Buckets & Ladders

author’s note:

I’m so desperate for good news, I’m trying to make a little myself.


BUCKETS & LADDERS

The candidate says he can save us.

But no—
he couldn’t even if he tried.
As the wise one once said:

You are the only one
who can lower your bucket
down into the well.
You are the only one
who can climb your ladder.

When the candidate proclaims:
“I’m so tall, I’m so deep!”
he sounds so short, so shallow.
Yet many believe that snake-oil salesman
because they’re searching for hope.

Well, I’ve found hope in another belief
because I see
it slowly becoming a reality:

Tired of being less than we actually are
we will reclaim our power
by rejecting our idols
and lowering our buckets down
deep into the moon in the well
while climbing up our ladders—
climbing, trying to reach the sun.

mythsteps · buckets and ladders

I’m Responsible: a book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

How to Make Death Smile

author’s note:

Is Death a “he”?

Yes—if Birth is a “she”.


HOW TO MAKE DEATH SMILE

As is typical of youth
when I was young I ignored
the possibility I could die young.

Even as I watched
so many with the same blindness
stumble into graves.

Only later
as I looked back
did I see how lucky I’d been.

I then began to step more carefully.

But now as I watch
so many my age
retire to their graves
I worry I’m becoming
just a little too cautious.

The life I’m afraid to lose
won’t have much life
if I don’t follow
the true desire of my spirit

which was and still is:

to go forth and know the world.

So though my legs tremble
I will stretch my stride.
No, the width won’t match that of my youth.
But the stubborn fool I am now
shows more courage
than the obtuse fool I once was

because now I can feel Death
watching me and waiting
as I struggle on these steps.

But my reaper is not so grim.
No, beneath that black hood
he smiles wide in appreciation.

Death sees I am doing
what he wants us to do:
to grow in strength
by confronting
the deep fear that keeps us alive.

mythsteps · how to make Death smile

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 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
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Sun in My Future

author’s note:

I believe our greatest accomplishments often go unnoticed.  We don't even see them ourselves.


THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip
and forget
my deep desire
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.

mythsteps · the sun in my future

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Spiral Staircase

author’s note:

A stairway with no end.


THE SPIRAL STAIRWAY

I may seem to be going in circles
over a path worn down to dusty ruts
but I believe:

I’m actually going up
a spiral stairway—
rising higher with every step—
with every step rising higher—
higher:

where the soul wants the heart to go.

To those who insist that’s nonsense
I say
Consider how this belief benefits me:

Because I believe our dizzy life
has a grand purpose
I’m willing to endure the vertigo.

And this belief encourages me
to keep on trying
to lift myself up—
high enough
for me to take
the next big step on this stairway.

And that helps everyone, doesn’t it?

I can see
why someone would think
we are only going in circles.
But whatever the reality may be
shouldn’t we try to find beliefs
that will motivate us
to keep on lifting ourselves up?—
to keep on lifting our world up?

High enough
for us to take
the next big step on this spiral stairway.

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Love the Penguin

author’s note:

To all the penguins out there.


WHY I LOVE THE PENGUIN

Why did I respond so strongly
to that penguin video?

Why did I nearly cry
when I saw that little fellow waddle
over the white Antarctic ice?

And why did I sigh
when the bird plonked
into the chop of the sea
then glided
in intelligent undulations
down and down
through deeper shades of blue?
It flew through the water
on wings that before seemed useless.

Maybe in that waddler
I saw how I usually am in the world.
And maybe in that sleek swimmer
I saw my secret desire.

When I go below the surface
I feel the grace within.
A quiet intensity that defies expression
so for the purposes of this poem
I will call it “soul”

knowing that those who read poets
will understand
what I mean when I say:
I feel more grace, more soul
the deeper I go.

But I’ve never been able
to go deep enough
to know pure grace, pure soul.

Like the penguin
I’m only able to stay under a short time
then I must emerge
to waddle around on the ice once more.

I enjoyed the penguin before—
it looked so cute in its tuxedo.
But now I love the penguin
having witnessed
its deep desire for soul.

mythsteps · why I love the penguin

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

Blessed Affliction

author’s note:

When I found the above cartoon recently, I wondered why I’d made that drawing years ago.

So I wrote a poem and discovered why.


BLESSED AFFLICTION

She didn’t see the cause
of her problems
until she dreamt that dream

in which she tried to rise
but fell over sideways
and then watched her long blue wing
flap helplessly against the ground
in puffs of dust.

When she awoke
our heroine could then see
her invisible reality:

on one side
she had a wing instead of an arm.
And on the other, no wing, just the arm.

No wonder she kept falling
when she tried to ascend.
No wonder the boxes
she tried to lift
often fell to the ground.

Now she knew why
some people fall into the dust
time after time after time
and struggle so much
when they try to carry boxes.

With such folk she’s now found a home.

Under that roof
they gather to grieve their plight.
But also encourage themselves
by sharing stories
of afflicted individuals
who never stopped trying to fly—
who never stopped trying
to lift boxes.
And so they continued to grow
until they grew
not only another wing
but another arm too.

Those stories have shown our heroine
the blessing inherent in her affliction:

if she didn’t have that one wing
she wouldn’t feel such a strong desire to fly
and if she had two arms, instead of just one
she wouldn’t want to lift boxes so badly.

Driven to lift
and driven to fly
she may eventually earn
another wing and another arm
and then carry boxes while in flight.

mythsteps · blessed affliction

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Better Bell

author’s note:

In memory of my father.  I hope he’s now hearing his better bell.


THE BETTER BELL

When I saw
that long red-gold braid of hair
dangling down the tower wall
I imagined a lovely lass
at the other end above.

But when I shouted up at her
she did not respond.

So I decided to climb
a few feet up
and give that tail of hair
a little tug—
maybe she’d wake up.

But oh, what a chore—
trying to hook my fingertips
and toes
into the spaces between the stones.

Then
when I finally came within reach of it
the tail jumped up a bit
and so I missed
and nearly slipped and fell.

Though my better sense then said “no”
I hoisted myself a few feet more.

But as soon as I got within reach again
again the rope jumped.

Continuing in this way
I struggled up the tower wall—
whenever I came close to the braid
it again mocked my wish
and shot up a few more notches.
Apparently the damsel meant to tantalize me—
she’d make me earn her love.

Halfway up
I knew I should stop
but now
I wanted what I wanted
simply because I’d failed to get it.

I’d been told as a child:
success is always within reach
as long as you keep trying.
And now I didn’t want to unbelieve
a belief I’d always found so encouraging.

So even though my hands began
to ache and bleed
I kept following that cord
until it slipped over the gray stone ledge
to the other side of the wall.

Then with relief
I hoisted my tired body
over to the other side
and landed a patio of slab rock.

In the center I saw
a massive bell
set in a heavy wooden frame.
Red sunset sunlight shimmered
across the golden brass.

But where was my ravishing beauty?

At first, I felt so disappointed
when I did not find her
at the end of the braid—
apparently, my heroic efforts
would go unrewarded.

But at least when I reached
the rope now waited for me

and when I pulled it tight
the pulley turned
and that big bell awoke—
a power sound boomed out—
the vibration tremored my body.

And when I let the rope go slack
again the heavy clapper landed on thick metal.
Again my frame rang.
Again

great waves of sound
spread over—all over—
the broad countryside below

to bustle the red-gold trees on the hills

and rustle sun-tipped wheat
on fields ready for harvest

while riffling the straw
on humble thatch-roof cottages.

To any frustrated wall-climber
who’s read this far
I offer this moral to my story
hoping I may ease their pain
with a higher truth:

though we pursue a foolish dream
and fail in our pursuit…

through our courageous efforts
we may pull ourselves up
and eventually arrive at a bell much better
than the one we thought we wanted
when we first started to climb.

mythsteps · the better bell

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Why The Serpent Bites

author’s note:

You can’t see the marks, but I’ve been bitten plenty of times.

And yet, I’m still trying to wake up.


WHY THE SERPENT BITES

When the master of the garden told me
to tempt the woman
I replied:
I never harm without just cause.

But then the master said:
You wouldn’t be harming them
you’d be helping them—
helping those two do
what they truly want to do
and that is:
get out.

In their souls they know
they can’t grow
in this drowsy garden—
they need to be out
going all about
in rush of mad activity—
sweating with labor
sweating with the fight

as they swear at the fight
and struggle to return
to the garden they still feel in their hearts.

So as The Serpent
I did what I had to do.

But after they were cast out
the master then told me to follow them—
told me to bite them
again and again and again—
not just when they misbehaved
but also when they did good deeds.

But why? I asked.
Why do they need to be bitten so often?

See how groggy they are?
the master answered.
You need to strike them
again and again and again
in order to awaken them.

So, as The Serpent
I did what I had to do—
I bit
and continue to bite
innocent fools
to this day.

I can not stop.
Held by a higher purpose
I must sting human beings.
By design I have to help them.

So I offer no apology
and besides:
whenever I insert my fangs
I feel the same pain the recipient feels—
yes, I feel those fangs pierce my own heart.

And when I asked:
Why must I be punished
for simply doing my duty?
I was surprised to learn:

No one is ever fully awake—
no, not even you—not even The Serpent.

mythsteps · why the serpent bites

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Woman Who Collided with Herself

author’s note:

Who’s holding this world together?

You are.


FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO COLLIDED WITH HERSELF

Needing to rest
she went to visit her middle-aged friend
who’d recently retired
to his porch swing.

But soon felt disturbed
because that tired man kept telling her:
do what you want, but I say:
why try to stop this world
from colliding with itself?—
after all, collision seems to be just what people want.

Though she disagreed
our heroine did not challenge him—
she felt too weak to defend
her choice to do what she could to keep
this world from colliding with itself.

Yes, that work had given her life
so much life
for so many years
but recently
the life she lived had left her
feeling drained of life.

So now she could actually imagine
retiring to the swing with him
but at the same time
the thought of succumbing
to that temptation
rang an alarm in her heart.

And so she ended her stay early
and returned to the task
of rolling that stone up a hill.

And whenever her energy lagged
she imagined the man
just sitting here
going back and forth
without moving
day after day
year after year.
Oh how she pitied him!

But perhaps that strong woman should’ve felt
the same empathy for herself:

in time, the work that gave life to her life
again began to drain the life from her.
Yet she ignored her fatigue
out of a sense of responsibility.
And as a result
collided with herself
once again
and had no choice but to rest.

So our heroine returned
to the man in the swing—
but now without fear of temptation
because she expected to find him
in slow steady decline—
she believed seeing him
in such a pathetic state
would encourage her
to continue her work.

But no—
she found him looking happy and pink.
Oh how demoralized she felt then—
how could he just sit there
day after day
year after year
and still be so buoyant?

Then she got another shock
when he said:
I’m so happy to see you so happy.

Clearly
he couldn’t see her—
apparently
his satisfying sedentary life
had dimmed his mind—
his eyes.

She felt so sad for him then--
her decision to reject the swing
now seemed so wise.
A sigh of relief then released her fatigue.
And a fresh breath of energy
lifted her wings.

So once again she bid the man adieu.
Once again, she flew.

Now, whenever she feels
the life that gives her life life
begin to drain away her life
she again returns to man in the swing
because she knows that happy fellow
will always tell her:

I am so happy to see you so happy.

mythsteps · fable of the woman who collided with herself

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

A Real Boat

author’s note:

I’ve learned the hard way: you don’t tell the river what to do, the river tells you.


A REAL BOAT

When I found a rowboat by the bank
the wise one within gave me this whim:
why not step
into that little wooden boat
and shove off down the river?

Yes, I use metaphor
but I really am in a rowboat.
Oh yeah—
when rough waters
began to pummel the hull
I could barely walk down the street
as I rocked and reeled
from the turbulence I felt.

But I didn’t consider jumping
until I reached the shoals
because then I was forced
to go slow, so very slow.

In frustration
I pulled harder on the oars—
I pulled…I pulled…I pulled—
oh how I struggled!

To little effect, yes, but
as a result
I did not fall asleep
but instead
built strength.

Then by handling the madness
of all those twisted turns
I found I could handle more
than I ever believed possible.

Yes, I could’ve educated myself
with a long walk along the bank.
And if I’d taken a steamer
I would’ve traveled much farther
down this river.
But I would not have learned
how to push and how to pull
how to steer and how to follow.

I will now use a pun:
I keep enrolling in this river class
because the course continues to change
and so I continue to learn
how to pilot this boat
I once chose on a whim
guided by the wisdom within.

mythsteps · a real boat

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Plume from a Whale

author’s note:

I’m a menagerie.  But who isn’t?


A PLUME FROM A WHALE

Today’s dark rain reminds me
of the day I almost drown.

And with the memory
I struggle once more
not to drown in the dark.

At such times I sometimes
get a lift
by telling myself I’m a whale.

And like any other whale
I have great capacity
nonetheless
I must rise to surface occasionally

to shoot my geyser of steam
up at the sun—
a glittering white plume.
But a painful release, that offering.

Some say my fountain
is just a bit of spit.
Maybe so
but that brief blow allows this whale
to take another breath
before returning
to the dark blue life
that feeds us so well.

Today, I offer these lines
to all you other leviathans
because we need to remember:

even the strongest creature
must sometimes surrender
and rise to spout the deep water out
so we won’t drown in the dark.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

New River

author’s note:

“Well, I love that dirty water”
        — from “Dirty Water”, by The Standells


NEW RIVER

“Today I surveyed
 the new river that recently
 cut through our desert town

“and realized the obvious:
 it’s just that old river I once swam in
 making a sharp turn now
 after slamming into a mountain.

“I’m disturbed by its abrupt change—
 now, the mix seems even muddier.
 Wilder too.
 But I know better than to try to talk sense
 to river water—
 I’ve learned you can never win.

“Nonetheless
 I can still protest
 refusing to jump back in.”

So I wrote by candlelight last night.
But then as I lay down my pen
I heard the wise one say:

you know that mud bath
will force you to struggle
to find your truth within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but just look at all that turbulence—
such anger in those waters!

The wise one told me then:
you know how that chaos
will force you to create better balance
as you spin within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but
I can still find my truth
I can still create balance
if I stay on the bank—
as long I dance
as I move through my day
and meditate at sunset.
And read lots of books
during these long quiet nights—
especially those
that are smarter than I am.

The wise one remained silent then
because now I suddenly felt the truth:

When I first arrived
at this slow dry town
I needed a rest
in order to survive.
But now to live
I must dive
back into that mad river water.

mythsteps · New River

Survival: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Ouch!

author's note:

If laughter is the best medicine, maybe it’s good for me to joke about my pain.


OUCH!

When slogging through
a dark morass of agony
some of us will only say
"ouch".

By that I mean:
we'll answer your sincere concern
with a little joke--
understating our pain
in the manner of a cartoon character
toasted to a crisp by a bomb.

Maybe I'm not being honest about
the state of my heart
but to share my burden
would only burden me more
because then I'd worry
you'd worry
much too much
about the state of my soul.

Please, believe me:
I can endure what I must--
if I couldn't I wouldn't
be able to limit my cry
to this silly-sad
mouse-like
"ouch".

mythsteps · Ouch

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Hungry Man

author’s note:

I’ve always been hungry.


A HUNGRY MAN

Having failed to find a way
to distinguish himself
through normal group activity
our hero decided on a project
where success depended solely
on his own effort and resolve:

he would prove the strength of his endurance
by starving himself.
Not so much as a mere morsel would pass his lips
for as long as he could resist
the temptation.

So after leaving a note
that fellow lay himself down
in a dark cell below
and welcomed the pain
of claws tearing at his stomach walls—

an agony he withstood
until his digestive system finally
stopped sending messages
and grew cobwebs down the tract.

For days
our wasted hero lay curled on the floor—
pleased with how he’d repeatedly said “no”
to that stubborn demand.
Nonetheless
after all the failure in his past
he felt he needed to prove more.
But what more could he prove?
Well, he could open the scariest door of all:
Death.

Fortunately, at this point
a team of experts
saved him by saying:
if we allow you to go on
we’ll be somewhat responsible
for a loss that helps no one.
So here—come on
have some chicken soup.

Just the excuse he needed:
our skeletal hero could now stop
and feel proud of his willingness
to sacrifice all for achievement.

But he didn’t boast of his triumph—
hunger had taught him humility.
Besides, he’d already silenced
his biggest critic:
himself.
Now he could accept
being an average human being.

But maybe he wasn’t so average now.

During the darkest part of the ordeal
his gray eyes had shown
with a deep silvery glow.
No, that light didn’t last
however
associates now sense
a strange power emanating from him—
even as he ambles
in those scuffed brown shoes.

Nonetheless
none of those who marvel
at the change in him
have chosen to starve themselves
as he did.

Perhaps they understand:

Daily mundane life provides
every hungry human being
with plenty of opportunity
to lift
to lift
to lift
themselves up.

mythsteps · A Hungry Man

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

Improving My Vision

author's note:

Dedicated to you.


IMPROVING MY VISION

For my own protection
I worked to comprehend
the mad behavior
of the human being

and saw so much
in the course of my investigation—
naturally, I became confused.

So for clarity
I looked to the only person
that could grant me full access
to the heart and head of a human—
I sat down in the shadows
and turned my eyes within.

And felt both amazed and blessed
by the motley bounty I found inside.

But as I understood more
I also understood less:
whatever illumination I gained
was overshadowed
by the expanding mountain of information
I gathered in my inquiries.

I tried hard to sort it all out
but in time, I needed a rest.
So I turned my eyes back out.

I then discovered
my vision had improved
during the turn:
now
when I looked at someone
I often noticed something
I had already seen in myself.

And so it was with you:

As soon as I saw you, I saw
you held quite a lively mix inside
and so I wanted to look deeper.
And so I saw your pain

and so I felt compassion for you

then also felt compassion for myself—
or at least, the part of me
you reflected.

You say you now want to turn away
and look within yourself.
Well, I’ll miss you, but please do—
yes, explore the wonders
of that Universe—
take in until your head spins.

You may become even more confused
but at least you’ll feel empathy for
all those overwhelmed by the mix
who react in spasms of bad behavior.

mythsteps · Improving My Vision

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

While Waiting in a Distant Province

author's note:

Written after reading the anthology The Clouds Should Know Me By Now: Buddhist Poet Monks of China, edited by Red Cloud and Mike O'Connor.  Excellent.


WHILE WAITING IN A DISTANT PROVINCE

Despite the good reviews
I’ve received for my song and dance
the Imperial Palace has yet to respond
to my request for an audience.

I’ve been stuck at this outpost for months now.

Initially I managed
to ease my impatience
by appreciating the gifts
of my rustic surroundings.
For instance:

How the morning sun painted
the round stones in the creek rose-pink—
each one the cheek of a lady-in-waiting.

And how the sunset shone golden
on the rusty gate of my humble abode—
as brilliant as the gold palace doors.

Such positive thinking
helped me ignore
my whimpering disappointment

until the night
I heard someone faraway in the dark
scream
then scream again—
ripping cries
aimed up at the moon—
burning cries
coming up from a deep wound.

I wanted to cover my ears
but I did not want to cover my ears
because in that pain I heard mine
and suddenly felt that old wound again.
And because I remained open then
I felt the pain of the scream deep down—
I felt the pain of our life deep down.

A day later I was told:
for therapy villagers sometimes go
into the dark woods
and scream
and scream
up at the moon.

More of them lately;
nonetheless
I never close my ears—
I need the release.

And during the day
I occasionally stop
and listen to my own pain
because I’m trying to discover
a dance, a song
that can help with the healing of wounds.

If I do find some mix
that seems effective
I hope to perform that medicine
at the Imperial Palace.
I believe:

when those at head heal,
those at the feet
will be royally relieved.

mythsteps · While Waiting in a Distant Province

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Working to Earn a Gift of Wings

author’s note:

To those reading this poem five hundred years from now:

Humans used to count off seconds by saying “one Mississippi”…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…” and so on.


WORKING TO EARN A GIFT OF WINGS

This morning
while painting the eaves
I suddenly felt what I hadn’t felt in weeks:
that tension in my shoulders

as once again
two wing buds bulged out
from my scapula bones—
right side and left.

I knew, from experience
I shouldn’t try to force those buds to sprout.
But despite my restraint
the shoots shrank back
before I could count to “nine Mississippi”.

Yes, teasers like that one disappoint
but at the same time
they reawaken hope—
this morning, I vowed once more:
one day with wings I’ll soar.

Don't laugh
know what’s possible—
years ago I met someone
who could fly to the high clouds
on wings she usually kept hidden.

And occasionally for me
two shoots have shot all the way out
and spread into wings.
Yes, the feathery sails soon retracted
but I still had enough time each time
to go on a short flight
like the one once done at Kitty Hawk.

But I’m not waiting idly
for such blessings to descend:
every day I work to elevate heart and head
hoping unseen forces
(both without and within)
will respond when I rise high enough—
will reward me
with a permanent set of reliable wings

to unfurl when the need arises.

But I though I use tested tools
I only bump up a tiny bit each day.
So I’m realistic:
I may not live long enough to earn that wingspan.
Nonetheless
I’ll keep trying all the way to the end—
I will because
the innocent in me still believes
my daily efforts at elevation
help lift this ground-dwelling species up.

Yes, I realize
my total contribution
may only be one iota
but with enough iotas
we will have iotas enough.

mythsteps · Working to Earn a Gift of Wings

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton