Take a Vacation to The Moon

author’s note:

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

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


TAKE A VACATION TO THE MOON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why do we tremble so?

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

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

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

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

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

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
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
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
sky rope poetry blog
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Our Dance of Life and Death

author’s note:

"Dance dance dance right there on the spot"
              -- The Beach Boys


OUR DANCE OF LIFE AND DEATH

A woman standing
on our east coast beach
heard about the child
and felt the impulse
to express herself in dance

and for once, did not hold back--
she wanted to be brave
in a world so cruel.

Moving in a circle
with arms crossed tightly across her chest
she suddenly
lowered to her knees
and bowed in grief
then stood back up
and lifted her face to a merciless sun
then went round again
then fell to her knees
and bowed again
then stood once again
and lifted her face to the sun.
She went on and on in this way--
she did not stop.

And when a poor man walking by
asked her “why?”
she told him of the mother and child
and in a moment he responded
by bowing to his knees
then standing back up
and opening his arms
then bowing down again
then standing again and opening
his arms.
He went on and on in this way--
he did not stop.

Two teenage girls joined them:
they’d do pirouettes
then collapse in the sand
they went on and on--
they did not stop.

And so our dance of life and death began:

a chain of rising and falling bodies
grew down the shoreline.
Many or most on the island
felt drawn--as if in a trance:
I think we felt a need to grieve
over the news story.
But maybe some were also possessed
by a deep desire to express sadness
too long repressed.

The chain of separate links
continued to build--
moving over the rolls of the dune hills

then across a field of wind grass

and onto the main road and into town
and then beyond.

As the sun touched the horizon
the chain arrived
at the other side of the island
where an unknown swan dancer
--light as a zephyr--
floated in a gossamer gown
at the edge of a cliff
to the echo of waves below.

At this point
those who’d begun the dance at the east beach
woke from their trance--
all along the way, the chain fell apart
as islanders fell out
and slowly shuffled home
in the exhaustion
of emotional/physical release.
Hardly speaking--
not needing to speak.
Yes, we’d returned
to our regular state of mind
but our regular state of mind
was now much better.

That night, the child's mother
tearfully thanked all participants
from a camera in her kitchen

but through that fall
and into the depth of gray winter
she struggled under
a persistent weight of grief.

Later, she told of her nightly torment
how she’d walk the floor
going in circles--
her arms crossed tightly across her chest.
She’d pace round and round and round
until she finally fell down
then she’d just lie there--
feeling defeated.

But while holding to
the hardwood floor
she'd slowly recover
some sense of stability

and as the surge of sadness
naturally began to ebb
she’d sense a feeling of life
rising within--
a calm steady force that even
her leaden depression
couldn’t suppress

and in response, she’d stand again
and continue on.

Oddly enough
after each collapse
she felt a bit stronger.

Just as I have
on those occasions when
I’ve fallen down in a fatigue of grief
and remained down
until I sensed a calm force rising within.

Obviously, a common occurrence among humans:
I see many falling down in their dance
then witness a new strength
as they stand to their feet
and continue on.

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

Feeling Better: a quest

author's note:

So easy to lose touch these days.


FEELING BETTER: a quest

A plague of malaise had crept in
and as a result
our senses had dimmed.
Thus, we could not see

the obvious:
our senses had dimmed.

I myself did not realize
until I stepped on that rake:

the bop between my eyes
cleared my dimness just a bit--enough
for me to see how dim I was

and how frustrated my people were:

dimly aware of the problem
we tried all sorts of ways to reawaken.
But in our blindness
often only dimmed ourselves more.

I wanted to help
but knew I couldn’t go around
bopping folk between the eyes
with a rake.
However, I could undertake
a quest for a cure.
Why a quest?  I suppose
I wanted adventure

or maybe
I just wished to get away from our mess.

In any case
I did not dawdle but set out
across the dark unknown plain to the north.
And oh--
the darkness only deepened
the deeper I traveled
into that alien land.

By the time I’d gone too far to turn back
the black fog had grown so dense
I couldn’t see my feet or even my hands.
I bumbled and stumbled

until finally, in frustration
I sat down on the bare ground--
hoping to gather together
what remained of my wits.

To prop my weary self up, I put
my blind fingertips to the earth

and in so doing, touched a little bump--
some rough object—I wasn’t sure what--
maybe a rock but maybe not--
I couldn’t recall the last time
I’d held a rock.

Then in curiosity
I got down on my hands and knees

and began to feel around.
In that way, I slowly found
many peculiar textures
belonging to many mysterious things:

some were crinkly
some were smooth
some were razor sharp.

A few were furry to the touch.

Occasionally I'd encounter
something slimy and slithering
and feel the impulse to retreat.

But courage feels better than cowardice
so to still myself, I declared:
I won't allow my fear to rule me!

Nonetheless, I see wisdom in being careful
and besides--
cautiousness increases attentiveness
and attentiveness heightens sense of touch.

And the more I feel, the better I see--
my vision clears…so do my ears
albeit slowly, oh-so-slowly--but
as I proceed, I find I’m losing
this malaise.

However
I still can’t see my way home.

So perhaps you'll arrive before I do--
even so, I won’t follow you--
I must find my own path back--
after all, I’m on a quest.
In any case
could you please tell the people:
in time, I will return
I will when I can see us all
in a light much brighter.

Then I’ll speak
to tell them what I truly feel
and what I truly see.

Soultime: a novel
you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Great Hermitage of Gray

author’s note:

I keep learning from old dreams.


GREAT HERMITAGE OF GRAY

Years ago in a dream
I saw the truth of my room:

the walls and floor, all dull gray--
even the light motes drifting
down from the ceiling:
dense gray.

Since that vision, I've worked
to escape my gray place
and maybe I have--because
though I still see
scary things in my dreams
I witness nothing so monotone.

But ever so often
in my waking hours
I revisit the room
because as a human being
I want to understand

and if I can raise myself
when I return
I'll again realize
the beauty and benefit
of that hermitage:

though gray, the sun rays
pour down from a skylight

and those high walls
create a great space--
an austere cathedral.

Oppressive, yes, but
power held in check
can build in strength
as our desire to break out
--to bloom--
grows in intensity.

I've still much to learn
but at least now I know why
I needed that gray room.

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