our new home.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Green Beacon

2011-08-11T19:22:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

Ironically, our heightened moments of reality often seem so unreal.

GREEN BEACON

Tell her I haven't yet
reached that mountain...

the one I aimed myself
towards years ago
not really knowing
where I was going...

still so distant...I'm afraid...
however
its green shines brighter now
so maybe it's closer...

less like a dream, yet still
dream-like--powerful

like a dream. But like a dream
disappears too quickly
when the trail demands
I look back down.

So I’ve yet to fully believe
that mountain.

As a result, I often stumble
when I gaze up--
when I again try
to assure myself
of the reality of
what seems so super-real.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Turning to See

2011-08-08T19:57:00.002-05:00

author’s note:

When I consider the vastness of the Universe...

...I don't feel so big.

The trouble is: I keep forgetting to consider.

TURNING TO SEE

We play house--
ignoring how far we are
out here--following
a lonely star
that often seems lost.

We try to forget
how cold and dark
this Universe is--
in its silence refusing
to answer questions
we believe to be
of such importance.

So we turn our backs
on this vast Universe...

and in turning away
I sense again
how my arms and hands
flail in the air.

But though I haven't yet
found something solid
to hold on to
this life still supplies me
with plenty of meaning--

because I keep being moved
in directions I did not know
I wanted to go--

I can no longer pretend
I'm not dangling by a string
...a solid string--a rope

and though my revolutions
cause all to blur
in my dizziness, I see
more clearly
each day

as I work so hard to focus.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

Summer's Afternoon Dream

2011-08-04T17:01:00.006-05:00

author's note:

If nothing else, New Orleans taught me two very basic, and complementary lessons: from decay comes life...

...what appears stagnant actually teems with activity.

SUMMER'S AFTERNOON DREAM

Shuttered fronts on a quiet street:
those ordinary houses
in a New Orleans unknown
to the tourist trade...

the cracked somnolent clapboards--
mundane, yet mysterious.

All around the block
oak roots break sidewalk
so dandelions can breathe.
Beneath the eaves
wet heat slowly smothers life
to a dark brown pulp

where leaves rest in their skeletal forms.

Sad obsequious stalks
hold happy white flowers.
Trees that droop with antipathy
give comforting shade.

The hose faucet leaks
like a ticking clock
as a three-legged dog
twitches in its sleep--

a summer dream deep...
opaque.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

The Workman and the Moth

2011-08-01T19:02:00.005-05:00

author's note:

I've been both butterfly and moth. But mostly moth, I'd say.

No matter--they both have wings.

THE WORKMAN AND THE MOTH

In the hollow
of my wooden head
lives a lively moth
too quickly excited
by whatever shooting spark--

thus, it kills the flame it fans--
producing but a puff of hot wind.

So the popular theory
about the potential effects
of a butterfly's wings
would seem to be in error...

my flapping has never created
a cleansing fiery hurricane
in distant capitols or battlefields.

However, this loud smallness
does irritate enough to awaken
something buried under
the dull ashes--

this something rises to action--
determined to quell the fluttering--
this something quells the fluttering
simply by rising...

this workman smolders--
having built a deep fire within--

this workman, once summoned
then continues his forging
in full light

as the lovely moth rests
within the halo of the lamp.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Quiet Commotion

2011-07-27T19:31:00.000-05:00

author's note:

My dreams show me a motley cast of characters--including some very unsavory types.

Working with such dreams is my way of sending them to reform school.

QUIET COMMOTION

In a dream last night
I opened a broom closet
and a body fell out--

thus, another mystery
shadows my day--every day
I wake up to discover
someone else here
in this room...

so I hesitate
to invite you in--
where would you sit--?--
too much quiet commotion
for you to feel comfortable
in this house of solitude--

I may seem ordinary enough
but my cast of characters
includes both mountebanks and monks
and some of the monks
can sometimes be mountebanks
and the mountebanks,
monks.

