Pep Talk

author’s note:

“Good to the last drop”
           -- Maxwell House coffee slogan


PEP TALK

Have you ever felt the saggy feeling
of playing for a team
that loses game after game?

You may enter each match
with hope
with determination
but after so many losses
you can’t quite shake the feeling
your efforts will end in defeat
no matter how hard you fight.

You may then try
to soothe your wounds
by saying:
At least, we made them earn their win.
But deep into the season
the harsh gray sound of cynicism
can be heard beneath that positive statement.

At that point
you merely wish to hang in
’til the last minute of the last game—
you want to show courage
you want to show strength
as you sit in the locker room
with blood sweating down your face.

At such low times
I force myself to stand
then force my legs to dance—
then force my voice to sing
a song that says:

“I build power in my heart
  as I stare into the abyss
  of another painful loss.
  In this way, I could one day become
  a saint who eases suffering—
  the patron saint of perpetual losers.

“So I must keep playing.
  No time to retire.
  I’ll retire when I die.
  And maybe not even then.”

Road to Somewhere: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

How the Family Found Their Grief

author’s note:

Maybe my family should’ve sung together.  We might have learned harmony.


HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF

In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.

But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.

Their music lightened many hearts.

But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.

Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.

By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.

They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—

their indifference now seemed monstrous.

A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center
of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.

Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.

Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.

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

My Festive Song and Dance

author’s note:

My dancing feet refuse to learn dance steps.  I think they just want to be free.


MY FESTIVE SONG AND DANCE

I told the wise one:

“The love I feel in my heart
  seems inadequate for the task of life—
  I’ve tried but can not lose
  that quietly persistent sense of lack.”

And in reply the wise one said:

“Yes, you love the rain
  but you hate
  when rainwater floods your lot.
  And yes, you love the sun
  but you hate
  when those fiery rays scorch your crops.”

Aided by her insight I then saw the obvious:

If I saved my love for those parts of life I liked
my love would never fully develop—
I also needed to love the hardships I dreaded.

So I tried to love the times of pain:
I danced when merciless storms came
and sang a song of love
when the sun seemed so uncaring.

But despite my festive efforts
I still could not quite love
the fire and the flood.
However
since I loved to dance and sing
I did feel some love in my heart
during weather that seemed unfair.

But still not enough, not enough.

So I continue to try
to learn to love the deluge that ruins
as well as the sun’s cruel nonchalance.
Not easy work to be sure, but made easier
by my stubborn song and dance of love.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Metaphor in the Gray Season of Rain

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


METAPHOR IN THE GRAY SEASON OF RAIN

Yes, I’m caught in the flood
of a cold gray season of rain.
But please, don’t worry about me:

Though sad, I’m not drowning—
I now know how to swim in these waters.
I know I can reach the distant shore.

Yes, I sometimes become tired
in the effort
and feel I might sink.
But then I lie all the way back
and spread my arms out wide
and give myself up
to the hard wash of rain.
Painful to open so boldly
but this way, I’m able to stay afloat.

As you can see
I’ve learned from metaphor
how to survive times such as these.
So please
don’t grieve my grieving.

But if you feel you must
say something
I’ll give you this hint:
I become even more buoyant
when somebody praises my buoyancy.

Butterfly Soul: poems of death & grief & joy
dream steps blog
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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
that 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Living with Ghosts

author’s note:

A long time ago, I learned to make pain my friend.
              -- Kid USA, pro wrestler


LIVING WITH GHOSTS

I’ve learned:
I can’t get rid of a ghost by shouting
Leave me alone!
No—
curses and pleading
will not dislodge a ghost.

Nor can I outrun them.
For years, I sped like a bullet train
but when finally forced to stop
my ghosts shot out of the shadows.

Sometimes a ghost may seem
to disappear completely.
But then something I hear or see
will raise that wraith from the grave.

I’ve wrestled with my specters for years
and lost a million times or more.
So now I’m trying a new strategy:

whenever a ghost resurrects
and an old wound wounds me once more
I’ll try to remain calm
and say quite casually:
Well, hello my old companion—
stay if you want—leave when you wish.
No, I’m not finally at peace with you
but I waste so much energy
when I try to fight or flee.

However
I won’t sit
when your sadness
tries to leaden my heart—
No!
I’ll leap and skip in a golden dance.
Though I can’t deny you, I can defy you.

But maybe I should thank you.
Didn’t I learn through you?—
Didn’t I grow?
Yes, and now I’ll learn even more
by staring deep into your eyes
with all their shades of blue.

But though I say in my head:
You should embrace that ghost
my words I haven’t yet convinced my heart.
So until I grow some more
the best I can do is accept you
and dance dance dance—
dance ‘til the night becomes dawn.

mythsteps · living with ghosts

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Cry as I Laugh

author’s note:

AI wanted to help me write this poem.  But I said:

“Get a little more life experience under your belt, then we’ll talk.”


WHY I CRY AS I LAUGH

One night as I laughed
at that couple on TV
they suddenly turned to me
and with their icy eyes, said:

Why do you laugh as we argue?
What’s so funny about
two people constantly fighting?

In that moment, I realized a secret
that I then shared with them:

“Those silly battles you engage in
  echo my own inner conflicts.

“So when I laugh at you
  I’m actually laughing at myself.
  Allow me this release, please—
  I need to laugh, otherwise I’ll cry
  at my failure to create peace in my heart.”

The ice in their eyes then began to melt.

But as they wept for me
they also wept for themselves,
knowing now how
all those battles on the show
echoed their own unresolved inner conflicts.

Seeing their grief
I could no longer hold back—
I wept for all of us, I wept
until I realized
we could drown in that deep dark blue.

So then I found a reason to laugh
as I cried—
yes
I chuckled, I guffawed, I chortled.
“How absurd!” I said to my companions.
  I want to heal the world
  but can’t even heal my own head.”

The couple then began to laugh with me.
We laughed as we cried.
And in that way
kept ourselves from sinking
down into darkness.

Since that episode
the couple have stuck to the script
and continue to bicker every week
over every little thing.

But now as I laugh at them I also cry:
I allow myself to laugh
because the relief lifts me up.
But I also allow myself to cry
because when I grieve this war
I become even more determined
to create a lasting peace in my purple heart.

mythsteps · why I cry as I laugh

My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Opening for a Morning

author’s note:

The recording may sound a little rough, but I refuse to use auto-tune.


OPEN FOR A MORNING

This morning, a shock of grief

when the news showed that jet
shattered and smoldering in a field.

But every day I see a disaster report.
Why did this latest elicit
such a strong response?

Perhaps I used that crash
to mourn my own losses—
I needed to open—
to open that well—

the well I usually keep lidded
because if I didn’t
I could be overwhelmed
by sudden upswells of emotion
at random times throughout the day.
How could I possibly function?

The problem is:
after a day of functioning efficiently
I can feel so dully dry.

But when I break down
like I did this morning
I often feel fully alive.

So I guess I wept
in order to save my life.

But I know
from past experience
this release could also
help one or two others live today:

following a swell of grief
like the one I felt this morning
I’m often able to sense the losses
of crash survivors I meet

and some of them seem to respond
to my unspoken empathy—
they share feelings
usually kept under the lid.

And as they open

I’m overwhelmed by my well
once again.

I guess the truth is:
on days like today
I’m actually functioning
at a higher level.

mythsteps · Open for a Morning

Survival: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Hoping for a Second Childhood

author’s note:

“It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
                   -- Tom Robbins


HOPING FOR A SECOND CHILDHOOD

Parental pitchmen continue to tell us:
“don’t worry--
  just get in the back seat
  and let me drive”

and we continue to oblige
because as children we were told
to never lose hope
in the magical power of heroes.

When I see all the wrecks
caused by those we believed
would deliver us
I rage on the surface
but down deep I grieve.

The child who believed
we’d build a better world
began to die when I began
to open my eyes
to the world we’d accepted.

But this adult feels the loss of life
so now I’m trying to revive my hope
by opening more--
by expanding my vision

trusting I’ll come to see
the present moment
as part of a process
that can lead to that world
of greater understanding
we imagined as children.

I want so badly
to shed this sadness--
to help reverse our loss.
At the end can I be
a wise child who sees?--
who builds up...who drives?

I’m Responsible: a book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

How Aunt Maggie Got So Bright

author’s note:

I don’t claim to be bright.  But I’m not as dim as I once was.


HOW AUNT MAGGIE GOT SO BRIGHT

I have a theory about why
Aunt Maggie wasn’t wearing her usual frown
when you saw her late last night:

I believe
a period of forced reflection
follows death
and I know when I stop to reflect
I often find my truth—
like the time I asked myself
this question:

Why I do I groan, why do I grumble
over a little cookie that crumbled?
After all, by now I know
every day, some cookie will surely crumble.

Then
after waiting silently...patiently
for an answer
I begin to feel what I truly felt
deep within
and realized my whining
merely echoed the cry
of an old buried wound

then wept with empathy
for the person I am.

So now, when hear someone grousing
over some small thing
I know
the true depth of their suffering.

In such voices I hear Aunt Maggie—

who I believe does indeed “rest in peace”
because in death
she had to stop to reflect
and feel what she really felt
in the life just lived

and so, she’s finally grieved the grief
hidden beneath her many grievances.

Aware of her own pain now
she’s become aware of yours—
that’s why she gazes down at you
with such bright tenderness
as you try to rest in peace
in the deep darkness of your room.

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

An Important Belief

author's note:

To the woman who tried to teach me the rules of grammar in high school:

“Mrs. Creighton, wherever you are, please excuse the redundancy in verse three.”


AN IMPORTANT BELIEF

How could I accept the death
of someone who seemed

too soon gone from us--
her good work unfinished?

Maybe the answer I found sounds cliché
but years later
I still think it’s a good belief:
we die when our time is done.

Yes--
for reasons we can not know
the beacon needed to die when he did
though his light was so desperately needed.

And that man possessed
needed to take his final step
though his glorious bridge
was only halfway across.

And the group needed
to fly away from here
though in leaving, they left
so much creative passion
unexpressed.

Yes--
apparently, the scientist
needed to exit
on that exact day
though she was only weeks away
from a discovery
that would have saved lives.

To those who want to argue
with my idea, I simply reply:

I believe it’s a good belief
because it says:
don’t try to make sense
of what seems senseless.
Just accept and grieve
without feeling angry.

But maybe this belief
serves an even better purpose:

when I remember what I believe
I again realize
I’d better get going--
no matter how important
my plans seem
Death may not wait.

And with that thought
the present moment
suddenly becomes
monumentally important.

Yeah, I believe I have
some important plans...

Nonetheless
if I fell down dead tonight
I think I'd rest in peace
comforted by the belief
I’d reached my expiration date--
I had reached my due date.

dream steps blog
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picturing metaphor
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Listening to the Stormy Beast

author’s note:

Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.
               -- Samuel Beckett


LISTENING TO THE STORMY BEAST

Though I don’t
strike out at the world
sometimes in frustration
I do strike at myself

especially when
I try again and fail again
to resolve
some grievance I’ve carried too long.
Then I’ll wonder if
I can ever become
the better me I wish to be.

But at such times, sometimes
I will sit and listen down deep
and beneath my growling I will hear
the grief of a wounded beast

then in empathy
I will surrender
the lightning bolt
I’ve aimed at myself.

Painful listening, yes
but the lightning strike
would feel worse.

I say:
if someone in such conflict
can manage to pacify
their rumbling beastly storm
we’ve good reason to feel hope
for our squalling human world.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
myth steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Ghosts in the Trees

author’s note:

I want to go to Thailand…

...if only for the ghosts.


GHOSTS IN THE TREES

I’ve read:
in Thailand
ghosts live up in the trees--

a better place, I believe
than the shadowy basements
where we try to stuff our ghosts.

Ghosts actually want
to sunbathe and talk!--
when ignored they emerge
to wreck havoc
in our lives, in our world.

I speak from experience:

in fear, I tried to hide my ghosts
from myself.
But my wraiths retaliated.
Working unseen
they kept trying to wreck me.
Finally I became more afraid
of what they might do
if I didn’t let them live
in the branches and sun.

Now, as I walk in dappled shadows
around the tree
I listen and learn from ghost stories.
I still fear the powerful grief
but bolster my strength by repeating
what Coach always told the team:
no pain, no gain.

Over time, many of my shades have faded
in sunlight
but I know they’ll never disappear completely:
my history will always be my history
just as our history
will always be with us
even when stuffed in the basement.

If we don’t let those ghosts live
up in the trees
we’ll still feel their pain
while losing the opportunity
for a higher education.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Children of the Invasion

author’s note:

A poem about civilian casualties of war.  Written years ago.

When I see what’s happening today, I realize my poem didn’t have much impact.

Nonetheless, I going to keep trying.


CHILDREN OF THE INVASION

The invaded child
died for our sins.

If you haven’t heard of that child
that’s because the authorities
keep neglecting to tell us.
I think they even neglect to tell themselves.
I think
they wear those donkey heads
because they don’t dare witness

that naked body hunched in a ditch
as if in a womb of mud.

The attack was meant to protect
that child’s future
and the future
of that child’s children
--was that the idea?

Our humanity
is fragile.
Our humanity
is not guaranteed.

I say this
to those directly responsible
for that blind blunt act--
   to those
   who have made me
   indirectly responsible--
I say this:
the people will eventually reject
your well-crafted rationalizations.

I believe
the cry of the ghost child
will eventually break through
and as we wake we’ll recognize
those children in the shadows
as our own.

Then we will know:
we must find the courage
to stop destroying
all those vessels of soul.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Introduction to "The History of Conflict"

author’s note:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field. I’ll met your there.
         -- Rumi (trans. Barks/Moyne)

INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF CONFLICT


For this book, we interviewed
both a dog and a cat at length.

But we spoke to each separately
to avoid arguments between the two:
we didn’t want to add yet another tragedy
to a tome filled with tragedies.

However
the publisher asked
that the dog and cat
be photographed together
for purposes of promotion.

We feared the worst.
But instead the moment revealed the best:

as dog faced cat and cat faced dog
each saw the sadness in the other’s eyes--
saw how the other also felt
a burden of pain made heavy by
centuries--centuries--
of dog and cat fights.

Whenever I feel the need
to bolster my hope for the future
I recall that scene
of shared grief.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
Butterfly Soul: poetry ebook
© 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.

you tube channel
finding Beauty: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

When I Return

author’s note:

What can I do at a time when so many are grieving?

I can post this poem about grieving.


WHEN I RETURN

Seeking solace
I return to this hillside--

return to
those small blue wildflowers...
the gray stones...
the flowing grasses...
that know me so well:

these friends feel my grief--
they empathize.

Secure in their care
I lay myself down in the sun
and allow my tears to rise.

Release : relief.
Those waters spend their surplus
then sink back down
into a hidden reservoir:

a reservoir I usually ignore
to keep from being overwhelmed
while I do my daily chores.

But eventually
those neglected waters
will again rise up in rebellion

then I’ll return once again
to this green hill

to my friends--
the flowers, stones,
the flowing grasses.

And when I lay myself down
those waters will rise as before--
once more
the release will lift me
towards the sun.

I rise a little higher
a little higher
each time I return.

dream steps blog
myth steps blog
Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

A Prayer after Death

author's note:

I want to die with my boots on.

But I’m not buying any boots right now.


A PRAYER AFTER DEATH

I didn’t believe any prayer of mine
would help him
in his last hours
of suffering.

But I could give him
my empathy:
I could sit by his bed
and try to gain some sense
of his innner struggle.

So I matched my breath
to his ragged breath
and winced
whenever his eyelids crinkled in pain.

Nonetheless
he still seemed so distant.

To entertain my impatience
I counted time as his blind hand
ticked against the bedsheet

In that way, I fell into a timeless trance

until with a startle
I felt my heart clunk clumsily
once...twice

then my chest slumped
with a release of tension
and as I sighed, I saw him
collapse inside
with a silent heave of exhaustion.

Suddenly a subtle brightness seemed
to intensify the room--
or maybe I just imagined
the faint glittery mist
that hovered for a moment, midair
then vanished with a quick fade.

I can only say for certain what I felt:
the reality seemed so unreal.  Elevated.

But in the next moment
I nearly laughed:
a process so crushingly tedious
had ended with nothing more
than a quick simple breath.

I felt relieved

but only for a minute

then the grieving began.

Yet even as the sadness rose
I felt the impulse to compose a prayer--
I wanted to give humble thanks
to whatever force might have placed
that blessed event in my path.

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Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton