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
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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
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© 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
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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
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© 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
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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
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Opulence

author’s note:

It’s all true.  Except for the line about lips ravishing a pig.


OPULENCE

The haphazard search
of my youth
led me to many educational places
including
that verdant rolling campus
I came to on a Sunday afternoon.

There, atop a hill
a band played on an electric stage
while young folk sprawled all over the lawn
in carefully-ripped designer jeans.
Bottles passed from hand to hand.
Lips ravished a pig roasted on a spit.

I responded to the scene with this one word:

“Opulence”

and maybe because I’d walked all day
or maybe because highs
are indeed contagious
I soon became thick dizzy sluggish
and slumped to the ground.

But despite my dimness
as I lay there, I could sense
a tired malaise
pervading the festivities.
What could be the cause?

Why didn’t we shimmy with the breezy trees?
Or flow with the glowing clouds?
The big beat did not move us.

As children, we’d loved
the winking wings of butterflies.
But now we only liked.

Perhaps we’d let our life of abundance
numb us.
In just a short time we’d taken in so much.
Too much.  Much too much.

Shocked awake by the thought
I feared for my life.
Fighting fatigue, I stood
and wobbled back down the hill.

Yes, I learned a lesson that day.
Nonetheless
in this land of excess
I usually forget
to savor life in small sips.

But when I stop
and actually feel what I touch
hear what I hear
see what I see
and taste what I taste—

when I become aware
of what I’m taking in
and in so doing, deepen
my experience of life…

I feel a little scared

because then this world
and myself in it
seem so strange.

At such moments
I feel alive in body and spirit.
And know true opulence.

mythsteps · Opulence

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2024, 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
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

author’s note:

While you give to me and I give to you
True love, true love
          — “True Love”, Cole Porter


THE TREE SPEAKS TO THE TREE HUGGER

As a tree, I can see
you now fight the need
to release your abundant burden of love.
But please, surrender:
encircle me with your weary arms—
I am here to accept your offering.

As a tree, I know
you struggle because
after so much hurt
you dare not touch
anything at all.

You’re trying to escape—
you’ve numbed the pain
you’ve numbed the love.
Neither living nor dead—
you’re one more lost ghost.

But I trust your higher instinct—
I trust
your irrepressible desire for life
will eventually lift you above your fear.

Nonetheless
this separation pains me.
Yes, humans need trees
but trees also need humans—
I’m only complete when I can be
what I am meant to be:
I need to serve up comfort
to people who need
to serve up their love.

I give breath to you—
you give breath to me.
Not just the physical breath—
neither one of us can live long without
the spiritual breath of the heart.

mythsteps · The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Woman who Rises and Falls and Rises

author’s note:

Dedicated with fond appreciation to Aesop (c. 620-564 BCE).


THE FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO RISES AND FALLS AND RISES

For a long while
she’d walked and fought this desert
and in doing so, felt proud
because she’d proved
she was tough enough
to endure the sun and dust and wind
and keep marching.

But here’s what
that motivational book doesn’t tell you:
we all live with limitations.
In her head she told herself she was winning
but the fatigue in her heart said
you are definitely losing.

However old beliefs
don’t die that easily
--she marched on.

But even camels must bow down
occasionally--
eventually
she lost her argument with gravity
and fell to her knees.

But then she won again--won
because down in the rock and sand
she admitted defeat.
Not a popular word: “humility”--
we keep trying to forget that truth
even as the wise ones
keep trying to remind us.

In that state, she grieved
for her poor weak foolish self
until she finally tired of grieving

then
as she folded back out
she realized how fertile
a barren land could be
when you allow yourself
the honesty of feeling.

But in short time
that old urge rose again--
she felt the need to march on.

But as she stood she told herself:
this time I must remember
what I keep forgetting:
I need to lower myself down
now and then--
’cause if I don’t
I’m doomed to fall.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth
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© 2022, 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.

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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

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
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© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Our New God

author’s note:

The plywood pictured above wanted to be an artist…

But lacking canvas and brushes, what could it do?  It did what all wise boards do: it used the weather of years to transform itself into a work of art.


OUR NEW GOD

Though we maintain many gods
that serve us in all sorts of ways
I think we need one more

to occasionally help us regain our wits.

