Metaphor in the Gray Season of Rain

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


METAPHOR IN THE GRAY SEASON OF RAIN

Yes, I’m caught in the flood
of a cold gray season of rain.
But please, don’t worry about me:

Though sad, I’m not drowning—
I now know how to swim in these waters.
I know I can reach the distant shore.

Yes, I sometimes become tired
in the effort
and feel I might sink.
But then I lie all the way back
and spread my arms out wide
and give myself up
to the hard wash of rain.
Painful to open so boldly
but this way, I’m able to stay afloat.

As you can see
I’ve learned from metaphor
how to survive times such as these.
So please
don’t grieve my grieving.

But if you feel you must
say something
I’ll give you this hint:
I become even more buoyant
when somebody praises my buoyancy.

Butterfly Soul: poems of death & grief & joy
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2026, 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

Signs of Higher Life

author’s note:

Did this event actually happen?

Yes.  Maybe times.  In different ways.


SIGNS OF HIGHER LIFE

As I wait to cross the blaring street
in the glare of a summer’s day
I feel the urge to elevate above
the dull feeling of the mundane.

So I search for signs of higher life—

maybe someone
in this swarming sweating crowd
shines with the beatific beauty
that comes from within.

But in so many faces I find walls.

The same wall I see in my own face
when I spot my image
on the lens of someone’s sunglasses.

Maybe I built that wall to hide
how I struggle to deal
with all the stuff
this life stuffs into our lives.

Suddenly I feel compassion
for all those people
who like me, struggle behind walls.

Overwhelmed
by that wave of emotion
I lower my head
and prop myself against a lamp post.

In the next moment
someone asks me:
Are you alright?

A show of empathy.
A wall has fallen.
For a moment, at least.

Thanks.  Don’t worry—I’m quite alright.
I answer.

Encouraged
by the concern of a stranger
then I walk on.

Though my wall only fell
for a moment
in that moment
I found the beauty
of two human spirits
and got the lift I needed
on a glaring summer’s day.

mythsteps · signs of higher life

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

Ouch!

author's note:

If laughter is the best medicine, maybe it’s good for me to joke about my pain.


OUCH!

When slogging through
a dark morass of agony
some of us will only say
"ouch".

By that I mean:
we'll answer your sincere concern
with a little joke--
understating our pain
in the manner of a cartoon character
toasted to a crisp by a bomb.

Maybe I'm not being honest about
the state of my heart
but to share my burden
would only burden me more
because then I'd worry
you'd worry
much too much
about the state of my soul.

Please, believe me:
I can endure what I must--
if I couldn't I wouldn't
be able to limit my cry
to this silly-sad
mouse-like
"ouch".

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Improving My Vision

author's note:

Dedicated to you.


IMPROVING MY VISION

For my own protection
I worked to comprehend
the mad behavior
of the human being

and saw so much
in the course of my investigation—
naturally, I became confused.

So for clarity
I looked to the only person
that could grant me full access
to the heart and head of a human—
I sat down in the shadows
and turned my eyes within.

And felt both amazed and blessed
by the motley bounty I found inside.

But as I understood more
I also understood less:
whatever illumination I gained
was overshadowed
by the expanding mountain of information
I gathered in my inquiries.

I tried hard to sort it all out
but in time, I needed a rest.
So I turned my eyes back out.

I then discovered
my vision had improved
during the turn:
now
when I looked at someone
I often noticed something
I had already seen in myself.

And so it was with you:

As soon as I saw you, I saw
you held quite a lively mix inside
and so I wanted to look deeper.
And so I saw your pain

and so I felt compassion for you

then also felt compassion for myself—
or at least, the part of me
you reflected.

You say you now want to turn away
and look within yourself.
Well, I’ll miss you, but please do—
yes, explore the wonders
of that Universe—
take in until your head spins.

You may become even more confused
but at least you’ll feel empathy for
all those overwhelmed by the mix
who react in spasms of bad behavior.

mythsteps · Improving My Vision

My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, 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
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Symbiotic

author’s note:

I never lose my empathy.  But sometimes I manage to ignore it.


SYMBIOTIC

When you see me, you see my wounds
then feel my wounds.

then try to soothe my wounds.

I know I’m the only one who can heal those wounds.
I’m not done trying.
But the long tedium of the work tires me.

So I go to see you.

This deep diver needs to breathe
at least once week—needs
the relaxing empathy of our Sundays.

But I’d just stay home and watch the game
if I didn’t know
I soothe your deep wounds too.

mythsteps · Symbiotic

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

We Are The Sun and The Moon

author’s note:

I’ve never been cool.

But I have learned how to simmer.


WE ARE THE SUN AND THE MOON

As a child, The Sun God
played with burning coal
and in his gleeful carelessness
set his long hair ablaze.

Every day since that day
he’s run across the sky in ecstasy--
a gold flame illuminating his brain.

But though his light grows our crops
sometimes in his excitement
he allows his fire to rage too hot
and in the thrill of the moment
he’s able to ignore the pain in his skull

nor does he see
the swaths of black ash he then leaves
all across the Earth.

At the end of those over-heated days
he sinks down in exhaustion
and at rest in his ashes
he finally feels the wound in his head.

Then when his sister (The Moon)
sees him suffering
she feels her love again

and as her tears fall
to soothe his pain
her reservoir goes
from full to lean.
But then fills back up again

because she draws from a river
of endless goddess empathy.

The Sun God and The Moon God
show us who we are--
just as all gods do.
But unlike them
we have free will--
our tracks need not be ruts:

we can see our mistakes in their mad actions
then choose to change the way we roll.

Bear witness:
the story above helped me see
this obvious fact:
   though the fire in my mind
   sometimes gives light,
   I can burn myself (and others)
   when I rage too hot.

But if I can keep my blaze at even flame
I’ll no longer need
to bathe my wounded head at night.

Perhaps then I can use
the river of my empathy
to help soothe other heads
burned by their own rage.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
dream steps blog
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© 2023, 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Children of the Invasion

author’s note:

A poem about civilian casualties of war.  Written years ago.

When I see what’s happening today, I realize my poem didn’t have much impact.

Nonetheless, I going to keep trying.


CHILDREN OF THE INVASION

The invaded child
died for our sins.

If you haven’t heard of that child
that’s because the authorities
keep neglecting to tell us.
I think they even neglect to tell themselves.
I think
they wear those donkey heads
because they don’t dare witness

that naked body hunched in a ditch
as if in a womb of mud.

The attack was meant to protect
that child’s future
and the future
of that child’s children
--was that the idea?

Our humanity
is fragile.
Our humanity
is not guaranteed.

I say this
to those directly responsible
for that blind blunt act--
   to those
   who have made me
   indirectly responsible--
I say this:
the people will eventually reject
your well-crafted rationalizations.

I believe
the cry of the ghost child
will eventually break through
and as we wake we’ll recognize
those children in the shadows
as our own.

Then we will know:
we must find the courage
to stop destroying
all those vessels of soul.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 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.

dream steps blog
myth steps blog
Listening to Silence: 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.

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

After I Fell in the Forest

author’s note:

I hope I’ve remembered this quote accurately:

When told that a certain woman was very humble, Dorothy Parker replied, “She has a lot to be humble about.”


AFTER I FELL IN THE FOREST

I never felt the trees

until I fell in the forest

and as I lay face down, trying
to find the strength to stand again
I began to feel
the watchful quiet all around:
aliens communicating without sound.

I’ve listened intently
many times since
and though I still can’t
decipher their silent speech
I sense the trees pity my weakness.

Perhaps I return because
I want their empathy
after being beaten in battle.

Humility is a virtue--is honesty.
But I will only prostrate myself
before beings wise enough
to feel compassion for a fallen fool.

you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

A Japanese Print

author’s note:

Japanese prints are a good way to travel when you can’t get out of the house.


A JAPANESE PRINT

Sometimes I meditate
on this Japanese landscape print...

I follow the leaves down
to the river winding its way
to distant mountains tufted with pine.
Their peaks lost in cloud.

But rather than wonder
about the secrets
of places I can’t see
I return to the peasant
in the foreground:

bent forward with the weight
of the sack of rice on his back
he trudges through slanting rain
on a road that follows the river.

Imagining his life, I ask myself:
all that work and for what?

To feed his poor family?
But why have a family
if the family will only be poor?

Nonetheless
such beauty in that print.
Made more beautiful
by my empathy for that man.

Neither he nor we knew
he could be beautiful.
And so, we needed the artist.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Listening to Myself

author’s note:

I’d like to add: it’s also good to see a therapist besides yourself.


LISTENING TO MYSELF

I’ve finally learned:

when the chest begins to tighten
I must stop and become
the therapist--
the one who doesn’t judge
or even try to resolve the conflict
tying up my head at that moment.

When this wise one hears my anger
it hears the old pain hidden beneath
the conflict.

It hears the old grief.

Sometimes someone just needs
someone to acknowledge their pain.
Since no one knows me better
than my own self
I can be my best listener--
but only if I stop criticizing
and open my empathy instead.

When I do, I emerge
from the brief listening session
feeling the fresh strength of release
and perhaps then I can dance
rather than wrestle with
the conflict of the moment.

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

The Pin

author’s note:

A long poem.  But I tried to be concise.


THE PIN

Early on, I was pushed
to put a pin in my heart
by those who believed
hearts should be pinned

and I obeyed--hoping
they’d then stop pushing.

Well, at first, I was able to ignore the pin.
But as the world continued to push me around
I began to wake and as I woke
I began to feel the pin stabbing my heart--
a stab with every step:

usually just the pin’s point
but

sometimes, that tippy tip tore a sore.

And as I continued to wake
I woke to the people passing--
I saw so many wincing in pain
just as I was:

good to know what people feel
but
I didn’t know how to help them--

I could hardly help myself.

In the distress of this confusion
and the burden of seeing and feeling
so much pain
I grew tired
and sought refuge in a winter’s cave.

But as I kindled myself
in the cold dark
I could feel the pin burn
even more intensely
in my heart.

So I pulled at it
with all my focused might.

And yet
I still couldn’t pry that spike loose

but continued because
to work felt better
than to rest in defeat

and I saw no greater challenge--
to succeed would be
a redeeming accomplishment.

I then realized I’d found
what I’d gone inside to find--
thus
I’d completed my stay in the cave

so I walked out
and around
and once again, saw people wincing--
I saw pain from heart pins
everywhere I went--

I felt that pain
and wanted to tell those folk
what I’d discovered underground
however
I knew I needed heal myself more
before I spoke--
I’d not yet earned the right.

Frustrated I was, but
I did find some comfort in this thought:
by trying to heal myself
(to the highest degree possible)
I would be doing at least a little
to heal the wound that began
at the birth of humankind

and furthermore:
if I opened my chest just a bit more
--a bit more--
some of the wounded in our wounded world
might notice me trembling
in the slow removal of the pin
and see their own struggle in mine
and know again:

despite the frustration of such tedious work
better we fight than lose hope--
what greater occupation
than to balm and bind
the wounds of this world?

  © 2020, Michael R. Patton
  Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook

Another Good Death

author’s note:

I think I’ve used this title at least once before...

Maybe I’m repeating myself.  But I prefer to think I’m creating a motif.


ANOTHER GOOD DEATH

Another husk falls
from my chest--

this death: a birth.
A harvest.
An accomplishment
of determined labor

that I vow to always honor
by remembering its long history

though I prick my fingertips
whenever I touch that thorny cast.

Oh, but the shell served me well!

Without its suffocation
I would not have needed
to fight so hard for freedom--
I would not
have found this strength.

So please, no pity.

But I will accept your empathy:

to know you also know
the pain and joy of such death
eases the lingering sting of birth
because I no longer feel
so alone in this work.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton

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How to Achieve Buoyancy

author's note:

Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.
                -- Mary Oliver


HOW TO ACHIEVE BUOYANCY

I've seen some who always seem so buoyant.

I ask myself:
even if they're not weighted
with personal conflict
how can they witness
the struggle and conflict
of our world
and not feel a burden
of incessant frustration?

I assume many are simply oblivious.

However
I believe a few
are born blessed with wisdom--
what they see up-close
they also view
from the mountain

and then maybe others
once felt as heavy as I do today
but gradually found courage enough
to open--to surrender

to the flood waters we hold
but try to hold back--
for fear of being overwhelmed
by our empathy for all humankind.

So now, instead of sinking
at the sight of so much pain
those brave people ascend--
lifted by the rising waters.

A possibility--or so I hope
as I struggle to cope
with all I witness
in this wounded world

which of course, includes
the wounded man
I often criticize--
the one who writes these lines.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

Found

author's note:

"I'm a lost man gettin' found."
          -- Woody Guthrie


FOUND

Falling down
I found my humility.

Standing up
I found my strength.

Telling you
I found my honesty.

Listening to you
I found my mirror.

Looking down
into my mirror
I found my grief

then looking up
to clear my tears
I found and found and found
my empathy.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
myth steps blog

Empathy for Three

author's note:

Today, in the U.S., we honor our military veterans.

I say: we're all veterans, of one type or another.


EMPATHY FOR THREE

One night while standing in line
I heard a man behind me say
with a sneer:

he's fallen again

and felt a surge of empathy
for someone I did not know

but I knew his pain--
you see, I've fallen too

a few times
or maybe more
than a few

and like that guy
been criticized
while still down

if not by someone else
then by myself--
yeah, I can be quite critical of me.

So I think I know something
about that critical man in line--
I believe his sneer belies
anger at some part of himself
he deems weak.

The pain behind his anger
is pain I know, so now
I also feel empathy for him.

Maybe my empathy
is merely self-pity
projected outwards.

But if so, that's okay
because

when I see myself
in those two mirrors
I want to help them both

and when I want to help them both
I want to help all three of us

and when I want help the three of us
I want to help the whole damn world.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
40 New Fables: ebook