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
that 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
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© 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
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Fog of Love

author’s note:

Ironic: I see better when I listen.


THE FOG OF LOVE

I’ve often heard historians speak
of the fog of war.
But in my experience
the ecstasy of love
can also create fog.

Yes, between the two
I prefer the fog of love.
But in that cloud
the beloved and I
may bumble and stumble and fumble.
And the frustration we feel then
can lead to anger
can lead to sadness.

The fog of love
can quickly become the fog of war.

And my mind may still be fogged
long after the war has ended.

But desperate for peace
I’ll fight to clear my head.

No, I’ve never been able to achieve
perfect clarity
but every insight earned
remains with me.

So maybe next time
I won’t get lost in illusion
but be able to see through the fog—

see the new union clearly—
see my love for my lover clearly
see my lover clearly—
see if they see me clearly—
and if not, help them see
who I am.

To those who say
I’ll kill the mad ecstasy that way
I say:
Whether we stay together or part
I don’t want the sun we’ve made
to be lost
in the dark noxious fog of war.

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

Why I Cry as I Laugh

author’s note:

AI wanted to help me write this poem.  But I said:

“Get a little more life experience under your belt, then we’ll talk.”


WHY I CRY AS I LAUGH

One night as I laughed
at that couple on TV
they suddenly turned to me
and with their icy eyes, said:

Why do you laugh as we argue?
What’s so funny about
two people constantly fighting?

In that moment, I realized a secret
that I then shared with them:

“Those silly battles you engage in
  echo my own inner conflicts.

“So when I laugh at you
  I’m actually laughing at myself.
  Allow me this release, please—
  I need to laugh, otherwise I’ll cry
  at my failure to create peace in my heart.”

The ice in their eyes then began to melt.

But as they wept for me
they also wept for themselves,
knowing now how
all those battles on the show
echoed their own unresolved inner conflicts.

Seeing their grief
I could no longer hold back—
I wept for all of us, I wept
until I realized
we could drown in that deep dark blue.

So then I found a reason to laugh
as I cried—
yes
I chuckled, I guffawed, I chortled.
“How absurd!” I said to my companions.
  I want to heal the world
  but can’t even heal my own head.”

The couple then began to laugh with me.
We laughed as we cried.
And in that way
kept ourselves from sinking
down into darkness.

Since that episode
the couple have stuck to the script
and continue to bicker every week
over every little thing.

But now as I laugh at them I also cry:
I allow myself to laugh
because the relief lifts me up.
But I also allow myself to cry
because when I grieve this war
I become even more determined
to create a lasting peace in my purple heart.

mythsteps · why I cry as I laugh

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Bless the Starlings

author’s note:

I don’t think they like me either.


BLESS THE STARLINGS

Yesterday I woke at dawn
with a sense of disturbance.
Looking out the window
I then saw the cause:

a hundred starlings loitered in my yard.

A foul fowl in my opinion:
traveling in herds, they shove out all the other birds.
Arrogant.  Ignorant.  Belligerent.
Their voices always full of complaint.

So I waved my arms
and shooed those devils away.

But they merely circled round
and settled back down on my lawn.

So again I waved and shouted.

Only to see the flock return moments later
with dozens more in its defiant chorus.

After two more tries
I finally said with a sigh:
“Okay you feathered fiends, you win.”

Then went inside.

But I could still hear
the racket of that flock—
the fidgety fluttering, the raspy chattering.

But what could I do?

I saw no other option
but to fall back on my bed
and try to accept what I’d rejected.
Maybe I could become accustomed
to the torture.
Then my anger might unclench its fist
and I would know calm within.

And indeed—
as I endured patiently
I felt the ruckus slowly settle down
to a dull innocuous murmuring.
Yes, I achieved a relative peace.

Then suddenly all grew still
both inside and out.

I realized the starlings had fled.
By surrendering, I’d won.

But that vacuum was soon filled
as my inner monologue began again—
amplified now by the quiet.

That spiel spills out
with hardly a pause
during my waking hours.
Sometimes the words come from
an elevated place.
But more often the words come
from a place lower down.
That’s not what I want to hear from myself.
But I haven’t found a way
to shut that base voice down.

Sometimes I’ll stop
and shoo that noise away.
But too soon the disturbance returns.

Yeah—
just like those starlings on my lawn yesterday.

My opinion of the species
remains pretty much the same
and yet, I bless them now—

through those birds perhaps I’ve learned
a way to come to terms
with that lowdown being inside of me
fighting for survival.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

A Shout

author’s note:

Yes, I shout.  But I don’t scream.  Screaming…that’s much more serious.


A SHOUT

For many years
I held the shout down in my heart

until I finally realized the obvious:
if I didn’t release it
the fire of that feeling might destroy me.

Yes, I could have shouted with a crowd
inside an arena or in a big stadium.
But my shout felt very personal.
The feeling belonged solely to me.

I tried to write it out
but words could not express
the gnarl of feeling I felt.

So I went deep into the woods
and in the shadows I shouted.
No words, just sound.
I shouted my hot noise out.

Shouted until my throat felt scorched.
Shouted until exhausted.
Then lay down in the leaves.
At rest.
Quite cool inside I was.

Until I returned
to the human world.

Having heard my shout aloud
I could now hear its echo
in the fevered shouts of others.
All over this planet.

Our gnarl of disturbance
had disturbed me before
but now it disturbed me much more.
And so I fell from my perch—
I lost my equanimity
and again felt the fire of frustration
rise in my heart.
And again felt the need to shout.

But that complicated feeling
of desire and confusion and hurt
was no longer so personal.
So I wrote a poem to the whole human race—
again I tried to express the inexpressible
and again I failed
but accepted my failure now
because this way I could at least convey
some sense of that feeling
and maybe people would realize
they sorta felt the same way.
So my imperfect verses would also be their shout.

Yes—I would shout those words to the world.

Maybe the world wouldn’t listen
but no matter:
I needed to get that shout out of my heart.

Years later
and I’m still shouting—
sometimes when I start I won’t stop
until my fire burns out.
That way I can rest for a moment in the ashes.

As long as I can get that brief reprieve
occasionally
I’ll gladly do what I must do
to live as a human being on this planet.

mythsteps · A Shout

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Man Who Keeps Finding His Peace

author’s note:

True, true, all true.


FABLE OF THE MAN WHO KEEPS FINDING HIS PEACE

Years ago
disturbed by all the turbulence
I decided I should do my part
to calm our hurricane.

But my little agitated wings
only stirred the storm more.

Finally I realized
I could not help unless
I found the peace
the masters said resides within.

So I sat down in a shelter
and closed my eyes and ears
to the storm outside

only to find a storm inside.

Had the wise ones lied to us?
Where was that damn place of peace!
In desperation, I continued

and by working down through
the blow of my noise
I finally discovered
the calm center promised.

So when I resurfaced
I felt especially pleased—
especially proud
and wanted to tell all
about what I’d found.

But what I’d found
was soon lost
when the disturbance
began to disturb me again.

The joy of progress
followed by the pain of regression.
Despairing, I delved once again.

Thus began a pattern
repeated many times since then:
going within
then going back out again.

Back and forth.  Down and up.
The exercise often seems hopeless.
But I persist, because
to survive the weather outside
I need the relief
of my blessed moments of peace.

mythsteps · Fable of the Man Who Keeps Finding His Peace

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

The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

author’s note:

Someone once asked me if I ever wrote love poetry.

They’re all love poems.


THE LOVE LIFE OF THOSE WHO LIVE IN THE COLD

I asked my Arctic hosts
how they managed to thrive
in that frozen land.

And they replied:
we try to find ways
to love those hardships
we can’t escape.
For instance:

we love
the spring morning wind
that burns our face raw red—
we love when that cold fire shrieks:
I want to wake you from your stupor.

When some stir troubles us
we remember that goddess
and then feel grateful
for the disturbance on our waters.

We also love
the all-consuming darkness of winter—
in his murmurs we hear:
I’m here to help you
deepen down
into yourselves
so you can know
how much more you truly are.

Whenever a shadow falls upon us
we remember that winter god
and then feel grateful
for the darkness in our path.

Yes, in this extreme land
we might moan all the way to death
if we didn’t recognize the blessings
in the incessant adversity of our life.

I thanked those wise lovers then—
telling them:
maybe now I’ll feel grateful
for the disturbance and darkness
that stirs me
that deepens me
in my own frozen land.

mythsteps · The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Original Wound

author’s note:

Though Eden is lost
its loveliness
remains in the heart
and the imagination
         -- Mary Oliver


THE ORIGINAL WOUND

According to this myth:
our problems first began
when the first human being
felt confused because
it sensed it was more than one.

Unable to resolve that tension
the human then split in half
and one half went East
while the other half went West.

Perhaps you’ve already guessed
the happy ending:

eventually
both halves will meet
halfway around the globe
and recognize their missing part
then join together again.

But no—
the resolution won’t be so simple
because

as it walked, the East half felt
the same inner tension
felt by its parent
and so
soon tore apart
and one half headed North
while the other half headed South.

The West half also felt that tension
and so
quickly broke in half
and one half walked North
while the other half walked South.

Following that pattern
those four halves soon became eight
and then those eight became sixteen
and then…well, you get the idea.

Because we can’t accept all we are
we keep breaking apart

and because those losses feel so painful
we keep searching
for something that might heal us:

at first, a thing might seem to be
the exact right thing
but in time, we discover
it’s not the thing
that can make us whole again
and then the wound weeps even louder.

I believe this myth explains why
you seemed so perfect
when I first met you:

in you I saw the thing
I felt to be missing—
the thing could make my life whole.

And you saw the same thing in me—
I seemed to fill a void
and for a moment at least
you didn’t feel that sense of loss.

But our mistake was blessed one:
it brought the two of us together

and as we’ve struggled to return
to that garden we first knew
we’ve looked deeper into ourselves
and in the process
discovered many parts we’d missed.

I don’t know if our union will hold

but by working to repair the break
we’ve both become more whole
and in that way help to heal the wound—

a cut that first began
when the first human being
couldn’t resolve the first conflict.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Little Giants

author’s note:

There were giants in the earth in those days…
                  -- Genesis 6:4


LITTLE GIANTS

Yes, there were giants
in the land in those days--

like suns they shone

but small people felt threatened
and swarmed to attack them.

Worried for their survival
the titans then shrank themselves down
to an acceptable height--
they hid their light

and over time, forgot
their true size.

However
they’ve maintained their higher perspective
to this very day.

So they’re wise enough to know
they don’t know everything--
you won’t see them adopting titles
such as "guru" or "master".

But like anyone who stays low
they may occasionally feel low
yet even then, they reject the low impulse
to pump themselves up in public.

I respect that, however
their anonymity needs to end soon.

Consider the lonely streetlamp:

few notice that plain pole
in the glare and rush of the day.
But when twilight
deepens into night
we seek its illumination.

I believe
as our world grows darker
we’ll look for untapped sources of light

then our giants will realize
for the survival of all
they must stand and shine bright

even as swarms
attack from the shadows.

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

I Once Was Servant to a Cat

author’s note:

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


I ONCE WAS SERVANT TO A CAT

Yes, I bowed to the whims
of that little god
but

to hear that satisfied purr
gave me such satisfaction--
to find happiness in another’s happiness
is elevated, is it not?

But maybe I also wanted
to express my love
to one who wouldn’t
suddenly start to hiss and claw
without apparent provocation.

In any case
I will not get another cat--
the world outside also needs my love.

But am I strong enough now
to keep my purr
from becoming a hiss
when another paw
suddenly shows its claws?--

without apparent provocation!

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Bridge

author’s note:

When I discovered the Golden Gate bridge wasn’t actually painted gold, I felt disappointed.

But later, I realized: regardless of the color, it’s golden.


THE BRIDGE

In the dream I saw a bridge
arc across the sky

only to fade too soon as rainbows do.

So as I woke
I felt both hope
and disappointment:

again I knew a drive that often irritates--
the desire to bridge a divide within
and end this war with myself.

“You can’t even maintain
 that bridge in your dreams!”

sighed the adult
who, for years, has felt
the tiresome frustration
of continually struggling
to create a peace
that, once made, soon evaporates
like a fantasy.

But then the bright child I sometimes am
countered with this claim:
though you can’t yet hold that bridge up
under the pressures of this world
its truth always lives within you.

But before the two could argue
the wise one rose up from down deep
to tell me:

this dream came because
you needed to remember
that the pain of desire unfulfilled
feels worse than the pain of fatigue.

Now you’ll keep working
to strengthen your golden bridge.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Devil Frog

author’s note:

"My life needs editing."
               -- Mort Sahl

THE DEVIL FROG

One night
as I walked through the park
reflecting again on events of the past
I suddenly heard
a little raspy voice whisper:

“I can answer your wish--
 I’ll erase from your memory
 whatever you’d like to forget!”

Turning quickly, I spied
a tree frog perched on a low limb.
Without thinking, I replied:

“Frog, if you’re not playing a trick
 I’ll gladly accept!--
 as long as I can keep
 what I’ve learned
 from looking back.”

“What you’ve already learned
 you’ve earned,”
 the frog croaked back.

What a relief! I sighed.
I’ve tried so hard to understand.
Now I can finally rest--
I’ll no longer feel pressed
to resolve those old conflicted feelings.

With that thought, a bubble popped
and I began to run

fleeing from that devil frog--
afraid that I might succumb
to a temptation
that would deliver me
to a sweet Eden
if I gave up this bigger wish:

to one day finally graduate--
having achieved
the higher degree of peace I seek.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Good Couple

author’s note:

Narcissus looked into a mirror…

But he never really saw himself.


THE FABLE OF THE GOOD COUPLE

He saw the light in her
and she saw the light in him
and so
they fell in love

then suddenly became monsters
to one another.
Why?

Why did they snarl and snap
when alone together?

The spirits standing behind them knew--
they knew

how that guy always prided himself
on his goodness.
How he loved hearing his goodness praised!

They knew
that gal prided herself
on her goodness too.
How she loved hearing her light praised!

They knew
she now worried
he might outshine her
just as he worried
she might outshine him.

He fell into some dreadful thoughts--
saying to himself:
Just look at her--
she thinks she’s so good.
If people could only see
how she growls at me!

And alas
she raged within
with the same harsh thoughts
about him!

Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear
the spirits had actually put those two together.
You see, they know
the best among us can always be better
and sometimes need catalysts
to help them improve.
They know
a mirror can serve this purpose--
someone who reflects your faults.

But even the best
often don’t not want to see
their faults reflected in a mirror
and may protect themselves from clarity
by stirring up
all sorts of commotion.

Fortunately
exhaustion has a way
of helping us accept the truth:

finally they lacked the energy
to argue more
and slumped to floor

and in that moment of stillness
he looked at her
and she looked at him
and both suddenly realized
how alike they were.

At this point
I can reward your patience
with a happy ending--
but perhaps not the happy ending
you expected.

After achieving that insight
the couple soon understood
their life together
had reached its conclusion:
he no longer needed her
and she no longer needed him.

To this day, she praises him
for how he helped her
become a better person
and in the same glowing way
he lauds her.

Nonetheless, I sometimes detect
of hint of competition
when they check each other
from a distance.

Ah, but maybe that’s for the best:

he needs a bit of motivation
when he feels fatigued in his good fight
just as she does when she
tires in hers.

However
neither ever forgets
what they saw
on the brighter side of that mirror--
he saw as she saw
they share the same light.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

How Aunt Maggie Got So Bright

author’s note:

I don’t claim to be bright.  But I’m not as dim as I once was.


HOW AUNT MAGGIE GOT SO BRIGHT

I have a theory about why
Aunt Maggie wasn’t wearing her usual frown
when you saw her late last night:

I believe
a period of forced reflection
follows death
and I know when I stop to reflect
I often find my truth—
like the time I asked myself
this question:

Why I do I groan, why do I grumble
over a little cookie that crumbled?
After all, by now I know
every day, some cookie will surely crumble.

Then
after waiting silently...patiently
for an answer
I begin to feel what I truly felt
deep within
and realized my whining
merely echoed the cry
of an old buried wound

then wept with empathy
for the person I am.

So now, when hear someone grousing
over some small thing
I know
the true depth of their suffering.

In such voices I hear Aunt Maggie—

who I believe does indeed “rest in peace”
because in death
she had to stop to reflect
and feel what she really felt
in the life just lived

and so, she’s finally grieved the grief
hidden beneath her many grievances.

Aware of her own pain now
she’s become aware of yours—
that’s why she gazes down at you
with such bright tenderness
as you try to rest in peace
in the deep darkness of your room.

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

An Important Belief

author's note:

To the woman who tried to teach me the rules of grammar in high school:

“Mrs. Creighton, wherever you are, please excuse the redundancy in verse three.”


AN IMPORTANT BELIEF

How could I accept the death
of someone who seemed

too soon gone from us--
her good work unfinished?

Maybe the answer I found sounds cliché
but years later
I still think it’s a good belief:
we die when our time is done.

Yes--
for reasons we can not know
the beacon needed to die when he did
though his light was so desperately needed.

And that man possessed
needed to take his final step
though his glorious bridge
was only halfway across.

And the group needed
to fly away from here
though in leaving, they left
so much creative passion
unexpressed.

Yes--
apparently, the scientist
needed to exit
on that exact day
though she was only weeks away
from a discovery
that would have saved lives.

To those who want to argue
with my idea, I simply reply:

I believe it’s a good belief
because it says:
don’t try to make sense
of what seems senseless.
Just accept and grieve
without feeling angry.

But maybe this belief
serves an even better purpose:

when I remember what I believe
I again realize
I’d better get going--
no matter how important
my plans seem
Death may not wait.

And with that thought
the present moment
suddenly becomes
monumentally important.

Yeah, I believe I have
some important plans...

Nonetheless
if I fell down dead tonight
I think I'd rest in peace
comforted by the belief
I’d reached my expiration date--
I had reached my due date.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Resurrection War

author’s note:

A “thank you” to M.S. Gutierrez for the spontaneous, energetic portrait above.


RESURRECTION WAR

When young
I tried (for safety’s sake)
to tamp my spirit down.

But by nature, this spirit wants
full experience and expression.
So eventually, it rejected
that death sentence
and began to work against
the smaller one I’d become

that then battled back--
fearing for its life.
Strong for its size.

So though I now fight
for my spirit
the crypt only opens
bit by bit by bit.
After all this time
the struggle continues.

Yes, I often tire of war
but at least I’ve made real
my childhood dream
of being a warrior.

I once believed
this resurrection would end one day
with a glorious triumphant bloom
for all the world to see.

But I realize now
I must adjust my metaphor:
   as I try to create
   moments of peace
   in this endless war,
   bright buds keep popping out--
   begging me to help them break open.

My War for Peace: poetry ebook—new and improved!
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Listening to the Stormy Beast

author’s note:

Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.
               -- Samuel Beckett


LISTENING TO THE STORMY BEAST

Though I don’t
strike out at the world
sometimes in frustration
I do strike at myself

especially when
I try again and fail again
to resolve
some grievance I’ve carried too long.
Then I’ll wonder if
I can ever become
the better me I wish to be.

But at such times, sometimes
I will sit and listen down deep
and beneath my growling I will hear
the grief of a wounded beast

then in empathy
I will surrender
the lightning bolt
I’ve aimed at myself.

Painful listening, yes
but the lightning strike
would feel worse.

I say:
if someone in such conflict
can manage to pacify
their rumbling beastly storm
we’ve good reason to feel hope
for our squalling human world.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

My Own Tornado

author’s note:

Never a dull moment.


MY OWN TORNADO

Yes, I’m constantly dizzy
but I believe
this vertigo indicates I’m spinning up--
revolving.
Yes, I’m in a revolution:

I’m rising up in rebellion
against an enemy within--
going round and round
as I wrestle a low cowardice
trying to hold me down.

This battle is a battle for peace
so I’m actually working beyond myself--
I’m one among an army of wrestlers
fighting to stop the destruction
of a world made dizzy
by its own tornado.

Bolstered by this belief
I’m able to endure
the nausea
the constant blur--

I’m able to keep on struggling up.

Common Courage: poetry ebook
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Surrender to the Ice Cube

author’s note:

“Be cool, baby”
          -- anonymous


SURRENDER TO THE ICE CUBE

When the heat of conflict builds within…

I can prevent explosion
by rubbing an ice cube
across my forehead--
moving it in slow circles
right to left
then left to right.

Yes, an ordinary cube can soothe me
mentally and emotionally.

Yet I often forget
to apply this medicine
when it's most needed.

Why is that?

Maybe as a baby
I became aggrieved
at our unjust world
and that angry baby
still cries in pain
and occasionally tries
to seize control
and make its deep wound known.

But after I flare
the adult I am
feels remorse--
embarrassed.
Small.
Even when I win, I lose.

So I’m determined to become
the type of person who always
stops to apply
the tonic of the ice cube
before the moment combusts.

That’s why I keep
listening down deep--
I need to hear
so I can heal
the old newborn wailing
somewhere under all those ashes.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
© 2022, Michael R. Patton