The Goddess Blesses Me with Rain

author’s note:

For those who ask, “What’s her name?”

I say: use whatever name you wish.


THE GODDESS BLESSES ME WITH RAIN

The gifts of spring come naturally
because Earth tilts on its axis.

And yet I thank a goddess
for bringing the raindrops
that awaken my gray head—

in this moment
I feel I’m being blessed
by one who understands
the struggle of my winter.

With the breeze she tells me:
You needed Winter’s darkness.
But now’s the time to break the seed.
Open yourself to green glorious Spring.

Yes, I know about the tilt.
But I’d surely be a fool
to reject such a loving goddess.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

author’s note:

Someone once asked me if I ever wrote love poetry.

They’re all love poems.


THE LOVE LIFE OF THOSE WHO LIVE IN THE COLD

I asked my Arctic hosts
how they managed to thrive
in that frozen land.

And they replied:
we try to find ways
to love those hardships
we can’t escape.
For instance:

we love
the spring morning wind
that burns our face raw red—
we love when that cold fire shrieks:
I want to wake you from your stupor.

When some stir troubles us
we remember that goddess
and then feel grateful
for the disturbance on our waters.

We also love
the all-consuming darkness of winter—
in his murmurs we hear:
I’m here to help you
deepen down
into yourselves
so you can know
how much more you truly are.

Whenever a shadow falls upon us
we remember that winter god
and then feel grateful
for the darkness in our path.

Yes, in this extreme land
we might moan all the way to death
if we didn’t recognize the blessings
in the incessant adversity of our life.

I thanked those wise lovers then—
telling them:
maybe now I’ll feel grateful
for the disturbance and darkness
that stirs me
that deepens me
in my own frozen land.

mythsteps · The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Small Gods of the Mountain

author’s note:

Can I get a witness!


SMALL GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN

The old ones told us children:

gods lived on the mountain outside town
but we couldn’t see them
because the clouds shrouding the peak
hid them from sight.

However
if we really tried
we could sense their presence
despite the distance--
the old ones told us.

But though I made the effort
I could not feel
any higher spirits lurking
behind the clouds
of my paltry mundane life.

Finally, one morning
I decided I must defy the taboo
and set out to climb that mountain--
hoping to find those gods
and receive a blessing
that would fill my empty heart.

But far from the top
I got lost in the wet fog--
rasping for air
I sat down in defeat.

Only then did I notice the wildflowers--
softly small
yet they thrived
in that gray rock.
In the bone-chill.
I witnessed their strong spirit--

and when we see spirit
don’t we then see god?

Now
when I feel the need
for the healing blessing of beauty
I’ll often steal away to visit
those gods of many colors
that ignite the mountainside.

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

We Are The Sun and The Moon

author’s note:

I’ve never been cool.

But I have learned how to simmer.


WE ARE THE SUN AND THE MOON

As a child, The Sun God
played with burning coal
and in his gleeful carelessness
set his long hair ablaze.

Every day since that day
he’s run across the sky in ecstasy--
a gold flame illuminating his brain.

But though his light grows our crops
sometimes in his excitement
he allows his fire to rage too hot
and in the thrill of the moment
he’s able to ignore the pain in his skull

nor does he see
the swaths of black ash he then leaves
all across the Earth.

At the end of those over-heated days
he sinks down in exhaustion
and at rest in his ashes
he finally feels the wound in his head.

Then when his sister (The Moon)
sees him suffering
she feels her love again

and as her tears fall
to soothe his pain
her reservoir goes
from full to lean.
But then fills back up again

because she draws from a river
of endless goddess empathy.

The Sun God and The Moon God
show us who we are--
just as all gods do.
But unlike them
we have free will--
our tracks need not be ruts:

we can see our mistakes in their mad actions
then choose to change the way we roll.

Bear witness:
the story above helped me see
this obvious fact:
   though the fire in my mind
   sometimes gives light,
   I can burn myself (and others)
   when I rage too hot.

But if I can keep my blaze at even flame
I’ll no longer need
to bathe my wounded head at night.

Perhaps then I can use
the river of my empathy
to help soothe other heads
burned by their own rage.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Touching the Moon

author’s note:

From watching the moon
       I turned
       and my friend old
shadow led me home
       -- Shiki (trans. Beilenson/Behn)


TOUCHING THE MOON

I hate the moon tonight because
my stunted arms can’t grant
the wish of my starved hands
to touch the moon I love:
I love

the deep feelings
that orb provokes.

So despite the torture
I continue to gaze
into its inscrutable face

until my desire
finally seems unbearable.
Then I turn away

and weave my way
back through
this midnight wood.

But the moon follows me--
paints milk on leaves
beside the trail--
the shadows deepen in response
to this illumination.

I lay my hand on a stone
softened by moonglow
and touch the moon by touching that stone.

And again I realize:
though our gods and goddesses
seem so distant
we can still feel them
through all those things
that shine with their light.

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

Digging Up Her Arms

author’s note:

As stated in the poem, I did indeed dig by a stump as a boy...

During one of these excavations, I found a small diamond.  Naturally, that clear stone slipped from my hands.  Though I searched and searched, I could not find it.  But because I could not find it, that diamond has remained a diamond.


DIGGING UP HER ARMS

As a boy when I saw
that naked statute in the book
I wished to be a hero
and return those arms to her--

I dreamt she’d repay me
by stroking my hair
with the hands I’d found.
She’d touch my lips.

How I wanted
her nurturing arms!

What I sought then
I still seek now
but I no longer dig in the dirt
by the stump with a stick.

No--
after digging many
people, places, things
I finally found ways
to mine my own self--

ways to recover what I’d lost.

I no longer look for
one big bonanza strike--
as an archaeologist, I must uncover
the hands, the arms
piece by small piece.

A tedious excavation.
However, I grow stronger
with the labor required

and I wouldn’t want
the child to lose hope
that one day
the wounded woman
will again be whole.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry 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 Archaeologist

dear reader:

An appropriate poem for Valentine's Day, I think.


THE ARCHAEOLOGIST

Every morning before work
as he sits in his stifling tent
he says her name:

the name of the one once worshipped
at these ancient temple ruins--Her.

With knees lowered
and his head bowed
he feels that name within:

a presence greater
a presence foreign

and yet
there it is:
a part of him.

From the strength of that feeling
he believes he follows a higher calling
and so, every day, he's able to endure
the dust--
the tedious shifting through dirt
the sweating madness of the desert--

he can even calm the fights
under that merciless sun.

But sometimes at night
while lying on his stiff cot in the dark
after another day of grinding labor
with little gain
that name--the goddess name
may not feel so meaningful

and so, for solace and inspiration
he instead whispers that other name

by contrast, a rather plain name

but like that ancient goddess
the woman of the plain name
also holds a cup to the sun:

no, not a cup of sanctified water--
maybe just a cup of strong coffee
or maybe a cup of stone-cut oats

but aren't such things also holy?--

this woman, not a goddess
but not wholly unlike one.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
finding Beauty: poetry ebook