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

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

Not Evanescent

author’s note:

Another drop.


NOT EVANESCENT

Lao Tzu said
the Ancient Sages
were as evanescent
as icicles.

How can that be?—
according to the dictionary
“evanescent” means:
here one moment and gone the next.
But ages have passed
and the words of the sages still live.

I can’t expect the same good fortune
so as my icicle dwindles down
drop...by drop...by drop...by drop
I’m trying to come to terms with the loss
by repeating these lines to myself:

after I'm gone
whatever I’ve given
(whatever that may be)
will remain in our well—
perhaps hidden underground
but there, nonetheless.

mythsteps · Not Evanescent

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Clown Skeleton

author’s note:

What if every day was Halloween?


CLOWN SKELETON

While sneaking around backstage
after class one afternoon
I pulled a curtain in a dingy dusty storeroom
and found a skeleton standing at a blackboard.
No lower jaw, so no death grin.

To calm my sudden shock
I clapped a silly baseball cap on that bone head.

I would mock the specter that mocks us.

But then another idea came to me:
I should confront my fear.
I would confront the unknown
by peering into those dark eye sockets.

Maybe I’d sense the unseen
the great mystery—
the invisible realm.

But no—
though I stared into those empty pools
until my eyes burned
I felt only a dull negative:
the absence of life.

However
my neck hairs did rise
when I posed this question:

might I likewise end up
abandoned in a backroom?—
a clown set of bones—
just another blank line?

Stunned by the thought
I walked away from that encounter
with the clock ticking in my head again
but louder, louder this time—
stirring a sense of urgency in me.

I needed to fill that line
with something…something
that might last after my last breath.

mythsteps · Clown Skeleton

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2024, 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

Forget Heaven

author’s note:

“I yam what I yam”
        -- Popeye

Okay, Popeye, but what are you, really?


FORGET HEAVEN

Since science could not tell me
what the true nature of my being is
I chose the belief below
realizing it would serve me well--

an idea in line with this close observation:

even as these limbs
slowly lose momentum
I can feel an inner force
gradually gaining strength:
    rising--
    refining its energy.

Maybe I’m just imagining.
But in any case
I can't accept waste--I can’t accept
that what I’ve gained
through this experience
will be lost after death--
no, the entity I am
will still spin--
somewhere
in some form
I’ll be spinning up.

Some will surely say
I hold to this belief
because I want to ease
my fear of death.

But even if I realized they were right
I would still keep this belief
because it lifts me
to a place of wonder
and acceptance of all:

if I’m a spinning top
so is everyone else--
we all keep on rising
long after this life stops.

Forget heaven.
Heaven would be quitting
and I believe
the desire to be more
is ultimately stronger
than the wish to rest.
So though we may relax
occasionally
on our way up
we never stop climbing.

My War for Peace: poetry ebook—new and improved!
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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

Winter Sun

author’s note:

An appropriate poem, I believe, as we prepare to leap into Spring.


WINTER SUN

Winter’s a good time for this grief

because the sting
of the merciless wind
can shock me out of a stupor
induced by this drag of emotion

and then, as I open out
I will see the sun
on the bare tree limbs
and look up
at endless blue heaven.
I don’t feel dead when I enter
such a glorious world.

And as I watch the intense gentle snowfall
of a gray day
I’m lulled into the subtler senses
and again know the soft nurturing fire
steady in my heart.

The long nights around Solstice
urged me to go deep.
And though I dreaded the work. I delved down
because I’ve learned
I can find light in the dark.

Yet despite these blessings
yesterday, I began to worry
this season would never end.
But today
as I walked through that sleeping forest,
the cold drops falling from the trees
awoke my dream
of a new life blossoming in Spring.

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finding Beauty: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

When I Return

author’s note:

What can I do at a time when so many are grieving?

I can post this poem about grieving.


WHEN I RETURN

Seeking solace
I return to this hillside--

return to
those small blue wildflowers...
the gray stones...
the flowing grasses...
that know me so well:

these friends feel my grief--
they empathize.

Secure in their care
I lay myself down in the sun
and allow my tears to rise.

Release : relief.
Those waters spend their surplus
then sink back down
into a hidden reservoir:

a reservoir I usually ignore
to keep from being overwhelmed
while I do my daily chores.

But eventually
those neglected waters
will again rise up in rebellion

then I’ll return once again
to this green hill

to my friends--
the flowers, stones,
the flowing grasses.

And when I lay myself down
those waters will rise as before--
once more
the release will lift me
towards the sun.

I rise a little higher
a little higher
each time I return.

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

Last Image

author's note:

Where is the ordinary man, the ordinary woman I’ve heard people speak of?

I’ve never met such a person.


LAST IMAGE

In the dream
I walked with her
though she ascended a hill
many miles away from mine.

To my surprise
she reached her summit
while I still struggled to climb.

Her distant silhouette
stood at the peak for a moment
then a beam from the golden sunset
lit her small frame
and she became a candle flame--
flaring up
then sinking down, the next instant.
The scene, suddenly dark.

In the morning
someone I sort of know
told me she had died.

Now when I think of her
I remember that last image

and so
I no longer see her life
in shades of gray and beige.

dream steps blog
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The Truth of the Dream: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

A Prayer after Death

author's note:

I want to die with my boots on.

But I’m not buying any boots right now.


A PRAYER AFTER DEATH

I didn’t believe any prayer of mine
would help him
in his last hours
of suffering.

But I could give him
my empathy:
I could sit by his bed
and try to gain some sense
of his innner struggle.

So I matched my breath
to his ragged breath
and winced
whenever his eyelids crinkled in pain.

Nonetheless
he still seemed so distant.

To entertain my impatience
I counted time as his blind hand
ticked against the bedsheet

In that way, I fell into a timeless trance

until with a startle
I felt my heart clunk clumsily
once...twice

then my chest slumped
with a release of tension
and as I sighed, I saw him
collapse inside
with a silent heave of exhaustion.

Suddenly a subtle brightness seemed
to intensify the room--
or maybe I just imagined
the faint glittery mist
that hovered for a moment, midair
then vanished with a quick fade.

I can only say for certain what I felt:
the reality seemed so unreal.  Elevated.

But in the next moment
I nearly laughed:
a process so crushingly tedious
had ended with nothing more
than a quick simple breath.

I felt relieved

but only for a minute

then the grieving began.

Yet even as the sadness rose
I felt the impulse to compose a prayer--
I wanted to give humble thanks
to whatever force might have placed
that blessed event in my path.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Real Reason I Visited the Great Pyramid

author's note:

Full disclosure:

My “trip” to Egypt was the Great Courses lecture series “History of Ancient Egypt” presented by Dr. Bob Brier.


THE REAL REASON I VISITED THE GREAT PYRAMID

In the photograph I’m smiling
under my big floppy hat

while that massive monolith
looms in the background.
Darkened by afternoon shadow
the tomb puts a capital "D" on Death.

But though
the silly tourist appears oblivious
in the photo
I now realize I did indeed feel
that indomitable weight
behind me--
beneath my travel tour giddiness
I secretly experienced
a mix of fear and wonder.
The response, automatic.

Yes, a wise design--
those ancient Egyptians
built the pyramids
not just for the egos of their pharaohs
but to remind all
of the ever-present mystery.

Now, millennia later
they ask me to deepen
to what I try to ignore
as I frolic about
in my floppy tourist hat.

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33 1/3 New Fables & Myths: ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

A Good Way to Live, A Good Way to Die

author's note:

“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes”
             -- David Bowie


A GOOD WAY TO LIVE, A GOOD WAY TO DIE

At the end
I think I’ll have courage enough
to give myself to death
instead of holding on too long.

I say so because
over the years I’ve fought against
my natural fear of change--
I’ve died many good deaths
in the struggle (still ongoing)
to birth the better human I truly am.

So at the end
I think I'll have the strength
to release my grip on this good life
and welcome the birth death brings.

Common Courage: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Grief Waters

author’s note:

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


GRIEF WATERS

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water

hoping to create a cathartic ritual
that would free me from
my burden of emotion.

I believed the opera I felt inside
required an ocean.
So I drove from the city
to a nearby bay
and after stripping down
waded out toward a red sun
dying on the horizon.

When the cold waters had reached
my hiccupping heart
I stopped

and stood
ankle-deep in the sediment muck
of that rank brown bay brew.
Amoebas of oil and gasoline
slithered on waves
bloodied by the sunset.

I then realized
I’d not bothered to formulate
any words or movements
for this ritual
so I merely waited--hoping
miracle healings do indeed come to those
who are sincere.

But in the quiet
of the ticking moments
I began to see this act
as a fancy performed by a fool
who’s seen too many movies

so I gave up in embarrassment
and just let the waters sway me.

Then, as my eyes settled on
a distant cloud aflame
I slipped into an accidental meditation--
I lost all thought--lost time

until brought back
by an electric chill
needling my clammy skin.

But with that awakening
I saw again
the glorious strangeness of this world
and our life in it.
Have you ever found yourself
by losing yourself?

Refreshed by a satisfying emptiness
I pulled my feet up from the muck
and walked myself back out.

My poorly-formed ritual
had somehow tripped a switch.
I drove home with a desire for life
missing since the death.

Years later
when I think of that loss
I still feel a lingering shadow of sadness
but I also remember
those blessed grief waters--
that wonderfully-strange sunset--
the flame that hides
at the end of our day
but never dies.

mythsteps · Grief Waters

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Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Wise Words of the Butterfly Soul

author’s note:

I’m trying to tell myself the truth.


THE WISE WORDS OF THE BUTTERFLY SOUL

According to legend...

when lost in battle
warriors sometimes come back
as phantom butterflies
to deliver wise messages of guidance.

So when I sensed
those wings fluttering
around my ears
I knew you’d returned to me

and I waited, hoping to hear
magical wise words
that would unlock my heart.
And then
in a sudden burst of freedom
I’d know true peace.

But you just whispered
this short flat instruction
then flew away:

before you can see the stars
you must first lower your eyes.

Dreaded action!--
but as the legend says:
the dead can see better than we do
because they have nothing left to lose.

And so I looked down to address
that mud heap of grief on my plate

while telling myself this second legend:

after the prison pauper ate and digested
his slop-mess dinner
lo and behold!--
the ceiling lifted
and his plate reflected
a fulsome night of stars.

Wise words can’t do the work for us
or give us strength
but without those wise words
I wouldn’t struggle so hard
to find the strength
to work for the peace of freedom.

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

Enduring the Best

author's note:

I don’t have to do an ultra-marathon.

My endurance is tested every day.


ENDURING THE BEST

After you, I realized:

we must endure
not only the worst
among us, but also
the best.

Though they use different ways
both overwhelm us--
both challenge us
to rise above
our petty selves.

But while one dares us to fight
to find our light
the other tries to enlighten.

However
their brilliant light may stun

and after our eyes clear
we feel responsible for what we see:

I often try to ignore what I know
but feel guilty when I again sense
your old owl eyes watching me
from a place unseen--
near, yet faraway.

I'm pleased you check on me occasionally
but sometimes I’d appreciate
a few words of encouragement

especially when doubt
agitates my thought
almost to blindness.

You could reassure me with a whisper--
you could

tell me again
why I must not slack
in this work--
tell me again
how the little I do
actually helps us all a lot.

Tell me I must
keep on lifting
these heavy feet--
tell me I can find
the strength hidden within

but only if I keep lifting.

Please, tell me
I will eventually
be able to maintain firm hold
on the peace
that always slips
from my grip.

Tell me
all you once told me--
tell me again.

I wait
but as with previous requests
I’m answered by Complete Silence--
I don’t even feel your owl eyes watching.

I tell myself I shouldn’t
feel rejected--
after all
why should you remind me
when I haven't forgotten?

Besides that
a repeat would merely be
temporary comfort--
not a cure:

no one but me can give me courage.

As my moment of weakness passes
I feel ashamed once again
but also think:

maybe in some hoped-for future
I can use this moment
as a story lesson--
the type of story you once used
to help teach me.

Yes, later--
when I become
the sort of person
others will gladly endure.

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

Glass House

author’s note:

I’ve often heard: those in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks.

I say: no one should throw rocks, because we all live in glass houses.

But some houses are clearer than others.


GLASS HOUSE

I can still see the light
beaming out
from the many windows
of your glass house.

That tough structure rests now
on gentle waters
while faraway
I fight to find my way
through cloudy nights
on heavy seas
that sink and heave.

Though some believed
your insight and brightness
was a natural gift
you let me know
how you’d struggled
to clear those panes.

I think you wanted me to see
the value of hard labor done.

But even now, many years later
I still have much work left to do--
I’m not half as bright
as the guide I knew.

Fortunately
I can look to your glass house
now and then
for encouragement

and for a little extra light
to help me navigate
on these dim nights.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Living Stone

author’s note:

Yes, we’re all stones.  But there are different types, of course.

I like to think of myself as a millstone.


LIVING STONE

I don’t think a corpse needs a grave
but the deceased still should have a stone--
just a plain flat rock in the grass
would be sufficient
if we add an inscription

such as:
this stone represents a stone
who endured
many quakes, many storms

as well as the mundane
slow relentless erosion.

Another rock in a construction
made of all the rocks ever born--
even if it disappears underground
this rock slab will still be around.

I say:
we’re all stones
and even the small or broken ones
contribute to the project.

Let’s give each stone
a stone marker
and at least a line or two.
Each marker a reminder:
we must stand strong
for the benefit of those
who will stand
on this stone foundation.

finding Beauty: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

After the Funeral I Create My Own Ritual

author’s note:

I have nothing against traditional rituals.

I say: whatever works for you.


AFTER THE FUNERAL I CREATE MY OWN RITUAL

Until late that afternoon...

I sent those small smooth round stones
skipping in delightful arcs
across the still water:

some making seven or eight or more hops--
others...only three or four

while a few, I regret to say
went ka-plunk
without jumping even once.

With every throw
I imagined that stone
excited to fly--joyful

then, whatever the outcome
content to sink, to rest

to be back with the lake.

When my arm finally said
okay--enough
I drove home in acceptance:

the beginnings of a peace.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton