A Clear Glass of Air on New Year's Eve

author's note:

At the end of another year, I revisit this poem.

Those aren’t just fancy words below--I can indeed feel the clarity of my soul.

No, not very often.  But still...


A CLEAR GLASS OF AIR ON NEW YEAR'S EVE

At the end of another year--
alone

and blank
at my hardwood table
under a bare light bulb.

Devoid of sensation--
I could be dead...

but no--
that clear glass of air on the table
tells me:

you only seem empty--
in reality
you are filled with spirit.

Yes--
prompted by that thought
I suddenly sense the purity within.
I can feel the clarity of my soul.

But this bliss
only lasts for the moment of a breath

with the next
the mad mix
of muddy past and foggy future
floods my glass again.

Again I am as I usually am:
a human being
of deep flaws and minor foibles.

But refreshed
after feeling the pure spirit again.

By returning to my truth
I return to our truth:
  though we seem quite muddled
  we’re actually as clear
  as that glass of spirit.

Suddenly now
a rumbling jumble of bells
choruses midnight
through the clouds

and in honor of our spirit
I hoist my full glass to the light.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Opening the Chest

author’s note:

Still pulling.


OPENING THE CHEST

At first, the wooden chest
seemed to be just another
lifeless museum piece--

antique, but cheapened by wear:
a big chip out of one stout leg;
a crack in the pediment;
the wood finish faded.

But those closed doors
piqued my curiosity…

So when the room cleared
the little boy in me
stepped over the cord
and tried to swing open
those two doors--

feeling the tightness
of the creaking hinges
in my own chest.

But despite the tension building within
I kept opening:
obeying my spirit
by fighting that resistance.

I pulled, I pulled
until
a sudden piercing pain
brought the relief of release:

a welling glow spread
out from my center
as I stood, transfixed--
witnessing
that goblet on the top shelf--

its silver plating tarnished
and diminished with dust--

so plain!
but also so open
as if to say:
here I am--
ready to be filled
so I can give
what I’ve received.

I felt the humility
of naked exposure--
I felt the tears
and bold strength
of willing sacrifice
(the victorious surrender).

But at that point
I stopped myself
because
I dared not go too deep
in such a proper public place.

Ironic:
I rarely find meaning
in those spaces and things
that’re supposed to be meaningful.
More often I find meaning
by glorious accident.

I can’t seem to manufacture
such experience
but I can return
to that greater response
by remembering
the blessed chance event.

Return again and again.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook