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
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you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Bless the Starlings

author’s note:

I don’t think they like me either.


BLESS THE STARLINGS

Yesterday I woke at dawn
with a sense of disturbance.
Looking out the window
I then saw the cause:

a hundred starlings loitered in my yard.

A foul fowl in my opinion:
traveling in herds, they shove out all the other birds.
Arrogant.  Ignorant.  Belligerent.
Their voices always full of complaint.

So I waved my arms
and shooed those devils away.

But they merely circled round
and settled back down on my lawn.

So again I waved and shouted.

Only to see the flock return moments later
with dozens more in its defiant chorus.

After two more tries
I finally said with a sigh:
“Okay you feathered fiends, you win.”

Then went inside.

But I could still hear
the racket of that flock—
the fidgety fluttering, the raspy chattering.

But what could I do?

I saw no other option
but to fall back on my bed
and try to accept what I’d rejected.
Maybe I could become accustomed
to the torture.
Then my anger might unclench its fist
and I would know calm within.

And indeed—
as I endured patiently
I felt the ruckus slowly settle down
to a dull innocuous murmuring.
Yes, I achieved a relative peace.

Then suddenly all grew still
both inside and out.

I realized the starlings had fled.
By surrendering, I’d won.

But that vacuum was soon filled
as my inner monologue began again—
amplified now by the quiet.

That spiel spills out
with hardly a pause
during my waking hours.
Sometimes the words come from
an elevated place.
But more often the words come
from a place lower down.
That’s not what I want to hear from myself.
But I haven’t found a way
to shut that base voice down.

Sometimes I’ll stop
and shoo that noise away.
But too soon the disturbance returns.

Yeah—
just like those starlings on my lawn yesterday.

My opinion of the species
remains pretty much the same
and yet, I bless them now—

through those birds perhaps I’ve learned
a way to come to terms
with that lowdown being inside of me
fighting for survival.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Fool who Kicked

author’s note:

I’m embarrassed to say: based on a true story.


FABLE OF THE FOOL WHO KICKED

Considering
all the obstinate obtuse obstacles
I’ve encountered on this path...

I naturally felt frustrated
at that librarian kneeling in the aisle
between the bookshelves--
he must have known
I stood behind him, waiting to pass.

So I felt justified in giving him
a little kick on the heel of his shoe--
after all, I’d been told:
you must assert your rights as an individual!

Only later did I see:
I’d wanted to ease the pain
of so many losses
by scoring a small win
in the history section.

But as soon as my toe hit his heel
the violence of the act, though slight
awoke my higher self.
As if by instinct, I felt ashamed.
Again, I saw:
causing hurt does not cure your hurt.

So even though that humble man said
"oh excuse me"
I rushed to declare
"I'm terribly sorry—please forgive me!"

Later at home
I tried to relieve my guilt
by making right foot strike left foot--

once...twice...
then I realized:
instead of kicking just one person
I’d now kicked two.

As I relate this story
I’m embarrassed
but not discouraged

if we grow through humility
maybe by retelling this tale

I’ve grown just a little closer
to becoming
a fool who never aims his toe--
or better yet:
one who doesn’t even want to kick.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths: ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

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

Obedient Scrub

author’s note:

I now realize: I may have written a Taoist poem.


OBEDIENT SCRUB

Though I hammered
and rammed
the wall did not crack
but instead, seemed to grow
even more resistant.

So
I decided to use
a different tactic:

I began to scrub—
hoping to erode
that obstruction.

But after decades of persistent effort
I realized a painful fact:

though I’d made significant progress
at this rate, I could work ‘til death
and that defense would still seem
too much a part of me.

Nonetheless
I’ve continued this slow attrition

because

I feel better when I obey
the desire of my heart—
the desire

to wear down that block wall.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
my war for peace: poetry ebook

Spinning & Turning

author's note:

With regret, I cut these lines from the poem below:

"as any witch who sweeps at night
  would tell you:
  change often goes unnoticed."


SPINNING & TURNING

A year or so ago
I awoke from a dream
of a cock crowing on a rooftop--
silhouetted distinctly
by the pink-gold of a rising sun

which I believed symbolized
the arrival of a glorious new life
after decades of hard labor.

But when the weeks passed
and I continued to spin
without appearing to turn
I began to doubt again--

what more could I do
to shatter whatever invisible barrier
blocked my forward progress?--

perhaps something new
would bring in the new

so I began a slew
of fresh healthy activities:

I chanted along
with a recording of monks

and wrote daily in a dream journal--
analyzing scenes of mirrors and fog.

I surreptitiously laid
a stone walkway
in our city park--
a monument to the many strong people
working in the shadows
for the good of all.

I rearranged my files
then rearranged the rearrangement--

signaling to
the powers that be
(maybe outside, maybe within me)
that I was quite ready
for the disruption
of a new beginning.

But despite all I did
I still seemed to spin
without turning

so I again darkened with doubt

until a dream showed
pink-gold sunrays
erasing the gray
of a skylight above me.

Waking in joy
I then began to crow--
finally I understood:

though the mornings
may seem the same
I am turning my world.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
searching for my best beliefs: poetry ebook