The Wind Strums My Strings

author’s note:

“Strumming my pain with his fingers”
             — from a poem by Lori Lieberman


THE WIND STRUMS MY STRINGS

One twilight evening
I heard a gust of wind strum
the out of tune strings of a cheap guitar
abandoned in a trash bin.

Then another gust
rang the guitar
then a third banged the strings.

Though discordant
those chords made a spark
in the depths of my heart.
A feeling beyond adjectives.

I then asked myself
how such sounds could create
that feeling within me

and arrived at this answer:

As the wind sweeps over the earth
our excess emotion gets whisked up
and rides the many currents like dust.

We can feel some of that feeling
by listening to the wind strum
such things as wheatfields
and lakes and trees and bridges
and electrical towers and guitars.

After that realization, I decided
to join along—
to open myself up
and let the wind strum
my poorly-tuned strings.
Who knows?—
my notes, though rough
might spark a light in the hearts of others
the way my own heart was sparked
by the raw sound of that cheap guitar.

But I’d failed to anticipate
the amount of pain in the wind—
pain from the wounds
suffered by human minds.
Pain from all the creatures
struggling to survive.
Pain from the wounded land and water.

All that pain awakened
pain dormant within me.
The hurt rose up
and from my mouth
came a crazed cacophony
that included:

the whimpering pleas of a puppy

and long coyote howls

and low ghostly groans

as well as the bellows of a fallen bull.

No, my sound didn’t stir many
but at least I experienced some relief
by giving voice to buried feelings.

Since then
I’ve found much more besides pain in the wind
and so, I’ve been able
to expand my repertory a bit.
But the message remains
basically the same.
And that message is:

I hold more than I know.
Which means:

We’re all hold more
than we can possibly imagine.

And to those who say
No, we hold less!
I suggest:
trying opening yourself to the wind.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Cure

author’s note:

I don’t finish poems.  I just give up eventually.


THE CURE

She wanted to express
the complex emotion of that moment
in words
or paint
or song.

If only for her own benefit.
Her plan was:

On days when she felt blah and dim
she would return to her creation
and experience once again
that emotional moment
and in that way, cure her malaise.

However
she soon discovered
the work of writing was such drudgery
as was the work of applying paint
as was the work of crafting a song.

So she decided on a different strategy:

on those bleary days
she would instead open her mind and heart
to the complex emotions
conveyed by artists she loved:
poets
and painters
and magicians who made melody.

And because she now realized
how hard they’d worked
her appreciation for their gifts deepened
and so, she opened even more.

Nonetheless
one night she felt so flat
she could not muster the strength
needed to open her door and enter
the rooms created by those master carpenters.

In desperation
she then wrote:
If I feel too dead to open
to the life that gives life to my life
how can I live?

Honest lines
and yet
they sounded rather mundane.

And so she tried to find better words—
and more of them!—
she wanted to create incisive verses
that would fully truly express
the debilitating frustrating blandness
of that moment.

And by laboring long
she managed to transform those lines
into a melodic poem of color.

Not bad, maybe even good
but still
her creation somehow didn’t seem quite right to her.

Nonetheless
she felt she’d gone deeper
than she’d ever gone before.
And so
though she felt disappointed
she also felt rewarded for her efforts.

And that complex mix of emotion
cured her malaise.

For a moment, anyway.

Years later
she remains frustrated in her work
but keeps on because
she knows she deepens and heals
each time she tries and fails.

mythsteps · the cure

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Where is the Art in War?

author’s note:

Art has improved my vision.


WHERE IS THE ART IN WAR?

I challenge that sage
who coined the phrase:
"The Art of War".

Yes
the field general and the artist
both need courage and skill

but the general kills
whereas the artist gives life back to life.

The general’s well-designed battle plan
will deteriorate into chaos in the field.

On the other hand, the artist
can reveal the design
in what appears to be chaos.

Art adds.  War subtracts.
Art is about fusion.  War: fission.
Art joins--war divides.

Though we can’t always avoid war
we need not fight all the time

but at all times
we need to be open to art.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Delusional Bird

author’s note:

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

Just thought I’d throw that out there.


THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD

Why was the bird so madly ambitious?

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

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

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

believing its sincerity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

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

A Japanese Print

author’s note:

Japanese prints are a good way to travel when you can’t get out of the house.


A JAPANESE PRINT

Sometimes I meditate
on this Japanese landscape print...

I follow the leaves down
to the river winding its way
to distant mountains tufted with pine.
Their peaks lost in cloud.

But rather than wonder
about the secrets
of places I can’t see
I return to the peasant
in the foreground:

bent forward with the weight
of the sack of rice on his back
he trudges through slanting rain
on a road that follows the river.

Imagining his life, I ask myself:
all that work and for what?

To feed his poor family?
But why have a family
if the family will only be poor?

Nonetheless
such beauty in that print.
Made more beautiful
by my empathy for that man.

Neither he nor we knew
he could be beautiful.
And so, we needed the artist.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Beautiful Nest

author’s note:

I think we can learn a lot by listening to birds.


BEAUTIFUL NEST

Watching the bird weave
shredded plastic
through the twigs and grass
of its nest
I again began to believe
I could realize my aspirations.

What can you do
in a junk culture that seems to want
only more junk?

Well, the bird says:
a few flashy threads
won’t ruin the beauty
of work made with
natural earth materials.

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

The Opera of Life

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I don’t know opera.

But I do like the idea of opera--life amplified to its true grandness.


THE OPERA OF LIFE

Beginning at dawn
I can feel a song rising

if I stop to listen.

If I stop
I can feel
all those songs around me:
the song of the blue flames on the stove--
the song of the empty white cup--
the song of torn brown dish towel:

the room booms with a chorus.

If I stop to listen
to the opera of life
I feel prompted
to sing in response.

But many days I don’t want to stop:

what a pain to try to sing
when what I feel can’t possibly be sung--
even by a bird
much rarer than I

and besides
the opera of life
doesn’t seem to need my song.

But
I feel I’m a participant
when I sing in response
and an alien
when I shut down.

So I persuade myself
to accept the pain
then open my big ears
to the opera of life
then open my big mouth
and join that grand chorus.

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

My Quest for Gold

author’s note:

If a quest didn’t present us with one frustration after another…

…would the quest really be worth our time and effort?


MY QUEST FOR GOLD

Years ago
someone said:
look--
can you see the gold
in this piece?

Well, yes--
when I stopped, I could--
though only dimly at first

yet enough to wake in me
the desire to see
the gold of this world

because when I saw, I felt
the gold within me

then saw more clearly
then felt more.

Such pursuits qualify as quests.

But alas
to search for the ideal
creates frustration:

what I was told was gold
often didn’t touch me

and what had once touched me
might later feel like silver
or sometimes even lead
when I returned
hoping for a repeat
of the first feeling.

But then someone said:
if you open your eyes more fully--
focus yourself completely--
you can find gold
in any ordinary thing.

What a joy to realize
the truth of that beautiful sentiment
(even if the vision lasted
  for only a few touching moments).

Following that discovery
I could have led
the blissful existence of the aesthete.
But no

I felt driven to respond
to all the gold I found
by trying to create
some gold of my own.

A quest with even more frustration.

My hope is:
maybe occasionally my failures
will come close enough
to the sublime reality
to touch a memory
and in that way, help you locate
some gold you’ve misplaced.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

How to Achieve Buoyancy

author's note:

Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.
                -- Mary Oliver


HOW TO ACHIEVE BUOYANCY

I've seen some who always seem so buoyant.

I ask myself:
even if they're not weighted
with personal conflict
how can they witness
the struggle and conflict
of our world
and not feel a burden
of incessant frustration?

I assume many are simply oblivious.

However
I believe a few
are born blessed with wisdom--
what they see up-close
they also view
from the mountain

and then maybe others
once felt as heavy as I do today
but gradually found courage enough
to open--to surrender

to the flood waters we hold
but try to hold back--
for fear of being overwhelmed
by our empathy for all humankind.

So now, instead of sinking
at the sight of so much pain
those brave people ascend--
lifted by the rising waters.

A possibility--or so I hope
as I struggle to cope
with all I witness
in this wounded world

which of course, includes
the wounded man
I often criticize--
the one who writes these lines.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook