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
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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

The Dragon Frog

author’s note:

Our dreams show us the many creatures we are.


THE DRAGON FROG

As a child I heard a story
about a diamond honed by fire
in the belly of a dragon
living in a lake underground.

But when I asked my teacher
How can I get down there?
She smiled wisely and explained:
the tale was symbolic--

the dragon actually slept within me

and when I became a adult
that glorious golden creature
would rise to the surface.

Yes, I thought, it’ll roar
And the world will witness
a diamond blazing
on the flame of its tongue.

So with great hope, I waited
and when I thought the time had come
I proudly strode out
and opened my mouth
believing my oration would dazzle.
Yes--like a fiery diamond.

Well, I wasn’t a total fizzle--
occasionally I thought I saw
some crystalline sparks drifting up

but even then
the world did not respond
and in depression I doubted
I would ever be the fire-dragon
of my imagination.

What I experienced instead
was my inner bullfrog
mired down in the muck.

But as any wise swamp-guide will tell you:
deep frogs feel compelled to sing about
this muddy life of ours

and I swear
when I listen closely I can detect
promising glints of diamond light
in my belching eruptions.

And from what I’ve seen I’ve learned
dragons must often live
as subterranean amphibians
before they can birth gems.

But I’m honest enough to admit
I might remain as I am: a lump
stuck in the mud of a swamp.

In any case
I won’t ignore the impulse to croak--
I tried before and died.
Each year, the clocks ticks louder
and the desire to live shouts louder.

Who knows?--
under such pressure this dragon frog
could finally cough up a few jewels.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2023, 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

Gray Paper Heart

author's note:

I feel I'm learning a lot--though often I'm not aware of what I'm learning.

Looking back, I'll sometimes realize what I learned at a particular time.  But maybe not until long afterwards.


GRAY PAPER HEART

I once explored a stationery store
for an hour
in search of a sheet
from which I could cut
a gray paper heart

to match the one that’d vanished
when I reached down in a dream.

Somehow I knew
texture was even more important

than color in my choice.
So I traced my fingertips
across sheets of many grades and weaves--
each held its own particular pleasure.
Some felt almost right
which meant:
they were not the paper I sought.

Finally
like a magical moment in a fairy tale
I spied the one I knew was the one
at the end of the middle shelf:
a light-gray standard-size sheet, it was--
the fiber, somewhat coarse
but perfect in its imperfection.

I touched with trepidation
and in turn, was touched
by a material so quiet
yet so alive.

Something inside silently said:
I am that.
To which I replied:
“I don’t think I understand.”
And then no longer felt that something.

Not until the evening
when I began to work my scissors
tenderly into those fibers
did I remember
someone I once saw leaning
against the side of a stucco building
deep in shadow.

No, I didn’t see her face
just the back of her long plain gray dress.
I could hear her tears--
not dramatic, not bereft--
her sighing calm suggested
she didn’t want to but knew
she needed to cry.

I felt pained because
I desired to help her but could not.
So I soothed myself
with this understanding:
she didn’t need me.

Now, as I touch that cut heart
I feel the woman’s strength again.
Though quite human
she was also a vision.
Another lesson
in my education.

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

Fable of the Human Who Sometimes Regresses

author's note:

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
                    -- Dr. Johnson


FABLE OF THE HUMAN WHO SOMETIMES REGRESSES

When I lived
as a wild hirsute beast
I moved toward pleasure
and moved away from pain

until the night I could not move
after an injury from a falling stone.

As I felt the life within began to ebb
I suddenly desired to see the world
I’d ignored--the world I was losing

and found, to my surprise
a living mystery
of moonlight and shadow
captured by this jungle
in its cage
of barbs and tangles.

But I awoke the next morning, alive--
yes, alive and beginning to heal--
given strength by the desire
to again witness beauty--
to experience
the grand inexpressible feelings
such witnessing brings.

But inexpressible feelings
demand expression
and so, in desperation
I discovered the faulty machine
known as “language”--

a tool some believe makes us human.

Maybe so, but maybe
we begin the process
when we first witness beauty.
In any case, I sometimes regress:
some animal in me still wants
to move away from the pain
of being human
and seek only numbing pleasure.

But oh--
so many stones
and even boulders
fall into my life (as with any life)--
sometimes, I can not escape
the pain of injury--

pain that may remind me
of the pain of that night.

But if it does, I then remember
how to soothe the wound
by opening to
this beautiful mystery.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: 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

Singing in the Sun

author's note:

People once believed our souls went into birds after we died.

But why would they need our souls?  They have souls of their own.


SINGING IN THE SUN

Despite the danger
the bird built its nest
so high and open to the storm--
obviously it wants the sun.

That bird knows me:
its fretful notes sing of my worry.

Yet even in fear the bird sounds so strong.

The bird tells me:
yes, the cold wind
that shakes these limbs
also makes me shake
but I’ll be damn if I let
those blows stop me
from singing in the sun.

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

Relentless Bullfrog Song

author's note:

“I have sounded the very bass-line of humility.”
         -- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I


RELENTLESS BULLFROG SONG

Recently a nature show on TV
tried to explain why
the bullfrog thrums all night

but I already knew
how steeping yourself
in the cold dark water
can resurrect deep feelings:

though he has no sweet notes
the frog still feels compelled to sing.

As I listen to the pain
in that plodding repetitive croakingv I also hear a relentless drive
to heal the wound down inside.

Can bluebirds sing
with such gravitas?

I don’t know.  Maybe some.
But at night I listen
to the bullfrog.

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

Growth

author’s note:

A poem of encouragement for these dire times…

…but not a poem of false hope.


GROWTH

Years ago in a dream
I collapsed by a creek
and in the sliding water saw
squiggles of my gray hair
drifting away

leaving me
with a bald pink scalp

which suddenly sprouted
a cover of baby fuzz.

Shocked, I awoke--
afraid for myself

but then I realized
I’d witnessed a rebirth!

Thus encouraged
I continued my work of change
with renewed enthusiasm.

But though I’ve toiled for years since
I see little gain--
I’m still so far from
the one I hope to become:
the calm wise lion
with flowing golden mane--

no,
I’m still too much the cub
spun by sudden storms of emotion.

However
I was heartened recently
by another dream:
a woman on the path
lowered her bucket so I could see
a watery reflection:

above my blank confused face
a standing field of wild hair
shimmied in the wind--
the stalks pale-yellow, but
I did detect a richer shade
peeking out at the roots.

So apparently
despite my flaws
I’m able to grow gold.

But of course--

look at all the gold
spun by our flawed world.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
poet, heal thyself: ebook

Song of a Wheat Plant

author’s note:

If I thought my poems were only about my own life, I wouldn’t bother.


SONG OF A WHEAT PLANT

I can’t escape the scythe
I can not avoid the millstone

but I can sing
when the cut sears--sing
as I’m ground down fine:

sing not only of pain
but also of joy--
sing the song
of the happy sacrifice

because
without this crucifixion
from blade and stone
I would not rise.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog

Glorious Servants

author's note:

I don't believe a deep state exists, but I do believe in the existence of a deep self.


GLORIOUS SERVANTS

In the dream
I'm hanging in the sky like a kite
while far below a man digs down
into the earth--

his head bowed and shadowed
his bent back gleaming with sweat:

persistent sincere work has its glory.

Despite the height, I felt small
compared to him

and smaller still
as my vision broadened
to reveal a desert filled
with rows of little square pits--
each with a single occupant:
men and women obedient to the task--
what a cacophony of shovels and picks!

Maybe they mined...maybe for gold.

Such ferocity!--as if going for the core.

But maybe driven by mad delusion--
maybe only raising chimeras--
were they unwittingly digging their own graves?

Or maybe
they labored simply to build strength
--I did indeed see muscle

but also the wear of time and frustration.

I woke with no answers
only the certainty of what I felt:
the strain of their desire.

I recognized that strain as mine--

yes
like those other miners
I'm servant to a deep self
that demands I pursue work
of uncertain worth.

But though I dig alone, at least now I know
I'm not alone in this digging--

a solace made sweeter
when I remember
just how glorious we are.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
the truth of the dream: poetry ebook

Talk Sing Walk Dance

author's note:

"I think of myself more as a song and dance man, y'know."
                -- Bob Dylan


TALK SING WALK DANCE

In the experiment of human life
I have realized this paradox:

the common activity
of walking and talking
quickly exhausts me
whereas
the exertion
of song and dance
gives me new breath.

So I've decided to see
every step as a dance move
and hear every word as a song note--

yeah, I say:
we dance and sing and dance
as we talk and walk and talk.

As a result of enacting this mindset
my sails fill out full
even when I'm doing the mundane stuff
such as filing files or talking to a robot.

Nevertheless
my lazy head often forgets this tactic

but then remembers
when I begin to huff again
and my legs grow leaden.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
searching for my best beliefs: poetry ebook

The Success of My Failure

author's note:

I never had anyone tell me a dream where afterwards my life had changed for the better.
     -- Richard Ford, from Writers Dreaming, by Naomi Epel


THE SUCCESS OF MY FAILURE

I hesitate to tell the dream

because my clumsy words
will trample its textured elegance

but we are cursed
with the blessed desire
to express the inexpressible

and though I will fail
I may still succeed
if the place I describe
reminds you of a place
from your own dreams

and so you again know
a feeling inexpressible.

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

Obeying a Forgotten Dream

author's note:

I may lie to myself while awake.  But in my dreams, I always tell myself the truth.


OBEYING A FORGOTTEN DREAM

This morning when I saw
the mess in the mirror
I wondered:

did my hair do a dance in the night
while I dreamt a dream
now forgotten?

Maybe so, because
as I listened to my inside
I could feel the afterglow
of a rollicking midnight party.

However
I had to flatten down
the cacophony of my top
so I could be
a proper employee.

Nevertheless
my spirit hummed
all morning--
my body twitched

until a merciful angel
finally came to my rescue

by setting off the office fire alarm--!

I then had a private space
in which to spin
to shake, to clap
to shout, to laugh

and my hair rose
with the ecstasy
as every strand
did its wild dance.

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

A Heaven Beyond Description

author's note:

Butterfly!  These words
from my brush
are not flowers...
only their shadows.
       -- Soseki (trans. Beilenson/Behn)


A HEAVEN BEYOND DESCRIPTION

I'm told
any heaven worthy of the name
would be beyond description

maybe so, but I doubt
I could remain quiet

because in those rare moments
when light floods my being
I'm overwhelmed by the desire
to express a feeling so heavenly

and though I know I can never find
the perfect words
I'm driven to keep searching--
even long afterwards.

Yes, my efforts
always end in frustration
but

sometimes, amid the silence
that follows in the wake of my words...

I arrive back
at the place I seek

for a moment at least:

that heaven.

© 2016, Michael R. Patton
listening to silence: poems of meditation

The Iris

author’s note:

“Water is poetry.”
       -- Jerry Brown, Governor, California

“Poetry is water.”
       -- anonymous


THE IRIS

When I asked myself
why this life gives me water
beyond my capacity to hold

I found my answer in the Iris flower

that catches the lashings of the storm
in the cup of its petals

until the thin stem finally buckles
and the rainwater spills out
to nourish the earth below:

a gift now flavored
with the complex scent of the Iris...

Relieved but empty
the flower cup then lifts again
to receive more rain.

© 2015, Michael R. Patton
dream steps: the blog