King Kong Dances on the Winter Grass

author’s note:

I write prescriptions for myself.


KING KONG DANCES ON THE WINTER GRASS

As I walk over this expanse of stubby brown grass
I’m inspired by the morning sound
of ice crystals crackling under my boot heels
and for a few moments I become
King Kong—

I dance with my big hairy feet—
pulverizing the cruel ice.
Crunch crunch crunch.

King Kong lets his inner child play
and in so doing, frees the winter grass.

But after only a few minutes
Kong has started to huff and puff
and when I sit down on the ground, I know
I’m just as mad
and just as sad
as I was before my big ape dance.

Yet cleared by increasing my heartrate.
And satisfied aesthetically now:
Yes, I live in a brutal world
but I can still breathe deep
the cool watery smell of this melting ice
and the sharp mineral scent of the awakened soil.

I am a child.  I am King Kong.
I am a lover of the natural elegance of this planet.
And when I release those aspects
I may become a dancing fool

which helps to clear my head
and also helps clear a patch
of yellow-brown winter grass.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

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
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, 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
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

What the Sled Dog Found

author's note:

When one dog barks, one hundred dogs bark.
               — old Chinese proverb


WHAT THE SLED DOG FOUND

The sled dog
woke in the starry arctic night
with the strange sense
that somewhere out there in the darkness
a secret world waited to be discovered—
a reality as yet unknown.

So while her minders slept
she wandered away from the team
knowing she’d never return.

Searching for a fantasy, perhaps
but
considering the stress and rush
of her daily routine
perhaps not such a foolish act.

A season has passed since then
and she still hasn’t found
the trail to that mystery world.
And so her ache has only grown:

a pain of desire—
a desire she has tracked
down
and down
to new depths in the heart.

The feeling demands expression.
So every evening she sits down
and begins to howl
from deep deep down.

Recently, on a new moon night
a mad wind carried her howl
to a snow dog faraway
stirring him from his slumbers.

The feeling in the sound roused
a feeling deep within him
and so he also begin to howl
from deep deep down.

The start of a chain reaction, it seems:

since then one dog after another
has been perked by some version of the howl
and by responding
each has discovered a truth
deep deep down—
the desire for a life greater, grander
than the one they know now.

The sled dog may never find
that new world.  But
what she uncovers in her search
will awaken new life
in this old dog world.

mythsteps · What the Sled Dog Found

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Singing the Words of Little Heavens

author’s note:

“He words me, girls, he words me!”
         -- Shakespeare, from Antony & Cleopatra


SINGING THE WORDS OF LITTLE HEAVENS

I once went to heaven in a dream

then labored to write of the experience
hoping to create an incantation
that would transport
all those trying to rise to the sky.

But I could not find words so divine--
any description seemed at best
a pale imitation of bliss.

Yet I continue
to attempt the impossible
and each time
I again feel what I lost
and as desire reawakens
I reach up

and again suffer
that old frustration and strain.

But I’ll go numb
if I just sit around--
occasionally I need to stretch
and besides

though I never touch
the heaven of my dreams
by trying, I lift myself
(at least a bit)
and while I’m up
I sing the words of little heavens.

mythsteps · Singing the Words of Little Heavens

Common Courage: poetry book
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, 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

Old Song of Youth

author’s note:

Do not resist the rose
lest you burn in its fire.
        -- Gabriela Mistral (trans. L. Hughes)


OLD SONG OF YOUTH

The poets of old were right:
spring does indeed sing
in the zesty blood of youth.

I remember a spring day years ago--
oh how I tried to ignore
that playful song
and focus on my schoolwork.

But then the rhapsody raised its pitch--
crying of sex, yes, but something more than sex.
So I stopped to listen
and began to feel
the bright green of spring
singing in my blood.

But though my spirit begged for expression
I fastened my mind and body down--
down!

Sitting here, decades later
I chide that starved student in my head--
telling him
he should’ve surrendered
and run through the blazing green fields.

But I’m cut short
as a breeze gushes
through the window--
in the rush
I swear I hear that dizzy kid whisper:
I’m still in your heart.

Suddenly
I feel the wild green song
move in my blood again--
no, not as fresh now
but with age comes a richer shade.

Today unlike yesterday
I’ll sing along--
I will go out into the spring field.

No, I can’t gallop as I once did
but the confinement of slower steps
will give me the time needed
to feel and to sing a deeper song.

Searching for My Best Beliefs: poetry book
finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, 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

The Fable of the Delusional Bird

author’s note:

While doing research for this poem, I discovered that use of the word “delusional” has sharply increased in recent years.

Just thought I’d throw that out there.


THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD

Why was the bird so madly ambitious?

We don’t know we only know
from a young age, the bird
wanted to create a song
that would endure after its death:

a song to be sung
down through the generations--
the beat would become part
of the heartbeat of this planet.

Though at first its tune
sounded quite puny
the little bird sang on

believing its sincerity

would one day transform the ditty
into a symphony worthy
of sophisticated orchestras.

A silly notion, yes
but one that encouraged the bird
to keep singing

through all those years
when its song of life
only had enough life
to shake the leaves.

The bird kept singing
even as its frustration
grew from a mild irritation
into a torment
and then a torture.

The bird continued then because
it could hear how that heartrending pain
actually helped to strengthen the song

and could feel how
its voice now sounded all the way down
through the trunk to the roots of the tree.

This development continues to develop
and so, the bird still believes
its song will eventually
deliver listeners into ecstasy.

If no wandering composer
offers to score the notes
the bird plans to fly from its tree
when the song finally feels
ripe to the point of bursting

then that avian will sow the seeds
of its complex melodies
all over the world
so that choirs everywhere can chorus
the wondrous composition.

A grand ambition, but
that bird is obviously suffering
from a delusion.
I shudder to imagine
what might happen
to the poor creature
if it ever wakes up to reality.

But to be honest,
behind my pity
there lurks a bit of envy.

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Gray Paper Heart

author's note:

I feel I'm learning a lot--though often I'm not aware of what I'm learning.

Looking back, I'll sometimes realize what I learned at a particular time.  But maybe not until long afterwards.


GRAY PAPER HEART

I once explored a stationery store
for an hour
in search of a sheet
from which I could cut
a gray paper heart

to match the one that’d vanished
when I reached down in a dream.

Somehow I knew
texture was even more important

than color in my choice.
So I traced my fingertips
across sheets of many grades and weaves--
each held its own particular pleasure.
Some felt almost right
which meant:
they were not the paper I sought.

Finally
like a magical moment in a fairy tale
I spied the one I knew was the one
at the end of the middle shelf:
a light-gray standard-size sheet, it was--
the fiber, somewhat coarse
but perfect in its imperfection.

I touched with trepidation
and in turn, was touched
by a material so quiet
yet so alive.

Something inside silently said:
I am that.
To which I replied:
“I don’t think I understand.”
And then no longer felt that something.

Not until the evening
when I began to work my scissors
tenderly into those fibers
did I remember
someone I once saw leaning
against the side of a stucco building
deep in shadow.

No, I didn’t see her face
just the back of her long plain gray dress.
I could hear her tears--
not dramatic, not bereft--
her sighing calm suggested
she didn’t want to but knew
she needed to cry.

I felt pained because
I desired to help her but could not.
So I soothed myself
with this understanding:
she didn’t need me.

Now, as I touch that cut heart
I feel the woman’s strength again.
Though quite human
she was also a vision.
Another lesson
in my education.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Human Who Sometimes Regresses

author's note:

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
                    -- Dr. Johnson


FABLE OF THE HUMAN WHO SOMETIMES REGRESSES

When I lived
as a wild hirsute beast
I moved toward pleasure
and moved away from pain

until the night I could not move
after an injury from a falling stone.

As I felt the life within began to ebb
I suddenly desired to see the world
I’d ignored--the world I was losing

and found, to my surprise
a living mystery
of moonlight and shadow
captured by this jungle
in its cage
of barbs and tangles.

But I awoke the next morning, alive--
yes, alive and beginning to heal--
given strength by the desire
to again witness beauty--
to experience
the grand inexpressible feelings
such witnessing brings.

But inexpressible feelings
demand expression
and so, in desperation
I discovered the faulty machine
known as “language”--

a tool some believe makes us human.

Maybe so, but maybe
we begin the process
when we first witness beauty.
In any case, I sometimes regress:
some animal in me still wants
to move away from the pain
of being human
and seek only numbing pleasure.

But oh--
so many stones
and even boulders
fall into my life (as with any life)--
sometimes, I can not escape
the pain of injury--

pain that may remind me
of the pain of that night.

But if it does, I then remember
how to soothe the wound
by opening to
this beautiful mystery.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Beautiful Nest

author’s note:

I think we can learn a lot by listening to birds.


BEAUTIFUL NEST

Watching the bird weave
shredded plastic
through the twigs and grass
of its nest
I again began to believe
I could realize my aspirations.

What can you do
in a junk culture that seems to want
only more junk?

Well, the bird says:
a few flashy threads
won’t ruin the beauty
of work made with
natural earth materials.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Singing in the Sun

author's note:

People once believed our souls went into birds after we died.

But why would they need our souls?  They have souls of their own.


SINGING IN THE SUN

Despite the danger
the bird built its nest
so high and open to the storm--
obviously it wants the sun.

That bird knows me:
its fretful notes sing of my worry.

Yet even in fear the bird sounds so strong.

The bird tells me:
yes, the cold wind
that shakes these limbs
also makes me shake
but I’ll be damn if I let
those blows stop me
from singing in the sun.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Opera of Life

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I don’t know opera.

But I do like the idea of opera--life amplified to its true grandness.


THE OPERA OF LIFE

Beginning at dawn
I can feel a song rising

if I stop to listen.

If I stop
I can feel
all those songs around me:
the song of the blue flames on the stove--
the song of the empty white cup--
the song of torn brown dish towel:

the room booms with a chorus.

If I stop to listen
to the opera of life
I feel prompted
to sing in response.

But many days I don’t want to stop:

what a pain to try to sing
when what I feel can’t possibly be sung--
even by a bird
much rarer than I

and besides
the opera of life
doesn’t seem to need my song.

But
I feel I’m a participant
when I sing in response
and an alien
when I shut down.

So I persuade myself
to accept the pain
then open my big ears
to the opera of life
then open my big mouth
and join that grand chorus.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Monkey King

author’s note:

Written at time when people could still monkey around.


THE MONKEY KING

Wishing to express
his secret self on Halloween
the man of aspiration planned
to go to the party
dressed as a warrior
or a king
or
a warrior-king

but the sales clerk told him:
“Sorry, but it seems
  this year everyone wants to be
  either some type of warrior
  or
  some type of royalty.
  All we have left on the rack
  is this monkey outfit.”

“But I don’t want to be a monkey,”
  the man whined.

“Think about it,” the clerk replied.
“Can an armored knight
  scale one hundred foot of jungle vine
  in a mere minute?
  Can a king swing from tree to tree?”

Though not quite persuaded
the man of aspiration acquiesced.

At least, I'll be unique, he thought.

But no!--
he arrived at the party house
to find
half the celebrants dressed
in the same monkey costume
he’d bought:
the shop had unloaded a truckload
purchased at discount.

That clerk made a monkey out of me
our man sighed as he deflated.

But in his humility
he shrugged what the hell
and lowered himself down
to join that crowd
in their monkeyshines.

And what a freedom of fun!--
those pretend-simians
flailed and hopped
in a dizzy giddy dance--
they filled the room
with their gibber-jabber--
occasionally bursting into
high-pitched hollers
that made the roof shingles shiver.

Some swung from the balustrade.
Some kept putting banana peels
under the heels
of those with upturned noses.

But then
towards the end of the evening
that barrel of monkeys
calmed a bit
and paired off to pick
imaginary bugs from synthetic hair.

In this way, our man met
a woman who, like him
dreamed of wearing
both sword and crown.

A good match
aided, I believe, by its low-brow
beginning--
consider:

better I first see you as monkey
before knowing you as royalty
otherwise
I may feel disillusioned
when I discover my highness
sometimes slides
all the way down to the ground
on a grapevine.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
40 New Fables: ebook

Song of a Wheat Plant

author’s note:

If I thought my poems were only about my own life, I wouldn’t bother.


SONG OF A WHEAT PLANT

I can’t escape the scythe
I can not avoid the millstone

but I can sing
when the cut sears--sing
as I’m ground down fine:

sing not only of pain
but also of joy--
sing the song
of the happy sacrifice

because
without this crucifixion
from blade and stone
I would not rise.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog

Talk Sing Walk Dance

author's note:

"I think of myself more as a song and dance man, y'know."
                -- Bob Dylan


TALK SING WALK DANCE

In the experiment of human life
I have realized this paradox:

the common activity
of walking and talking
quickly exhausts me
whereas
the exertion
of song and dance
gives me new breath.

So I've decided to see
every step as a dance move
and hear every word as a song note--

yeah, I say:
we dance and sing and dance
as we talk and walk and talk.

As a result of enacting this mindset
my sails fill out full
even when I'm doing the mundane stuff
such as filing files or talking to a robot.

Nevertheless
my lazy head often forgets this tactic

but then remembers
when I begin to huff again
and my legs grow leaden.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
searching for my best beliefs: poetry ebook

Joining the Chorus

author's note:

“Truth!  Stark naked truth...”
         -- John Cleland


JOINING THE CHORUS

Why should I be embarrassed
by this scar on my chin?--

after all
I have worked hard to heal
and I think I've stitched well.

Yet I feel still ashamed--
angry at how I allowed
myself to be wounded--
angry at my weakness.

Perhaps I can finally lift myself
above that injurious belief
by joining the chorus of those who sing:
these scars show our strength!

But to truly refresh us
confession must be honest
so I'll add to my song:
I haven't healed completely--
otherwise, you wouldn't see a scar.

Such relief as I raise my voice--
I'm so tired of trying to hide
the mark that defies the mask:

last night in a dream
a woman felt embarrassed
so I turned off the light

but I could still see her scars--
each one shone in the dark.

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

The Success of My Failure

author's note:

I never had anyone tell me a dream where afterwards my life had changed for the better.
     -- Richard Ford, from Writers Dreaming, by Naomi Epel


THE SUCCESS OF MY FAILURE

I hesitate to tell the dream

because my clumsy words
will trample its textured elegance

but we are cursed
with the blessed desire
to express the inexpressible

and though I will fail
I may still succeed
if the place I describe
reminds you of a place
from your own dreams

and so you again know
a feeling inexpressible.

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

The Fable of the Songbird & the Frog

author's note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


THE FABLE OF THE SONGBIRD & THE FROG

When the songbird told him
you're no match for me
the bullfrog countered:

by who's measure?--

yes, many have opened
their windows to your song

but the few who've opened to mine
recognize a beauty less obvious
so aren't they more refined?

Only a wise heart can find
the aria hidden within
my harsh slimy croaking.

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