The Ribbon

author’s note:

I hope the moon is shining on you this holiday season.


THE RIBBON

Tonight, I tried to tie a ribbon
into a happy bow

but somehow
the two ends kept slipping
from my hands.  Kept slipping
from fingertips well-trained.

Just this morning I’d tied
a yellow bow so neat.
So symmetrical.
Had I lost that skill so suddenly?

Then I recalled
what I’d learned many times before:

some things say “no no no”
when you try to force them
to be the way you want them to be
instead of the way they are.
Don’t try to be stubborn
with such stubborn things.
Just let them be, let them go.

And so I stepped outside
and let the ribbon fly with the wind—
its waves and twirls flashing
in the winter moonlight.
Away away.

Though pleased
with my kindness
I also felt a little foolish—
I must not forget
to listen to things.
To listen to this world.
To listen listen listen
to the ribbon I am.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why the Rose Keeps Blooming

author’s note:

The proof of what I say is you.


WHY THE ROSE KEEPS BLOOMING

Some believe
the rose struggles to break free from the bud
because it wants to be lovely
but no—
it’s possessed by a mad desire to live.

However
after opening its eyes
the flower may discover
it resides inside a little cage.

The rose may then sink into self-pity
but soon enough
that willful plant will rise up
to protest the injustice
and as the flower finds its strength
a new bloom will come from the old one.

The bars of the cage
will then surrender to its power
and fall down to the ground
like the dead shards of a husk.

But alas!—
beyond the parameters of fallen cell
the rose will find another cell.
So though our hero enjoys
the extra space it’s earned
it still feels caged.

And so, as before
the rose will rebel
and by struggling, grow some more
and so
the bloom will bloom once more.

But just as before
after the cage breaks open
a new cage will emerge from the shadows.

In this way, that stubborn perennial
will move through a succession of cages.
The irony is:
because it expands with each new blooming
no cell ever feels big enough for that plant.
And so, the rose continues to grow
to the very end.

Maybe like me
you look at your petals
and see brown blotches
and ragged edges—
our blooms reveal our battle wounds—
yes, in this fight for life we’re scarred.

So I will try to solace you now
by telling you what I tell myself:
a flower with a blemished blossom
always speaks lovelier
than one still stuck in a spotless bud.

mythsteps · why the rose keeps blooming

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

A Brief Reprieve

author’s note:

And that’s probably more than you want to see.


A BRIEF REPRIEVE

I wanted to feel what the poets feel
when they say:
I am a child of nature.

So I decided to go to the forest alone
and throw off all my clothes.
I wanted to feel at one with
all the trees and rocks and birds and squirrels.

But as I began to disrobe
a stern voice within me said:
“Though your skin be bare
  underneath you’ll still wear
  the suit of your civilized self.”

After a thoughtful pause
I then answered,
“Well, maybe so.
  But I’ll tell you why I’m going to try:

“As children, sometimes we’d dress up
  and pretend to be adults.
  That harmless fantasy
  would give us a brief reprieve
  from the frustrating smallness of childhood.”

“Now, in adulthood
  I often feel frustrated
  by the smallness of this civilized suit.

“But maybe today I can get a brief reprieve
  by throwing off my outer armor
  and pretending to be
  a child of nature
  frolicking naked in a forest garden.”

mythsteps · a brief reprieve

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Declaration of Independence

author's note:

This poem has become my Fourth of July tradition.

Happy birthday, America!--I love your mad beauty, despite the flaws.


DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

I'll be damn if I'll be terrorized
by anyone

including the beast in my mirror.

If I can face that monster
why should I cower
before those who lack
the courage to look
into their own reflections?

When they bombard me
my legs may tremble
but I won't sit--
no, I'll pirouette
in a defiant dance of joy!

And if they curse me
with cutting words
I’ll answer with a song designed
to soothe the wounds
that are theirs and mine.

But my empathy still has limits:
I must heal myself more before
I have heart enough to love them.

So though I declare with sincerity
I can not yet say
I’m completely free.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Same Creek

author’s note:

Take me to the river
And wash me down
Won't you cleanse my soul
Put my feet on the ground
       -- “Take Me to the River”, by Al Green & Teenie Hodges

I say: take yourself.


THE SAME CREEK

Whoever says you can't step
in the same creek twice
obviously doesn't know creeks.

Over the years
I’ve often returned to this creek

and it has always welcomed me
saying: step in

and I will wash your feet clean
no matter where you've been
since you last knelt on my bank.

Why shouldn’t I accept you?--
after all, no human can walk without
getting their feet a little muddy

and often more than a little
even when they tread carefully.

But sometimes a pilgrim needs
to become mired in the muck.
Otherwise, they’d never work to be free.

Of course, there are those
who choose to wallow

but aren’t they innocent in their ignorance?

So how can I refuse them
when, like you, they lament
their dim-sighted foolishness
and crawl down to my waters?

But credit yourself
with being wise enough
to realize what you win
by rediscovering your humility
and surrendering
to this creek
once again.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Armadillo Mirror

author’s note:

Another mirror.


ARMADILLO MIRROR

I try so hard to see
but seem to make little progress

except when some sight jolts
my eyes open
to another obvious secret.

As on that night
when I stood
gazing at a half-moon
while lamenting
my lack of accomplishment

until a rustling sound
suddenly pulled me out of the clouds--

down on the lawn
I found an armadillo
rummaging through the leaves.

Fascinated
I watched that little armored grubber
trundling along on its bitty legs:
a dwarf clawing for its life
in the medieval dark.

Such resolve!
An irrepressible spirit!
Thriving despite all the hardships--
an accomplishment, to be sure.

As that creature is, so are you--
I whispered this secret to myself
as if channeling a deep soul.

But before my pride
could rise too high
I was struck again
by another realization:

yes, it’s found a way to survive
but eventually, shells limit us--
as any bird chick will tell you.

Can I ever convince myself
I’m strong enough
to live free from this cell?

Will we ever convince ourselves
we’re strong enough?

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Grief Waters

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: based on a true story.


GRIEF WATERS

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water

hoping to create a cathartic ritual
that would free me from
my burden of emotion.

I believed the opera I felt inside
required an ocean.
So I drove from the city
to a nearby bay
and after stripping down
waded out toward a red sun
dying on the horizon.

When the cold waters had reached
my hiccupping heart
I stopped

and stood
ankle-deep in the sediment muck
of that rank brown bay brew.
Amoebas of oil and gasoline
slithered on waves
bloodied by the sunset.

I then realized
I’d not bothered to formulate
any words or movements
for this ritual
so I merely waited--hoping
miracle healings do indeed come to those
who are sincere.

But in the quiet
of the ticking moments
I began to see this act
as a fancy performed by a fool
who’s seen too many movies

so I gave up in embarrassment
and just let the waters sway me.

Then, as my eyes settled on
a distant cloud aflame
I slipped into an accidental meditation--
I lost all thought--lost time

until brought back
by an electric chill
needling my clammy skin.

But with that awakening
I saw again
the glorious strangeness of this world
and our life in it.
Have you ever found yourself
by losing yourself?

Refreshed by a satisfying emptiness
I pulled my feet up from the muck
and walked myself back out.

My poorly-formed ritual
had somehow tripped a switch.
I drove home with a desire for life
missing since the death.

Years later
when I think of that loss
I still feel a lingering shadow of sadness
but I also remember
those blessed grief waters--
that wonderfully-strange sunset--
the flame that hides
at the end of our day
but never dies.

mythsteps · Grief Waters

you tube channel
Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Wise Words of the Butterfly Soul

author’s note:

I’m trying to tell myself the truth.


THE WISE WORDS OF THE BUTTERFLY SOUL

According to legend...

when lost in battle
warriors sometimes come back
as phantom butterflies
to deliver wise messages of guidance.

So when I sensed
those wings fluttering
around my ears
I knew you’d returned to me

and I waited, hoping to hear
magical wise words
that would unlock my heart.
And then
in a sudden burst of freedom
I’d know true peace.

But you just whispered
this short flat instruction
then flew away:

before you can see the stars
you must first lower your eyes.

Dreaded action!--
but as the legend says:
the dead can see better than we do
because they have nothing left to lose.

And so I looked down to address
that mud heap of grief on my plate

while telling myself this second legend:

after the prison pauper ate and digested
his slop-mess dinner
lo and behold!--
the ceiling lifted
and his plate reflected
a fulsome night of stars.

Wise words can’t do the work for us
or give us strength
but without those wise words
I wouldn’t struggle so hard
to find the strength
to work for the peace of freedom.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Bag of Monkeys

author’s note:

Buddhist teaching tells us that the mind is a monkey chained to a post.

I keep trying to add links.  But carefully, carefully.


BAG OF MONKEYS

At birth, I was given
a bag of monkeys to carry.

A blessing and a burden:
a carnival to enjoy
but a task of management--
how to control without killing
the playful hijinks.

Fortunately, I now allow myself
to escape this struggle
by retreating to the high countryside
where I can open that bag
and let the monkeys dance
as I exhale in release.

But though I can occasionally feel at peace
I know I’m not yet a man of peace
and would never become one
if I remained on that mountain.

No matter what I accomplish
I’ll never feel myself a success unless
I can walk with that bag
balanced on my head
through our rowdy simian carnival.

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

Freedom Fighter

author’s note:

I believe my battles are battles fought by the whole human race.


FREEDOM FIGHTER

I built these walls
because I desired security

but once inside, I discovered
my strong desire for freedom.

Hoping to stave off starvation
I stocked this larder with a lot of stuff

but after stuffing myself with so much
I discovered greater hungers.

I now see how I secretly set myself up
for a liberation victory:
   driven by higher desires
   I’ll struggle to subdue my fear
   and in that way
   spring myself from this jail.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Soultime: a novel

Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

author's note:

Skylark
have you anythng to say to me?
          -- Skylark, by Hoagy Carmichael


Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

Our ancient ancestors believed
the souls of the departed
inhabited the bodies of birds

but maybe they got it backwards:

long ago on a quiet evening
I detected down in my heart
a restless rustling
of ghostly feathers and wings--

a meadowlark, I hoped
(but I could accept a starling).
In any case,
I then understood

why
I lift my arms to the open sky--
I want that union again.
I want the paradox
of being free while obeying
currents above the mundane.

Aren’t we all birds?

Maybe some will say: not me.
But if you feel those rustlings too
I’ll tell you what I do:

knowing I must wait before
I can return to my lark life
I ease the pain of desire
by quieting myself down
occasionally
so I can hear that bird sing
and then remember:
a bird on the ground
is still a bird.

Though I realize
I can’t recreate such song
I still try
because sometimes then
I meet the sky

at least, for a short time.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven's Song: a novel

Birdsong

author’s note:

With regret, I cut this line from the poem below:

“often you must become less / before you can become more”.


BIRDSONG

A bird outside my window
sang this song to me:

“Listen,
  I know something about hatching--
  I know
  you feel ready to break out
  but some invisible force
  seems to hold you back.

“Well, you can find the truth
  behind this dilemma
  if you listen to me
  inside yourself.”

I wished to learn more
but the bird flew away
so following its hint
I went within
and found in the dark a little cage

then as I worked to pry its door open
I began to hear a birdsong

that told me
while you ache for release
you tremble at the thought of freedom--

that told me
while you silently scream
from the pain of confinement
you also snore in security--

that told me
you’re building strength
through the tension
of this conflict.
Would you work so hard
to create peace
if you didn’t feel such distress?

The song also said
don’t forget to see humor
in the irony of your dilemma--
a few light notes can lift you
as you sing of your truth--
those light notes can brighten your light
for a world still living in a dark shell.

