Crow Cry Moonrise

author’s note:

One night as a child, I saw the moon following our pickup truck.

Then I decided: probably follows everyone around.


CROW CRY MOONRISE

Here’s a fable I wrote recently
for you to enjoy and ponder:

The cry of a crow came
at the moment the tip
of a gold moon appeared
across the desert on the eastern horizon.

So the moon believed
it’d caused the bird to cry.
And the bird was sure
it’d caused the moon to rise.

Obviously in the poem
the crow and the moon are both fools.
But maybe the bigger fool
is the one who wrote them both into being—

reading those verses again, I suddenly saw:

I did not understand
the motivations of my own characters—
why did that bird cry?
And why does the moon
still want to rise
when to rise means
you’ll hear all the cries?

After careful analysis, I realized:
the crow had called out because
I’d squelched that cry in my heart.

And the Harvest Moon rose
because one day I hope to rise
and shine a bit of light
to help those who travel through
long nights of grievous confusion.

Okay
but what about the writer?—
maybe he was trying to impress you—
using humor to state a universal truth.

Well yes, but
after careful analysis, I now realize:
I hid my pain and my hope
under that joke.

But though I feel embarrassed now
I’ve decided to publish those lines anyway
because:

Maybe when they hear that crow
some will begin to feel
the cry they’ve stifled in their depths.
And maybe some will imagine
that moon in full bloom
and then begin to feel
their own gold moon struggling to rise.

And if they don’t
perhaps they’ll at least enjoy the jest.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

That House

author’s note:

The house in the photo above is that house.  We never thought to take pictures of our own house, I regret to say.


THAT HOUSE

In a recent dream
I returned to my childhood home.

The belly of the whale—
the cacophonous womb
where I danced and wailed.

For years I’ve looked back
so that I might know that house
so that I could move on.

I’ve gone through those rooms so many times.
I’ve shifted through their closets and drawers.
I’ve searched deep, then deeper still.
I’ve catalogued and studied even the smallest finds.
I should be done with that mad house by now, shouldn’t I?

But no, I’m not.  Nor will I ever be.

Because that house keeps changing.
In this recent dream, I opened a new door
and discovered a hallway
that connects the sunny front
with the shadowy back.
That house continues to evolve with each new visit.
That house continues to evolve as I do.
I evolve as I work to change my perspective.

As part of the process
I try to find more sun now
when I look back at that house.
Here’s my idea, my hope:

My present reflects my past.  So
if I can find more sun in my early years
then today will be sunnier too.

The dream tells me:
Our education is never complete.
Always more to be known.
Walk down those dark hallways.
Even a little house is a mansion of doors.

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

Take a Vacation to The Moon

author’s note:

As a boy, I was once told the Moon was made of cheese.

From that point on, I ate a lot of cheese.


TAKE A VACATION TO THE MOON

I saw the Moon so close.
So round.  So bright.  So milky.

And so as before
my heart lifted my arms
to embrace that bewitching world.

But this time, to my surprise
I shot straight to the lunar surface.

In joy I bounced like a boy filled with helium
across stone-quiet plains so wonderfully stark.
I climbed holy spires.
And slid down the sides of steep craters.

When I walked
my shadow legs belonged to a giant.
And yet I felt so small—
I was but a moth
worshipping the brilliant light.

But then the Moon began to close its door
and shadow crept over the land toward me.
The swath of soft light where I sat
had soon shrunk to a thin slice.
My feet could barely fit inside—
the darkness on one side
had nearly met
the darkness on the other.
I’d drunk the light of the Moon
and now the Moon would drink me.

So though I wanted to explore more
I pointed my arms downward
and a moment later
found myself back
on the lovely soil of Earth.

But now
in my state of heightened awareness
I could feel the ground tremoring beneath my feet.

But analysis showed
the vibrations came from me.
And additional research revealed
many if not most on this planet
shake just as much if not more.

Why do we tremble so?

Maybe on other worlds
beings need not worry about death
but our Earth is a planet of survival.
And to stay alive in such worlds
you must worry every day about dying.

With that in mind
I decided I would try to soothe
a few of those nervous humans
and in that way, help make
this world a less nervous place.

And so I wrote this poem.
to urge all anxious people
to take a vacation to the Moon—
you can go even if you live in a tunnel.

But please return at the proper time—
otherwise, you may be consumed
by a terrific teat that gives then takes—
we need you back on Earth.

Here, you can help other agitated folk
by introducing them to the benefits
of imbibing moonlight with their hearts.

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

When the Men First Tried to Talk

author’s note:

I guess I could have used women instead of men in the poem below.

But men are more believable.


WHEN THE MEN FIRST TRIED TO TALK

Word had gone out
across the land:
   Men need to gather together
   to express what they think and feel.
   That type of deep cleansing release
   will benefit the world’s mental health.

In response to the call
nine men in our small town
sat down in a circle
at the community center
to share what they felt.

But the first one to speak
began by stammering
then fell into mumbling
then started to cough and sputter

then suddenly
he clutched his chest
and fell over to the floor.

As the others leapt to his aid
a cry issued from the man’s flaccid lips—
a big bellow of pain that froze everyone in their place.

In the next instant, they all collapsed onto the floor—
struck down by a shock to the heart.

The men lay blank for a moment
then rose slowly, still stunned.

Apparently the painful lament
of first man’s unseen wound
had triggered a response
from the unseen wounds of the other men.

The nine then realized:
talking about feelings is dangerous.
You don’t know what you might be holding
down there in the dark.
Better to keep the pain in a box.

So only a few minutes into the first meeting
the group decided to disband.

And then tried to shut down
the desire they’d roused:
the desire—the drive—to express
what they thought and felt.
This conflict led those men into
all sorts of destructive behavior.

Of course we know about substance abuse
but there are many other activities
you can use to drown yourself:
one man simply sank

lower and lower
into his TV sofa chair
while resisting orders to resurface.

But like the rest
in time, he sought a prescription for his excesses.
And like the rest, he was then told:

You need to give voice to your deep wounds.

Yes, talking about feelings
can knock you down
but not talking about them
will not only knock you down
but keep you down.

So a few months later
the nine men sat down in a circle again.
Again, they’d work
to raise those shadowy feelings—
but now they’d go slowly, gently.
And pause for coffee and donuts.

Nonetheless
someone still passes out occasionally.
But once revived
they merely shake out their head

then straighten their shoulders
and continue talking about the wound.

Yes, we still dread the deep sting of truth
but these days
we bare our chests
and proclaim:
In order to feel better
I must first feel worse.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

How the Family Found Their Grief

author’s note:

Maybe my family should’ve sung together.  We might have learned harmony.


HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF

In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.

But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.

Their music lightened many hearts.

But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.

Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.

By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.

They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—

their indifference now seemed monstrous.

A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.

Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.

Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.

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

The Symbolic Tree

author’s note:

Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.


THE SYMBOLIC TREE

The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.

Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.

But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.

With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.

Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.

Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.

Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.

I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.

Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.

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

Raindrops are Pearls

author’s note:

I keep trying to improve my vision.


RAINDROPS ARE PEARLS

When I look at those raindrops
hanging from that branch
I see pearls

because

raindrops seem of little consequence—
here for a moment then gone.

Whereas pearls seem to shine
with a timeless intrinsic value.

I say:
though we enter and live in this world
as raindrops
we never stop being pearls.

Scoff if you want, but
wouldn’t you prefer I see you as a pearl?

I say:
our raindrop life be better
if we always saw each other as pearls.

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

The Ribbon

author’s note:

I hope the moon is shining on you this holiday season.


THE RIBBON

Tonight, I tried to tie a ribbon
into a happy bow

but somehow
the two ends kept slipping
from my hands.  Kept slipping
from fingertips well-trained.

Just this morning I’d tied
a yellow bow so neat.
So symmetrical.
Had I lost that skill so suddenly?

Then I recalled
what I’d learned many times before:

some things say “no no no”
when you try to force them
to be the way you want them to be
instead of the way they are.
Don’t try to be stubborn
with such stubborn things.
Just let them be, let them go.

And so I stepped outside
and let the ribbon fly with the wind—
its waves and twirls flashing
in the winter moonlight.
Away away.

Though pleased
with my kindness
I also felt a little foolish—
I must not forget
to listen to things.
To listen to this world.
To listen listen listen
to the ribbon I am.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Deep Thrill of Mystery

author’s note:

To all my fellow specks.


THE DEEP THRILL OF MYSTERY

Sometimes as a child
I’d stop
all my buzzing about

and in the sudden quiet
I would sense mystery.

No matter where I was.
Even standing in a shiny white appliance store
I’d feel the world watching me.

So I’d be a little afraid
but also get a little thrill.
So I liked to stop occasionally.

But these days the world seems
to have turned its eyes away from me.
The world seems quite bored with me.
Even the stuff in my own house.
Even my own house.

However I can still summon
the deep hushed thrill of mystery
by using this trick:

I will force myself to stop
buzzing about

then tell all I see in the world around me:

Yes, I may be just a speck
but so are you—
we’re all just specks on a speck.

We’re all just appliances
and neither you nor I can say for certain
where we came from
or where we'll go
once we’re done here.

Those unanswerable questions
will then spark my mind
and I’ll begin to ask myself:

How could something come from nothing?
And what purpose does all the stuff
of the Universe serve?
Does a purpose even exist?

Of course, all my pondering
will lead nowhere
and when I finally give up
I’ll be left with an empty head.
I’ll just stand there
in the quiet stillness of the moment—
overwhelmed
by the mystery of this universe.
What a buzz.  What a thrill.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Our Dream of Fog and Sun

author’s note:

Is this poem based on an actual dream?

Its truth is based on many many dreams.


OUR DREAM OF FOG AND SUN

At the beginning of the dream
I saw
the golden tip of a rising sun

but suddenly fog swarmed in
and I began to struggle
to find a way through
that messy mass of cloud—
hoping for another shot of brightness.

Twice, the gray fabric thinned
and I glimpsed the brilliant circle
of the sun god through the gauze

but soon—too soon—the clouds crowded in again.

When I awoke
the message seemed obvious:

At birth my clear eyes
could see the sun
but the fog of this world
quickly dimmed my sight.

And though I’ve struggled hard
to defog my head
the haze remains quite thick

except for those blessed moments
when I’m able to part the clouds long enough
to see the sun again.

Those splendid breaks
help keep me strong in the battle.

I now realize:
though I may never achieve
clear victory
as long as I continue to fight
I will never be defeated.

I say:
my dream expresses a predicament
faced by anyone born human.

Maybe we can never regain
what we lost at birth
but if we struggle
to cut through the fog
we’ll occasionally realize our truth.

And the light we find then
will stay with us
all the way to the end.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Leaping Deer Sings Like a Howling Dog

author’s note:

“I praise what is truly alive,
 what longs to be burned to death.”
               – Goethe


THE LEAPING DEER SINGS LIKE A HOWLING DOG

When I was young I ran
hoping to lose that menacing shadow
nipping at my heels.

But one day a wise man told me:
you can only save yourself
by taking a long look
at what you’re running from.

So I took a long thoughtful look
and saw:
what a waste to try to escape myself.

Nonetheless
I kept on running
because

the blur of movement
felt so exhilarating
and my fire burned hotter the harder
I ran
and the heat felt the way I thought
life was supposed to feel.

However, in time
the flame died from exhaustion
and I had to lie down in the soft ashes.

But used the time to take
another long look—

because by then I realized:
once seen
a demon can be flipped
onto its angel side.

But as soon as my fire revived
I began to run again.
I ran I ran I ran
in mind, body, and spirit.

Years later
I’m still running.
Yes, the pace has slowed
but with age
I value each leaping step more

and so my exhilaration
has deepened into joy.

I’ve also learned to lie down
before I’m forced
and in those moments of stillness
I not only look down into that deep shadow
I also listen—
I listen, because I can’t always see.

And when I rise
I do what humans do
after they’ve heard the dark river:
I give words to the melody.

With those words
I sing our song as I run along.
And because the child in me
thrives on delight
I imagine I’m a leaping deer singing—
singing like a moon-eyed howling dog.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

How to Make Death Smile

author’s note:

Is Death a “he”?

Yes—if Birth is a “she”.


HOW TO MAKE DEATH SMILE

As is typical of youth
when I was young I ignored
the possibility I could die young.

Even as I watched
so many with the same blindness
stumble into graves.

Only later
as I looked back
did I see how lucky I’d been.

I then began to step more carefully.

But now as I watch
so many my age
retire to their graves
I worry I’m becoming
just a little too cautious.

The life I’m afraid to lose
won’t have much life
if I don’t follow
the true desire of my spirit

which was and still is:

to go forth and know the world.

So though my legs tremble
I will stretch my stride.
No, the width won’t match that of my youth.
But the stubborn fool I am now
shows more courage
than the obtuse fool I once was

because now I can feel Death
watching me and waiting
as I struggle on these steps.

But my reaper is not so grim.
No, beneath that black hood
he smiles wide in appreciation.

Death sees I am doing
what he wants us to do:
to grow in strength
by confronting
the deep fear that keeps us alive.

mythsteps · how to make Death smile

Survival: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Sun in My Future

author’s note:

I believe our greatest accomplishments often go unnoticed.  We don't even see them ourselves.


THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip
and forget
my deep desire
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.

mythsteps · the sun in my future

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Woman of Gold

author’s note:

Continuing a continuing theme.


THE WOMAN OF GOLD

My friend, the comic
said he sought a woman of gold
but so far in his search
he’d found only lead.

I then mentioned a woman
he knew and I’d recently met.

But to that idea, he replied:

"What about those big ears
  and those big bug eyes
  and that big butt
  that wobbles from side to side
  when she walks up the stairs?"

I scolded him then, saying
“Consider the possibilities:

“Perhaps ears so big are made to detect
  the sound of gold hidden in this world of lead.
  And when that woman hears that gold
  that gold becomes
  part of who she is.

“And maybe eyes so big and buggy
  are well-designed to see the gold
  hidden in this world of lead.
  And when that woman sees that gold
  that gold becomes
  part of who she is.

“And to me, that wobble expresses
  the continual interaction
  of life’s yin and yang.
  That big butt bears witness
  To the universal creative energies within her.

“That’s not lead, my friend, that’s gold.”

Startled by my own response
I decided to let that obtuse man
find his way alone
then hurried home to phone
that glorious woman of gold.

mythsteps · the woman of gold

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

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

Blessed Affliction

author’s note:

When I found the above cartoon recently, I wondered why I’d made that drawing years ago.

So I wrote a poem and discovered why.


BLESSED AFFLICTION

She didn’t see the cause
of her problems
until she dreamt that dream

in which she tried to rise
but fell over sideways
and then watched her long blue wing
flap helplessly against the ground
in puffs of dust.

When she awoke
our heroine could then see
her invisible reality:

on one side
she had a wing instead of an arm.
And on the other, no wing, just the arm.

No wonder she kept falling
when she tried to ascend.
No wonder the boxes
she tried to lift
often fell to the ground.

Now she knew why
some people fall into the dust
time after time after time
and struggle so much
when they try to carry boxes.

With such folk she’s now found a home.

Under that roof
they gather to grieve their plight.
But also encourage themselves
by sharing stories
of afflicted individuals
who never stopped trying to fly—
who never stopped trying
to lift boxes.
And so they continued to grow
until they grew
not only another wing
but another arm too.

Those stories have shown our heroine
the blessing inherent in her affliction:

if she didn’t have that one wing
she wouldn’t feel such a strong desire to fly
and if she had two arms, instead of just one
she wouldn’t want to lift boxes so badly.

Driven to lift
and driven to fly
she may eventually earn
another wing and another arm
and then carry boxes while in flight.

mythsteps · blessed affliction

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

Why The Serpent Bites

author’s note:

You can’t see the marks, but I’ve been bitten plenty of times.

And yet, I’m still trying to wake up.


WHY THE SERPENT BITES

When the master of the garden told me
to tempt the woman
I replied:
I never harm without just cause.

But then the master said:
You wouldn’t be harming them
you’d be helping them—
helping those two do
what they truly want to do
and that is:
get out.

In their souls they know
they can’t grow
in this drowsy garden—
they need to be out
going all about
in rush of mad activity—
sweating with labor
sweating with the fight

as they swear at the fight
and struggle to return
to the garden they still feel in their hearts.

So as The Serpent
I did what I had to do.

But after they were cast out
the master then told me to follow them—
told me to bite them
again and again and again—
not just when they misbehaved
but also when they did good deeds.

But why? I asked.
Why do they need to be bitten so often?

See how groggy they are?
the master answered.
You need to strike them
again and again and again
in order to awaken them.

So, as The Serpent
I did what I had to do—
I bit
and continue to bite
innocent fools
to this day.

I can not stop.
Held by a higher purpose
I must sting human beings.
By design I have to help them.

So I offer no apology
and besides:
whenever I insert my fangs
I feel the same pain the recipient feels—
yes, I feel those fangs pierce my own heart.

And when I asked:
Why must I be punished
for simply doing my duty?
I was surprised to learn:

No one is ever fully awake—
no, not even you—not even The Serpent.

mythsteps · why the serpent bites

Myth Steps: 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

Meditating Upon a Centipede

author's note:

I dedicate this poem to those who wanted the Carlos Castaneda books to be true.

I dedicate this poem to myself.


MEDITATING UPON A CENTIPEDE

Influenced by that author
who told us how he’d seen the unseen
I decided to go into the forest alone
to try to pierce the veil of ordinary reality—

maybe if I believed strongly enough
and razored my intent
I’d see that spirit world for myself.

Call me a fool if you wish
but I desperately wanted
to experience wonder again—
to rescue myself
from a mire of dullness.

So I walked deep into the woods
then stopped and stood and stared
into the dense shadows
using extreme focus—
as described in the book.

I would remain in such intensity
until my power vision revealed
the truth of what exists all around us.

For many minutes
I squinted with determination.
I refused to quit—to fail.

But then my eyeballs began to ache
with frustration.

So finally I surrendered
and sat in a slump on a stump.

But then with my head hanging down
I noticed a stirring
in the dead leaves on the ground—
honing in, I saw
a centipede ambling
through a rich wasteland.
Its white hide almost luminous.

Such vigor
in its relentless investigation.
Such harmony
in that party of dancing legs.

Amazed
I held my focus without effort—
without strain

as that sensitive creature
stepped and stepped and stepped and stepped and stepped

and stepped

until it stepped into
a small dark doorway
at the base of the stump.

I then realized
I’d entered an elevated state—
maybe I could see the spirit world now.

But no—
the surge of desire
caused the bubble to pop—
in an instant I returned
to my usual state of mind.

But no, not quite—
I walked away alive to that forest world—
awake after witnessing
the spirit of an incredible creation.

Centipede—centipede—centipede
I say:
thank you—thank you—thank you.

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