However,
dealing with this menagerie
has taught me tolerance.

But knowing the difficulty
of that lesson
how can I possibly
ask you
to be so tolerant of me...?

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Combusting the Bird Cage

2011-07-24T19:45:00.005-05:00

author's note:

I once listened to a minister, at a Jung Society meeting, struggle to explain "soul".

He tried for several minutes. I felt for the man--seriously.

Perhaps "soul" is best expressed by poets, not ministers.

COMBUSTING THE BIRD CAGE

Our ancient wisefolk told us
the souls of our departed
inhabit the bodies of birds

but perhaps they got it backwards--

because when I listened
to the wisdom of my heart
I was informed of the soul
of a departed lark
caged within my body...

so now I understand
why I'm pulled to join
with the open sky--

to live again
in its overwhelming freedom--
its vast multi-castled space--

its many currents pulling me in all directions--
forcing me to choose
the way my soul knows to be true.

But though my human ego
has finally accepted
the fact of my origins
I continue to embrace
security and its frustration--

I've tried and failed
and failed again
to convince myself
to break this grip...

yet I'm encouraged
because I feel this conflict
building a heat
that could someday combust
these matchstick bars.

I hope, even as I fear...

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Jumping for Joy

2011-07-20T19:23:00.004-05:00

author's note:

Before we can beat swords into plowshares, perhaps we must first change whips into ropes.

Jumping for Joy

Having finally realized
that I now hold the whip
that has beaten me
since birth...

I've taught myself
a healthy way to use it:
I take one end in one hand
and the other end in the other
and swing that cord
up and down...

I have found the fun
of jumping rope--

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Live Grenades

2011-07-17T18:53:00.001-05:00

author’s note:

One of the great benefits of getting to know myself better is that I get to know everyone else better as well.

LIVE GRENADES

They are live grenades--

I know I can do nothing
to convince them
to contain themselves--

when I'm still such a poor example...

I realize I must wait
and you will not wait...

but if you won't listen to me
at least listen to yourself...
deeply...at least, try...

I know this hope is not in vain--
I know what's possible, because--
even though my flaws
still make so much noise--
I'm able to hear myself...
just enough, just often enough
to save who I am.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
a shameless self-promotion

The Miraculous Ice Cube Cure

2011-07-13T18:38:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

A fitting poem for these fiery Dog Days.

THE MIRACULOUS ICE CUBE CURE

There exists a balm
that when applied
to my thin skin
can eased heated conflict
within.

To begin:
I merely place
the ice cube on the left side
of my forehead...

then move its blue sweetness
slowly--slowly--
towards the right,
making small circles
across what has become
much too thick.

When I reach
the right-side temple
I then repeat this motion
in the opposite direction.

Just two or three passes
can create a state of equilibrium--
I still don't understand how
but why argue with magic?

The better question is:
why do I too often forget
this medicine
in those fiery moments
when I most need it?--!

Well, from what I've seen, I can see
a desire to burn
lives within us--struggles against
our wish for the peace
of the healing crystal cube.

I can feel how the fire
wants to swell, waits to flare.

As I cool, I can feel...the rich energy
of this fire held within.

I must steady my flame.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology myth steps

Memo to Our Tent City Kids

2011-07-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

\

author's note:

So much damage has and will come from allowing families to lose their houses.

Child abuse can take many forms.

MEMO TO OUR TENT CITY KIDS

Kids, if you're living
in a tent city
I can empathize

and perhaps advise...

because my life's plan
has kept me free from secure roofs
for much of my adult life--

like you, I've endured
the instability
of tent canvas...

but living so small has taught me
not to fight the wind--

I learned--despite my disbelief--
that shelter would follow me
from city to city--
as long as I obeyed
the relentless wind current...

Kids, this transience told me
everything moves--the Universe
rejects all attempts at permanence.

You may doubt me
because I look like your parents
but cross my heart:
this world's one big flapping tent...