I’m trying to follow that advice.
But even when my notes
fall like sighs
the melody soothes the hurt
and in that way
bolsters my spirit
if not yours.

Dancing to Raven's Song: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

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

YouTube channel

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

The Great Obsession of the Hotel Ghost

author's note:

I’m not a ghost…but I have been mistaken for one.


THE GREAT OBSESSION OF THE HOTEL GHOST

Our tour guide says:
the woman walks the same path
night after lonely night--
sometimes, guests
can hear her soft steps
on the hallway carpet
just outside their door.

A forlorn lady, yes--but
I see her fixation as positive:
I believe some ghosts relive
the same tragedy relentlessly
because
they’re trying to see
a higher reason--
they ask:
can a life that seems so damned
have a grand plan?--
they want the wisdom
that will set them free.

Maybe at first
the ghost expects this wisdom to come
in a sudden blazing beam of light from above

but in time, realizes
the light must slowly be raised
from depths within.

Then, as she delves down
maybe she’ll find a design
of cause and effect
but based on my own experience
I’d guess:
intellectual insight
won’t be enough to free her--
no

she needs to delve until she feels
the truth of what
she’d always been taught:
“all is as it should be”--

what I’ve sometimes felt
in a sudden moment--
a moment too soon gone
because
I’m still too dim to hold on to
that great sense of perfection.

However, I believe
if we keep delving and lifting
eventually that sense
will remain with us
then we’ll finally shed
our old dark chains.

But as the tour guide says:
though ghosts will abandon their haunts
they do so only gradually--
slowly fading over years--
decades.

Yes, decades--but
I can see how
with each delve, I lift
just a bit more light
than on the previous night.

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

Working with Water

author's note:

"Walking on water wasn't built in a day."
                  -- Jack Kerouac


WORKING WITH WATER

When I realized
what mental blocks
held me in check
I thought
(or hoped)
I could just jump over
those impediments

but though I was often able to elevate
I'd always land back in captivity

finally I conceded:
one must wear down such resistances
slowly--
the way water wears down rock.

Now, many years later
I'm still working to rid myself
of various barriers
through the tedious process
of erosion

even though I've come to see:
no matter how much I scrub
I'll never be completely free

but the more freedom I earn
the more I want
so though I may pause
I'll never stop washing

and besides

life constantly pours water
down our back
so why not use it
to optimal effect?

A child will whine about a bath
yet jump into a bubbling fountain
and dance

so whenever I'm doused
nearly to drowning
I tell myself:
think of the fountain of your life
and dance

dance and scrub and dance.

what I learned while alone: poetry ebook
© 2017, Michael R. Patton

Lionix

author’s note:

“The lamb will lie down with the lion...but the lamb won’t get very much sleep.”
                  –  Woody Allen


LIONIX

The lion presses its paw
down onto my back
as I sleep, my face into the pillow.

If I look up
I fear
the claws may fall
into my eyes.

No matter--I can’t turn around
with that paw pushing down.
I have a mouthful of goosedown:
I’m nearly suffocating.

Now the lion begins to stroke
through my flesh
--as casually as raking leaves.
Showing some slight curiosity.

But of course--a cat.

Has the beast
come to free me?
To dig down
all the way
to my heart?

The lion lifts its paw
to claw again.
I seize the moment--turn over--

to face its wet black nose,
the splendid teeth,
splintery whiskers.
Those golden
dispassionate eyes.

If I am to be freed
through such rude treatment
I want first to address my unmasker.

But the lion clamps its free paw
over my mouth
while the other paw
now digs into
that most tender place.

The indignity!

I grab the leg
at the foot joint
and try to pry the paw loose.

I don’t want to scream,
merely to speak,
to tell the lion
just what I think--
       make the big cat
       feel shame,
       if at all possible.

But then I realize
I’m only trying
to defend myself.

So I let go of the leg.

I have nothing to say
to the beast now
except,
          “Hurry up.”

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps