When I Chopped Off My Head

author’s note:

Another spill.  Another bottle.


WHEN I CHOPPED OFF MY HEAD

Stuck in the rut
of my own tiresome thoughts
in desperation, I chopped off my head.

Only to find that bean rolling after me
everywhere I went.
Try as I might, I could not lose my head.
I can still hear that mouth in its brain
rambling on and on and on.

But with that head off my neck
I can now hear my heart
much more clearly.

And I shouldn’t try
to disown my head anyway—
after all, it has many positive uses.
For instance:

The head helps me edit my poetry—
the head takes the raw milk
spilled from my sloppy heart
and puts that sustenance into little bottles
for readers to drink any time any place.

But when I use my head in that way
I first put that poll on a tall pole
because I need a higher perspective.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

King Kong Dances on the Winter Grass

author’s note:

I write prescriptions for myself.


KING KONG DANCES ON THE WINTER GRASS

As I walk over this expanse of stubby brown grass
I’m inspired by the morning sound
of ice crystals crackling under my boot heels
and for a few moments I become
King Kong—

I dance with my big hairy feet—
pulverizing the cruel ice.
Crunch crunch crunch.

King Kong lets his inner child play
and in so doing, frees the winter grass.

But after only a few minutes
Kong has started to huff and puff
and when I sit down on the ground, I know
I’m just as mad
and just as sad
as I was before my big ape dance.

Yet cleared by increasing my heartrate.
And satisfied aesthetically now:
Yes, I live in a brutal world
but I can still breathe deep
the cool watery smell of this melting ice
and the sharp mineral scent of the awakened soil.

I am a child.  I am King Kong.
I am a lover of the natural elegance of this planet.
And when I release those aspects
I may become a dancing fool

which helps to clear my head
and also helps clear a patch
of yellow-brown winter grass.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Quiet Dark

author’s note:

A decades of life reduced to a few lines.


THE QUIET DARK

As a fledgling adult, I preferred the cacophony:

I thrilled to feel the energy
of the loud proud mishmash of noise
roiling in the public square.

But soon the commotion infested my head
and I wasn’t able to hear
my thoughts and feelings clearly—
a problem indeed

when choices must be made.
I was struggling to decide
which way was the best way for me.

I was told:
listen to your intuition.
But when I tried
I soon discovered
just how obtuse I’d become
from being in the blare so long.

In search of what I’d lost
I then delved down into the quiet dark.

Deep within
I could feel what I truly felt
and see the trouble in my thoughts.

Then of course, I wanted to find
what was behind
those thoughts and feelings.
And so I continued to explore.

No, I didn’t always like what I found inside
but good or bad, the discoveries amazed me.

Antarctica has already been mapped.
So I’m probing this other strange continent.

However
I’m still obliged to participate
in the cacophony outside.
And since I must, I might as well
open myself fully to the experience:
I’ll grin as I squint into the blare’s bold wind
and let my monkey dance in the mad parade.

I can still enjoy the superficial noise—
I just need to remind myself:
the show is not the substance.

I can play as a child
without becoming infantile
as long as I stay connected
to the wise one I’ve found
below the surface—
in the recesses of the quiet dark.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Wise One Tells Me How to Become a Wise One

author’s note:

A poem for our dusty, stormy times.


A WISE ONE TELLS ME HOW TO BECOME A WISE ONE

When I decided I’d like to someday be
one of the wise elders of our village
I asked one of the wisest of the wise
what I could do
to get from where I was
to where they were.

How were they able to stay so clear
when those mad winds blinded
the rest of us with dust?
How were they able to stay so buoyant
when that merciless storm flooded
our village homes and farms?

She answered me then
with the watery gray eyes of gentle age:

"Inside your head the dust swirls
 dimming the light of reason.
 Inside your heart a storm rages—
 your love may drown in the deluge."

The wise one then bowed to me
and said no more
because nothing more needed to be said.

I now saw how
those elders could manage so well
during windstorms and thunderstorms.
And knowing myself as I do
I doubted I could ever be as they are.

But I also I knew
I’d keep trying
because

I need to be a lot wiser
if I am to survive the dust and the flood.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

My Festive Song and Dance

author’s note:

My dancing feet refuse to learn dance steps.  I think they just want to be free.


MY FESTIVE SONG AND DANCE

I told the wise one:

“The love I feel in my heart
  seems inadequate for the task of life—
  I’ve tried but can not lose
  that quietly persistent sense of lack.”

And in reply the wise one said:

“Yes, you love the rain
  but you hate
  when rainwater floods your lot.
  And yes, you love the sun
  but you hate
  when those fiery rays scorch your crops.”

Aided by her insight I then saw the obvious:

If I saved my love for those parts of life I liked
my love would never fully develop—
I also needed to love the hardships I dreaded.

So I tried to love the times of pain:
I danced when merciless storms came
and sang a song of love
when the sun seemed so uncaring.

But despite my festive efforts
I still could not quite love
the fire and the flood.
However
since I loved to dance and sing
I did feel some love in my heart
during weather that seemed unfair.

But still not enough, not enough.

So I continue to try
to learn to love the deluge that ruins
as well as the sun’s cruel nonchalance.
Not easy work to be sure, but made easier
by my stubborn song and dance of love.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Paradox of Size

author’s note:

Still shrinking.


A PARADOX OF SIZE

One day I told a wise tree:
“I sense I’m being driven from within
  but I can’t see what
  I am trying to accomplish.”

With a sigh, the tree then said:
“You can’t see because
  your deepest desire is buried so deep.

“Look down deep and you will see:

“That you want to cross over a threshold
  so you live in a mansion open to the sky.
  There, you can rise to your full height
  and squeeze rainwater from the clouds.

“But before you can cross
  you must first shrink yourself down
  because the door is small and low to the ground.”

“You mean, I must become less than I am?” I cried.

“No, you just need to realize
  your actual size.
  Like everyone else
  you’re really quite little.”

“But if that’s so
  how can I possibly reach the sky?”
  I whined.

“Because of a paradox,”
  the tree replied.
“As you deflate, you grow.
  Just like everybody else.

“A slow painful process, yes
  but without humility
  height and weight can be dangerous.
  You’ll be helping the whole world.”

As I left the tree then
I felt so foolish
but at least I’d shrunk a bit more.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

In a Field of Clover

author’s note:

If you can’t find a four-leaf clover, I say: just use a little tape.


IN A FIELD OF CLOVER

“Your body is a green field of clover.”

When I found that line recently
I cringed with embarrassment—
what a silly besotted troubadour!

But then I remembered
the meadow of clover
where we’d once laid down
to rest.

And then I wanted to unremember
and when I couldn’t
I decided to return to that clover field—
desperate for a way to resolve
the conflict in my head.

So Sunday morning I drove
along that isolated dirt road
until I found the field.
Then I stopped and wandered out to the spot
and laid down on my back.

Again I felt
the cushiony springs of green beneath me.
Again I felt
the bright fleecy clouds breezing above me.

And to my surprise
in short time
all the commotion inside died—
my head felt delightfully light.

But then suddenly
a tree branch at field’s edge
splintered the sun’s rays
and a prism fell right into my eye
and I began to cry.

But not like a child, no—
I wept like someone
who’s lived long enough
to have learned well enough
the value of the complicated relationships
we endure and enjoy
with the complicated people
who leap or creep into our lives
for reasons too complicated
to ever fully comprehend.

Yes, I’d often told myself about the value
but I’d never actually felt gratitude
until I put thought to rest
and allowed emotion to rule
in the naked quiet
of a meadow filled
with soft clover love
and love from a Sunday morning sun.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Goddess Blesses Me with Rain

author’s note:

For those who ask, “What’s her name?”

I say: use whatever name you wish.


THE GODDESS BLESSES ME WITH RAIN

The gifts of spring come naturally
because Earth tilts on its axis.

And yet I thank a goddess
for bringing the raindrops
that awaken my gray head—

in this moment
I feel I’m being blessed
by one who understands
the struggle of my winter.

With the breeze she tells me:
You needed Winter’s darkness.
But now’s the time to break the seed.
Open yourself to green glorious Spring.

Yes, I know about the tilt.
But I’d surely be a fool
to reject such a loving goddess.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Common Adventure

author’s note:

We’re all on the same team.  But right now, it looks like we're losing.


COMMON ADVENTURE

I wanted adventure
and though my resume
may seem rather tame
adventure I have had—
I’ve endured many rocky seas
while walking on dry land.

Every day I work hard
to calm my waters down—
a challenge compounded
by the turbulence
I see and hear and feel
all around—

everywhere
I see people struggling
to stay on their feet
as the waves grow wilder.
And the waves grow wilder
because we shake with fear
as the waves grow wilder.

Our dragon breathes beneath the surface.

Yes, quite an adventure!

But what could be the purpose of this trip?

Based my own experience
I now believe:
We come into this world to build our strength.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Invisible Butterfly

author’s note:

Butterflies may seem to be on a frolic, but the truth is: they’re working their butts off the whole time.


THE INVISIBLE BUTTERFLY

This morning, when I saw the child
running in the sun—
her arms outstretched
her feet in too much of a rush—
I wrote:

Though she seems to be following
an invisible butterfly
the truth is:
she’s driven by a butterfly within.

I imagined that girl moving into adulthood
years from now—
still racing erratically through the tall grass
as if ruled by a mindless whimsy.

Those who watch her then
will wonder what she’s after
but her answers will only be evasions
because she’ll be as confounded as they are.
All she’ll know is:
her life seems to be captive
to a mysterious force
that destroys practical plans.

She’ll flitter and flutter here and there—

perhaps resting for a brief while
in a cool field smelling of honeydew melon.
Or perhaps she’ll pause for a season
on the shore of a brown lake
smelling of oil.

Though she will find satisfaction
in some of those places
in time, her peace will become
stagnation.
And then that drive will begin to stir deep within.
And the message will be: “move on”.

Sometimes she’ll try to ignore the instruction
but eventually she will learn:
she must obey an inborn aspiration
stronger than her conscious will.

Thinking about that child
and the woman she’d become
I again felt those wings rustling within.

So I whispered “bless you”
and moved on
led by my own inner butterfly.

After years of following
I can hear it now
as it silently says:
so much to be done
in so many places
before you can rest.

But I don’t bother to ask
“What’s it all for?”
because by now I know
the invisible butterfly
will not answer.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Going Somewhere

author’s note:

Use of the word “nowhere” has spiked in recent years.

I wonder what that says about us.


GOING SOMEWHERE

I’m often disturbed
by how we use the word
“Nowhere”.

Just the other day
I overheard someone say:
The road went nowhere—
the dirt tracks disappeared
as soon as we reached the trees.

How very wrong he was:
any road that leads you to a forest
goes somewhere—goes to a forest.

And even if the road had ended
before reaching the tree line
it would still have gone somewhere
because every place on Earth is a place.

A fact I find encouraging
as I approach a new road:

I know
no matter how it ends
my efforts will definitely lead somewhere

and each step along the way
will take me to
a new place—another place
to be explored.

mythsteps · going somewhere

Myth Steps: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

How She Keeps Her Beam Bright

author’s note:

Now is that a light in the sky or just a spark in my heart?
       -- Graham Parker, “Waiting for the UFOs”


HOW SHE KEEPS HER BEAM BRIGHT

She told her friends
she was going to camp
at the lake that weekend
because she needed to be
alone with the stars again.

But secretly she hoped
if she sat down on the shore
and let the breeze blow away
all that fluff stuffed in her head
and let the night sky speak to her spirit
then her little light might brighten
and so, attract the attention
of the space beings flying above.

And they’d respond
by beaming her aboard.

Yes, what followed then
would probably be harrowing
but
she’d return as someone transformed.

Call her a fool if you want
but after struggling for so long
to disperse that dull gray cloud
she’d become desperate
for a drastic change of mind and heart.

But alas
after sitting on the bank for hours
searching the thousands of stars
she began to feel the dumb dry emptiness
of one who admits with regret
their sincere wish
is mere childish fantasy.

But then around midnight she glimpsed
a shooting star above the silhouette of a ridge
followed few moments later
by three blinks of blue light
from the trees on the other side of the lake.

When she next opened her eyes
she was stunned to find
time had jumped forward two hours.

She then realized:
the beings could’ve used those blue blinks
to put her into a trance
then lifted her up to their craft—
which she’d seen as a meteor.

Yes—
and once inside the ship
they had put her under a special ray
and healed all the damage done
over the years
to her spectral body.

Then, before lowering her back down
they’d erased the entire event from her memory.

Yes, must be so
because she did indeed feel different now—
all the next day a special sparkle
pervaded her body and being.

But to her chagrin
that sensation quickly faded
when she returned home to the city.

However, she’s now discovered this trick:

when that gray cloud begins to creep in again
she only needs to stop and sit
and close her eyes
and see in her mind the lights
of that blessed night
and then the feeling returns.

Yes, just for a few minutes
but those few minutes
are enough to keep her beam bright.

mythsteps · how she keeps her beam bright

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Good Little Boat Grows Brighter

author’s note:

Do I sometimes exaggerate for effect?  Well, yeah.

But not this time.


THE GOOD LITTLE BOAT GROWS BRIGHTER

Psychopathic pirates now rule the seas.
Cutthroats who feel no guilt.

But instead of defending ourselves
against those bloody Blackbeards
we honor them for their gall
and get drunk on their grog
after being blatantly robbed.

I would fight
those big flashy swords
but I fear the inevitable losses
would begin to darken my heart.

So for now
I’ll just keep feeding my little light
and share what I’ve got
as its flame slowly grows brighter.

And keep repeating
a hope I believe to be based in reality

and that is:

despite appearances
the age of Blackbeard has nearly
burnt itself out.
Millions of good boats
now roam the seas—
navigating—
lighting the way
toward a future
that may not be that bright
but at least, won’t be as bleak
as our present dark passage.

mythsteps · good little boat grows brighter

I’m Responsible: a book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why the Rose Keeps Blooming

author’s note:

The proof of what I say is you.


WHY THE ROSE KEEPS BLOOMING

Some believe
the rose struggles to break free from the bud
because it wants to be lovely
but no—
it’s possessed by a mad desire to live.

However
after opening its eyes
the flower may discover
it resides inside a little cage.

The rose may then sink into self-pity
but soon enough
that willful plant will rise up
to protest the injustice
and as the flower finds its strength
a new bloom will come from the old one.

The bars of the cage
will then surrender to its power
and fall down to the ground
like the dead shards of a husk.

But alas!—
beyond the parameters of fallen cell
the rose will find another cell.
So though our hero enjoys
the extra space it’s earned
it still feels caged.

And so, as before
the rose will rebel
and by struggling, grow some more
and so
the bloom will bloom once more.

But just as before
after the cage breaks open
a new cage will emerge from the shadows.

In this way, that stubborn perennial
will move through a succession of cages.
The irony is:
because it expands with each new blooming
no cell ever feels big enough for that plant.
And so, the rose continues to grow
to the very end.

Maybe like me
you look at your petals
and see brown blotches
and ragged edges—
our blooms reveal our battle wounds—
yes, in this fight for life we’re scarred.

So I will try to solace you now
by telling you what I tell myself:
a flower with a blemished blossom
always speaks lovelier
than one still stuck in a spotless bud.

mythsteps · why the rose keeps blooming

Survival: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Spiral Staircase

author’s note:

A stairway with no end.


THE SPIRAL STAIRWAY

I may seem to be going in circles
over a path worn down to dusty ruts
but I believe:

I’m actually going up
a spiral stairway—
rising higher with every step—
with every step rising higher—
higher:

where the soul wants the heart to go.

To those who insist that’s nonsense
I say
Consider how this belief benefits me:

Because I believe our dizzy life
has a grand purpose
I’m willing to endure the vertigo.

And this belief encourages me
to keep on trying
to lift myself up—
high enough
for me to take
the next big step on this stairway.

And that helps everyone, doesn’t it?

I can see
why someone would think
we are only going in circles.
But whatever the reality may be
shouldn’t we try to find beliefs
that will motivate us
to keep on lifting ourselves up?—
to keep on lifting our world up?

High enough
for us to take
the next big step on this spiral stairway.

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Empathy at the End of Winter

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I have used “sashaying trees” in a poem before.

But if you steal from yourself, is it really stealing?


EMPATHY AT THE END OF WINTER

On that morning
I couldn’t express the heavy feelings I felt.
But when I looked out the window
what I saw expressed how I felt.

I knew that black skeletal tree
felt so weak beneath
the gray sky hovering just overhead.
But its desire for life kept it upright.

And when I saw the brown leaves
still stuck on the pale-yellow grass
I could feel those dead leaves
clinging to my skin
and knew
the grass desperately wanted
a loving spring breeze to rise
and whisk those leaves away—
all of them—away—
so its pale blades could green again.

With such empathy swelling my chest
I could barely tolerate
what I saw outside.
But I did not look away
because I now saw
the power of my desire—
because I now saw
the strength of my endurance.

But then I did step away from the window
because suddenly I knew
how I could express what I felt
at the end of the winter
and knew

I needed to open my chest
and release those winter feelings
and try to resurrect
a bright spring inside

so I could love
when spring resurrected itself outside—
so I could feel the glory
of those towers of white cloud
and feel the abundance
to be found in my own little patch
of sashaying trees and sparkling green grass.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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