The new god we’ll create
won’t guide us on questions
of morality
or the purpose of life.
No

this god will simply say:
you can feel me and know me
by becoming quiet
and listening down within.

Then maybe, feeling curious
we’ll stop and listen
and perhaps for the first time
experience
the mystery of silence.

And when we return
to the world outside
in our new clarity, we’ll begin to sense
the secret silence--
the invisible shadow
within everything
--even the air--

and realize:
the spirit of this god
lives everywhere.

I’m sure some will challenge
the reality of our invented god.
To them, I say:
any mystery so deeply felt
must be real

and to feel what’s really real
is a good way to keep one’s wits
in these witless times.
Time to be with this god.

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© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Freedom Feet

author’s note:

As I see it, there’s foolish risk and there's wise risk.


FREEDOM FEET

Hoping to wake myself
from a stupor induced by security
today
I set my feet free:

no socks, no shoes--open again

to many hazards--
such as shards of broken glass
lurking like sharks in the grass

but I could feel

the freshness
of that wet spring grass
and squeeze
luscious cool mud
between my pale toes.

The shock of touch
created bursts of interior fireworks.
My body saw the world once more.

Today
as my eyes felt
the flow of clouds
my soles listened to a river
coursing through the veins
of an underground cave.

Today
I resurrected myself
through a small act of courage.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 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

The Man Who Secretly Searches for Sophie

author's note:

Who is the man in this poem?

To answer that question would require a list so long it’d stretch all the way around the world.


THE MAN WHO SECRETLY SEARCHES FOR SOPHIE

The man of this story
lost Sophie so long ago
he doesn’t know he lost her

nor does he realize
how he searches for her

or how he sees her everywhere:

in the glowing pearl earring
found suddenly in a dark theater

in a soft hand print
on a frosted window
highlighted by the moon.

But also in vistas grand:

in a smokey orange sunrise cloud
building high above
a sea of shadowy pink.

So much of life echoes “Sophie”
to this searcher

including the way
the peasant woman in the photo
kneels at the creek as she scrubs
that pile of clothes
--he likes how her long black hair
   hangs down, touching
   the silver rippling water.

Fool that he is
he imagines himself standing near--
hands behind his back--
as he tries to say in broken language
how hot the sun feels.

She then lifts her gentle eyes to him--
a silent knowing gaze
that brings to mind
the monolithic goddess
that appeared in the darkness of a dream
when he felt so helpless.

Absorbed in that second image
our hero suddenly feels
a foundation of love within
the creaky hardwood of his chest:

a stone foundation resolute--immovable.

But in the next moment he turns the page--
though a dreamer, his tolerance for depth
has its limits.

Oh, but I haven’t given up on him:
I believe in time he’ll feel so desperate
He won’t flee
but stay there in his heart

and when he touches that stone
he’ll hear an inner voice--
(strange yet recognized as his own)
and he’ll sense
how those dark hushed tones
joyfully incessantly repeat this name
as a holy incantation:

Sophie…Sophie…Sophie…

Soultime: a novel
© 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

Luminous Living Things

LUMINOUS LIVING THINGS

I tried to satisfy my hunger
by finding Zeus in the clouds.

But apparently the sky god
had abandoned his throne.

Finally, in sad frustration
I looked down.

Only then did I begin to notice
all those luminous living things
on the ground:

things that want to be seen--
things that need to be seen--
things that can feed me

including this stream
with its myriad slivers of sun
dazzling--
silver ribbons twisting
yet remaining in place
as the waters slide on--
rippling with gentle excitement.

If I’m patient
sight and sound then become
a feeling:
too much for my chest
but my heart wants more.

At such moments
I feel blessed
to live in a world
abandoned by Zeus.

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

A Deep Drop

author’s note:

You’re just as much a paradox as I am.


A DEEP DROP

Before I fell asleep in the field
I recalled the waterdrop seen
on that dark-purple flower petal

and felt: I’m just a drop.

But as consciousness
slowly evaporated
into darkness
I felt myself
deepening down.

Then when I awoke
after an hour
or maybe a month
I remembered feeling
so small.
I remembered feeling
so deep.

I felt our truth again.

So easy to forget.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton