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
dream steps blog
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© 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

When the Drunken Actor Drank the Wave

author’s note:

In appreciation of the late poet Robert Bly, who told me how I’d numbed my feeling sense.


WHEN THE DRUNKEN ACTOR DRANK THE WAVE

Though dizzy from drink that evening
the actor could still feel
those dark silent faces watching him
through the glow of the footlights—
waiting
as the classic play approached
its tragic conclusion.

Once again, he felt
the grief building within the audience
and knew

as the tension rose in the drama
that wave of grief would also rise
and then at the end
break
and sweep over the stage

and once again
he would fight to keep from drowning
in the overwhelming siege of emotion.

He felt such dread.

Sometimes he swore he heard
silent whispers of sadness
in that cascade.
Last night, a woman sighed:
Why can’t I forgive myself

So in his drunkenness
our thespian now began to consider the unthinkable:

This story need not end so sadly
he said to himself.

He could turn back the tide tonight
if he dropped the knife.
Instead of repeating those words of death
his character could declare:
I must go on…I must go on.

In so doing, he could lift everyone
by showing them how resilient
a human being can be—
yes, he could give them hope.

But at the crucial moment
he found he could not loosen
his grip on the handle of the knife—
some unknown force within
had taken possession of him.

He struggled—he fought
until his whole body shook.

Feeling foolish
he quickly surrendered then
and once again
knelt down on the stage

then brought that rubber blade down
then down again, then down
for the final decisive stroke.

And as he crumpled down
he felt so weak in defeat, so weak
he decided:
Tonight I will not fight—
I will not try to block the flood—
if my heart succumbs, so be it.

In the next instant, the wave crashed down
and washed down over him
but this time, he did not resist—
no, he remained open
even as the pain surged
through his blood and being.

But the worst soon passed
and as he exhaled all he’d taken in
he felt such bright relief.

Later, backstage
the janitor asked him
why he both wept and smiled
as he took his bows
and the actor answered:

“I cried because tonight I fully felt
 the grief of the audience

“and I smiled with hope
 because I realized:

“despite the tragedy in their lives
 those folk somehow manage to remain standing.
 Tonight, I heard them say:
 We must go on…we must go on.”

mythsteps · when the drunken actor drank the wave

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Power of Metaphor

author’s note:

But when I do drown, I’m always able to resuscitate myself.


THE POWER OF METAPHOR

Occasionally a submerged memory
will leap up in a sudden wave

and as the breaking crest topples down
onto my head
the undertow
will begin to pull me under.

But I’ve learned
at such times I can save myself

by calmly repeating this instruction:
don’t try to resist—open yourself
open up your arms—open up
the cage of your chest:
surrender
and feel the full force of the feeling.

And if I then do as told
I will rise up
from the deepening darkness
to the sun
spangling golden
on those light blue waters

and a rolling wave of peace
will carry me home to the sandy shore.

Yes, by using metaphor in this way
I can stop myself from drowning.

But so easy to forget
when a sudden wave rises
and my head gets pounded once again.

mythsteps · power of metaphor

Survival: 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
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Opening for a Morning

author’s note:

The recording may sound a little rough, but I refuse to use auto-tune.


OPEN FOR A MORNING

This morning, a shock of grief

when the news showed that jet
shattered and smoldering in a field.

But every day I see a disaster report.
Why did this latest elicit
such a strong response?

Perhaps I used that crash
to mourn my own losses—
I needed to open—
to open that well—

the well I usually keep lidded
because if I didn’t
I could be overwhelmed
by sudden upswells of emotion
at random times throughout the day.
How could I possibly function?

The problem is:
after a day of functioning efficiently
I can feel so dully dry.

But when I break down
like I did this morning
I often feel fully alive.

So I guess I wept
in order to save my life.

But I know
from past experience
this release could also
help one or two others live today:

following a swell of grief
like the one I felt this morning
I’m often able to sense the losses
of crash survivors I meet

and some of them seem to respond
to my unspoken empathy—
they share feelings
usually kept under the lid.

And as they open

I’m overwhelmed by my well
once again.

I guess the truth is:
on days like today
I’m actually functioning
at a higher level.

mythsteps · Open for a Morning

Survival: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
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© 2024, 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.

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

Ocean Song

author's note:

Is there a human mouth that
doesn’t give out soul-sound?
         -- Rumi (trans. Barks)


OCEAN SONG

The day after a death
I feel the shock
of final loss
yet also the joy
of knowing that life--

I’m overwhelmed and tossed about
by capricious waters--
suddenly
lifted from my sadness
by a surge of loving gratitude

then in the next moment
yanked down again
by the undercurrent of grief.

Struggling mightily in this chaotic mix
I feel the power of my emotion
and realize myself to be
someone greater
than the one who does those daily chores.

But as my chest continues to tighten
I fear I’ll die if I don’t let loose.

So though I dread the work
I try…I try…I try
to express the inexpressible:

again and again and again
I aspire upward
riding a geyser of words

only to fall short
and slap down on the ground

in an overheated sprawling spill
again and again and again.

But I guess these messes
still reflect the blue sky above.

In any case
as a human being
you’re probably well-acquainted
with the blessed curse of feeling
so maybe you’ll tolerate
(or even appreciate)
a pipe who spouts lines
like these:

drowning in feeling
we try, in desperation
to empty our hearts
by shouting out
an ocean song.

© 2022, Michael R. Patton
Soultime: a novel

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

Anchor Stone

author’s note:

“These aren’t just words talking.”
          -- Mary Oliver


ANCHOR STONE

I hesitate to explore my anger

because I know a flood
of grief and doubt awaits
beneath my foggy roil.

But still I dive down

because the fighter within
wants to battle my fear
of drowning and learn
how to swim

and because
this intrepid scholar
desires to discover
what lurks beneath

and also because
my beleaguered self
sometimes finds relief--

if I go deep enough
into those murky waters
sometimes
below all the hubbub
I’ll again touch
the anchor stone:

a wisdom within me
and yet, not from me:

beyond reason
yet, solidly reassuring--
wordlessly whispering
what I’m still too dim to see:

all is as it needs to be.

An idea I’m able to accept
when I resurface
by telling myself:

if this life had been other
than what it was and is
I might never have known
that core anchor stone.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
Listening to Silence: poetry ebook

Dreaming the Truth

author's note:

Heart attacks often occur in the morning hours during the last phase of REM (dream) sleep.


DREAMING THE TRUTH

The truth must actually be important:

otherwise why would my dreams
ruin a soft nourishing sleep
by revealing the true chaos
of my waking life?--

ruin, by revealing
my relentless distress

then add to that distress
by revealing
I’m not yet over the sorrow
I thought I’d put to rest
years ago

and then
at the end of night
stun me one more time
by revealing the love
behind my dislike
and the anger raging under
what I thought
was calm acceptance.

No wonder our hearts often burst
while we're asleep...

but maybe my dreams will be
a little easier on me
if I can wake myself
to more of the truth
amid the chaos of these days.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
my war for peace: poetry ebook

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

Inside Out

author’s note:

Another poem posted earlier and recently revised.

I've heard that whales can signal to each other from many miles away.

I think people can do the same thing--we just aren’t aware that we’re sending and receiving.


INSIDE OUT

Whales bounce sound around
in thickly-layered water--
vibrations
alien to me, and yet--
somehow familiar.

The whole planet floats, rocks
up and down
on the ocean.
You can feel the motion
in your sea legs

and in your stomach--you feel pregnant, you feel
that life has tricked you
while you slept in bed.  You used to see
a sidewalk and a street
and think that was the world.

Now you can’t very well
tell anyone what you hold--
though we all walk around
with these bulks
in our bellies--
               and any erratic
movement
can cause the water
to splosh,
to spill
and then some small part of you
will land on the pavement
like a broken egg.  Something
purple or maybe dark blue--something
of another world and yet
there it is
in this world.

So what do you do?

You feel an urge to clean that puddle
up.  You also feel the urge
to flee.

Maybe you broke because someone nearly
smacked into you--or maybe you two
did collide--and now someone you don’t know--
or maybe someone you thought you knew--
stares down, mesmerized but also partially
sickened by that inexplicable amniotic fluid
squiggling and twisting
on the asphalt.

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “No--my fault,”
comes the response.
But owning up doesn’t change the aftermath.
You’re both still shocked and awkward

and if you could leave you would
because the other person also spilled

and now his lake begins to
curl into yours as yours begins to curve
around his

and thus,
we are confronted with the supernatural,
with newly discovered lifeforms.

You knew they existed, but after
seeing that splotch
on the ground
you can no longer
ignore
their existence.

So again--what can you do?
You can’t run away because
the stronger will says to stay.
But you can’t wipe it up because
it's not a mistake, not even an accident--
what will be done is done and
what’s done is not yet over.
We’ll just have to let
what will happen
happen.

I will say this:
our life, at least,
is now
much more

interesting.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
poems in audio