The Silhouette

author’s note:

Who among us is not mysterious?


THE SILHOUETTE

At the new year’s party
the host dimmed the lights
just before midnight
so when my friend turned
he saw only a silhouette
at the other end of the hallway—

a shadow stepping his way.

Then when the lights came back on
he found a plain open face
peering into his plain open face.

That face soon became part of his days.
A good face
because it belongs to a good woman.

But when seen every day
the good can begin to seem ordinary.

So in time my friend lost sight
of what he first saw
when he first saw her that night.

But fortunately for both of them
he soon woke up again—
brought back, I believe
by the god that steers from within:

While mowing the lawn
late one afternoon
that good man turned without thinking
and found her shadow
standing at the window.

In that instant
he remembered that midnight silhouette
and his eyes opened again.

I’m happy to report
he has not forgotten the truth since then.

mythsteps · The Silhouette

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, 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

Her

author’s note:

I often end up cutting my favorites lines:

She will sew me back up
but I must first guide the thread
through the eye of the needle


HER

I write to honor a woman
who hides in full view.

Though I learned of her years ago
and know the value
I often ignore her--so easy to do--
after all, she’s so commonplace.

Whenever I lose her
she merely watches and waits
as the sand leaks from my sack:
she will mend me
but only when
I open to her again.

Some will laugh
at my rhapsody
and claim
they don't need her.
But I’m not fooled--
I’ve known their poverty:

I once tried
to leave her behind
because I thought
I needed to be tough
in order to make this trek
across the desert...

but finally I felt so empty
I had to stop.
Then in desperation
I recognized her again--

I saw her sailing
in a flotilla of clouds
luminous in the sun

then in the cloud shadows flowing
across the brown plain

and as I witnessed
those glorious sights
I felt her strength
surge back into my heart.

At night
she beams down upon me
from the eye of the moon

as I nestle into a boulder
shaped like her hand.

Some meet her by blessed accident:
a burglar opens a window to steal a jewel
but finds a star in a clay jar instead

then allows himself
to experience a perfection
forgotten for too long.

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

Digging Up Her Arms

author’s note:

As stated in the poem, I did indeed dig by a stump as a boy...

During one of these excavations, I found a small diamond.  Naturally, that clear stone slipped from my hands.  Though I searched and searched, I could not find it.  But because I could not find it, that diamond has remained a diamond.


DIGGING UP HER ARMS

As a boy when I saw
that naked statute in the book
I wished to be a hero
and return those arms to her--

I dreamt she’d repay me
by stroking my hair
with the hands I’d found.
She’d touch my lips.

How I wanted
her nurturing arms!

What I sought then
I still seek now
but I no longer dig in the dirt
by the stump with a stick.

No--
after digging many
people, places, things
I finally found ways
to mine my own self--

ways to recover what I’d lost.

I no longer look for
one big bonanza strike--
as an archaeologist, I must uncover
the hands, the arms
piece by small piece.

A tedious excavation.
However, I grow stronger
with the labor required

and I wouldn’t want
the child to lose hope
that one day
the wounded woman
will again be whole.

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

Contemplating the Face of Nefertiti

author's note:

I’ve only seen the famous sculpture of Nefertiti in a picture book.

But I don’t think that makes my response any less authentic.

CONTEMPLATING THE FACE OF NEFERTITI

The moment I saw that face
it seemed quite alien to me.

So of course
I wished to peer into its mystery

but could not penetrate.

However, as I tried
I began to sense
my own depths again:

as I felt her silence, I felt my silence
and found a palatial dark elegance
below the junkyard of my thoughts.

Her enigma was the enigma
of this strange life of ours.

Since then
I’ve returned again and again
to that opaque face--
a face that refuses to tell me
its secrets

while boldly proclaiming
a truth deeper
than any I’ve expressed
with these words I’ve stitched together.

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

The Man Who Secretly Searches for Sophie

author's note:

Who is the man in this poem?

To answer that question would require a list so long it’d stretch all the way around the world.


THE MAN WHO SECRETLY SEARCHES FOR SOPHIE

The man of this story
lost Sophie so long ago
he doesn’t know he lost her

nor does he realize
how he searches for her

or how he sees her everywhere:

in the glowing pearl earring
found suddenly in a dark theater

in a soft hand print
on a frosted window
highlighted by the moon.

But also in vistas grand:

in a smokey orange sunrise cloud
building high above
a sea of shadowy pink.

So much of life echoes “Sophie”
to this searcher

including the way
the peasant woman in the photo
kneels at the creek as she scrubs
that pile of clothes
--he likes how her long black hair
   hangs down, touching
   the silver rippling water.

Fool that he is
he imagines himself standing near--
hands behind his back--
as he tries to say in broken language
how hot the sun feels.

She then lifts her gentle eyes to him--
a silent knowing gaze
that brings to mind
the monolithic goddess
that appeared in the darkness of a dream
when he felt so helpless.

Absorbed in that second image
our hero suddenly feels
a foundation of love within
the creaky hardwood of his chest:

a stone foundation resolute--immovable.

But in the next moment he turns the page--
though a dreamer, his tolerance for depth
has its limits.

Oh, but I haven’t given up on him:
I believe in time he’ll feel so desperate
He won’t flee
but stay there in his heart

and when he touches that stone
he’ll hear an inner voice--
(strange yet recognized as his own)
and he’ll sense
how those dark hushed tones
joyfully incessantly repeat this name
as a holy incantation:

Sophie…Sophie…Sophie…

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Meeting the Wounded Woman

author's note:

Highly recommended: The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, by Robert A. Johnson.


MEETING THE WOUNDED WOMAN

After waking from the sight
of a wounded woman
knee-deep in a dark swamp...

I remembered what I'd read:

the "she" a man meets
in his dream
lives within him.

But though still alive
my receptive side
obviously didn't feel so well--
after all, she'd lost a hand.

But how and when?--
I did not know...

however as I pondered
the blank shock
in her blue eyes
I began to feel
what she must have felt
during whatever crime
caused the loss--
what she still feels
in the long aftermath:

horror at a savagery both rabid
and casual--
stunned confusion
at an injustice unpunished.

I could feel
the frozen fire
of her righteous anger

but also sensed
warm moist ashes of grief
beneath that ice.

I then understood why
a violent dream may follow
a routine mundane day:

if forced to confront
our deep wounds
during the waking hours
how could we complete transactions
or work with movable parts?

But we don’t occasionally confront
and deal with that truth
those wounds may kill us.

So, I need my horrific dreams--
painful though the awakening may be
I need to dream of a woman
missing a hand.

I can shelf that secret
in the back room
while I'm totaling receipts

then afterward
return to learning
how to heal the life
that gives me life.

Progress is slow, of necessity
but when I feel discouraged
I think of the green lizard dream:

how the little fellow sang with joy
because he'd finally managed
to grow his tail back--

he sang of sensitivity regained
he sang of better balance--
such fun, being functional!

That regeneration
must've cost a lot of energy
but what a return--
his song sounded so strong!

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

dUNKED

Up from the bottom
  of an old pond,
  that duckling
has seen something strange.
     -- Joso (trans. Beilenson/Behn)


dUNKED

In those ocean dreams...

I want to bob on the top
of the water like a buoy
even though I know
if I don't dive down
I will be dunked

dunked again:

drawn down
by some force of nature--down
to dark depths
where faces float like jellyfish:

they seem so foreign
and yet I'm told
they're all a part of me--

even the women
even the animals
even the machines.

Occasionally I’ll witness
a face so luminous--
I burst to the surface with joy

but more often I'm greeted
by something much dimmer:
maybe a blank-eyed robot
or a drooling dog.

So next time I find myself
bobbing at the top
I may again resist
when I feel
that downward pull...

even though I know
I'll be dunked if I do

yes--dunked again.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

Observation of a Moth

dear reader:

Again: written about no one in particular.

Perhaps a precognition.  I hope.


OBSERVATION OF A MOTH

All day as she taps
on her keyboard she may seem
so ordinary to so many

but I've watched her brush her hair
in the soft lamplight
of a bedroom of shadows

as a moth flutters against the bulb...

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
finding Beauty: poetry ebook