If that thought causes you to feel
even more uncomfortable
maybe you can take comfort
from this idea:

after carefully considering all I've seen
I've concluded
this life was never meant
to be too comfortable
for any one of us.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

Renew: Sight & Touch

2011-07-06T19:40:00.000-05:00

author’s note:

I have a hard time imagining how our predecessors saw the world.

But still I try to imagine, because when I try to imagine, I often experience a sense of wonder.

RENEW: SIGHT & TOUCH

Cave people could actually see better
than we do today--

new to this life, they had new eyes--

all was magnified--we felt as if
we could just reach up and wrest
the morning star from the sky--

but did not dare because
something seen fresh
is treated with reverence.

We had no word for intimacy
because we had not yet lost contact
with the stone under our hand.

But these days....

...even this fingerpad
   I view from a distance.

When you rise, you begin to walk
until you eventually arrive
somewhere a long way away...

...so far away that when we look back
   we can't see what we've lost--
   yet we keep looking back
   because we sense something's missing...

Wishing to know our point of origin
we long for what is right here:
we long to feel the blood and skeleton
beneath our skin...we long for the animals
sleeping underground...we long for the stars--
hoping they will drop back down
into our yards...

Trying to feel, we flop about--
but even such blind movement
eventually finds home.

So, I’m given hope
that through all our clumsy, misinformed attempts
we will come to touch and know again
what's within arm’s reach.

Our eyes will then be both
new and old--
innocent and wise--
knowing so well
what can be lost.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
myth steps

Declaration of Independence

2011-07-04T11:17:00.001-05:00

author’s note:

This poem has become a Fourth of July tradition with me.

It was originally written in 2007. I must report that I'm still far from accomplishing the goal stated in the poem. But I have never stopped working.

DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

I have not yet
abolished terror, but
I plan to accomplish that goal
within this life span.

Don’t tell me I can’t---
you can tell me many things---
that I can’t be a gourmet chef
or a mathematician---
that I can’t master the two-step---
that I can accept

but don’t tell me
I won’t conquer terror
because
I refuse, refuse
to be terrorized
by anyone

including myself

including those
who I fault because
they too closely resemble
my mirror.

I will awake--
awake
to the vermin
in my stew--
awake
to the fractures
in my math--

awake to all that is broken--
awake to see how all is round
and can never be broken.

So if you try
to terrorize me
you will only end up
terrorizing yourself.

If you bombard me
I will dance. That dance
will be my revenge.

But I choose
not
to criticize you.

Any fear I stew
will be reserved
for my own
dining pleasure.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
new steps

Possum, O Possum!

2011-06-29T16:35:00.001-05:00

author’s note:

We write of dragons, of tigers...

...but rarely of opossums.

However, before we arrive at dragon or tiger, I think we must first pass through opossum.

POSSUM, O POSSUM!

How could falling asleep
ever be a survival skill?

Yet we here are, Possum...
Oh Possum--

when you wake you get
a whiff of a scent
that reminds you of something
you'd rather forget...

yet somehow you're still alive
and that wolverine you thought
would rip you open
has miraculously vanished...

Possum, O Possum!--angels
are rarely angelic--we struggle
with our angels

and just like wolverines
they never really disappear
when we sleep...

As long as I sleep I remain
a primitive animal--innocent
but blind
thus, innocently harmful
to myself--
I only manage
to stay alive...

Fortunately
I've tricked myself
into obeying a better fate,
O Possum--!--

I looked up just enough
to see something I wanted
on the top shelf...

so I finally stood on my hind legs.

However, the effort, the altitude
made me dizzy--
I lay down on the counter,
I curled back into my cup

but now my head--oh my head!--
won't stop spinning--
I try to sleep
but can't revert--

I can't forget
what I desire--
this hunger prods me
to stand again
to climb--

I hesitate--
not just because
I dread the dizziness:
I now see how I must surmount
all those wolverines--

O Possum, my Possum--
I see I must learn to love to wrestle
with all my angels.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
myth steps