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
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

That House

author’s note:

The house in the photo above is that house.  We never thought to take pictures of our own house, I regret to say.


THAT HOUSE

In a recent dream
I returned to my childhood home.

The belly of the whale—
the cacophonous womb
where I danced and wailed.

For years I’ve looked back
so that I might know that house
so that I could move on.

I’ve gone through those rooms so many times.
I’ve shifted through their closets and drawers.
I’ve searched deep, then deeper still.
I’ve catalogued and studied even the smallest finds.
I should be done with that mad house by now, shouldn’t I?

But no, I’m not.  Nor will I ever be.

Because that house keeps changing.
In this recent dream, I opened a new door
and discovered a hallway
that connects the sunny front
with the shadowy back.
That house continues to evolve with each new visit.
That house continues to evolve as I do.
I evolve as I work to change my perspective.

As part of the process
I try to find more sun now
when I look back at that house.
Here’s my idea, my hope:

My present reflects my past.  So
if I can find more sun in my early years
then today will be sunnier too.

The dream tells me:
Our education is never complete.
Always more to be known.
Walk down those dark hallways.
Even a little house is a mansion of doors.

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

A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

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

The Quiet Dark

author’s note:

A decades of life reduced to a few lines.


THE QUIET DARK

As a fledgling adult, I preferred the cacophony:

I thrilled to feel the energy
of the loud proud mishmash of noise
roiling in the public square.

But soon the commotion infested my head
and I wasn’t able to hear
my thoughts and feelings clearly—
a problem indeed

when choices must be made.
I was struggling to decide
which way was the best way for me.

I was told:
listen to your intuition.
But when I tried
I soon discovered
just how obtuse I’d become
from being in the blare so long.

In search of what I’d lost
I then delved down into the quiet dark.

Deep within
I could feel what I truly felt
and see the trouble in my thoughts.

Then of course, I wanted to find
what was behind
those thoughts and feelings.
And so I continued to explore.

No, I didn’t always like what I found inside
but good or bad, the discoveries amazed me.

Antarctica has already been mapped.
So I’m probing this other strange continent.

However
I’m still obliged to participate
in the cacophony outside.
And since I must, I might as well
open myself fully to the experience:
I’ll grin as I squint into the blare’s bold wind
and let my monkey dance in the mad parade.

I can still enjoy the superficial noise—
I just need to remind myself:
the show is not the substance.

I can play as a child
without becoming infantile
as long as I stay connected
to the wise one I’ve found
below the surface—
in the recesses of the quiet dark.

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

The Symbolic Tree

author’s note:

Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.


THE SYMBOLIC TREE

The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.

Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.

But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.

With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.

Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.

Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.

Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.

I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.

Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.

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

Net of Memories

author’s note:

Why did I choose the beach?

I wanted to make my hair wavy.


NET OF MEMORIES

Fatigued by certain persistent memories
that afternoon I laid down on the ocean beach
hoping to find some peace.

And as I dozed between two worlds
a wave came up and sloshed my head.
Then receded—
dragging all the bric-a-brac in my brain away—
away into the gently-breathing bay.

Soon another wave
would bring it all back
but for a few moments
my collection of memories spread
through those soothing blue waters—
each one was a living cell
connected to several others
by fibers strong as violin strings.
Taken all together
they formed a complex web.

I realized then:
if my wish was granted
and I could cut away any cells I didn’t want
each extraction would leave
a hole in that net.

Ever since that nap on the beach
I’ve embrace all my memories—
even those that spark powerful pain.
I need the net intact in order to feed this brain.

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

Forest Church

author’s note:

Maybe church attendance isn’t actually falling.


FOREST CHURCH

I stop
and watch the trees reach for the sky

and then as before
feel the higher desire
hidden in the deepest part of my heart.

Knowing that pain again
I vow to work harder to heal the breach.

Did I go to church today?
Yes, of course, most definitely.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Listen for the Angel

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
                — Mary Oliver


WHY I LISTEN FOR THE ANGEL

Once as a child
I thought I heard an angel
singing wordlessly in a gentle upper octave.
A soft silvery sound.

And so, years later
during a turbulent time
I sat down in silence
hoping to detect
at least a trace of that song
and find the same solace.

But no—
I didn’t hear any angel.
However
as I recalled
that moment of pure peace
the love I’d once found within that sound
filled my heart again.

And then I sensed
what that child had sensed
long ago:
I was not alone.  I was known
by loving eyes in a world unseen.

But then I began to wonder:

if the angel felt such empathy
why didn’t it intercede
when it saw me stumbling—
when it saw me about to fall?

Then I realized
each time I land hard
I wake a bit more
and so, my eyes slowly open.

No, I don’t know
if I’m really watched over.  However
I can say for certain:

whenever I slip
I’m able to lift myself back up
by listening
for something I probably won’t hear:
the soft silvery song
of an angel.

mythsteps · why I listen for the angel

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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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
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© 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
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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
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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

Universal Sigh

author’s note:

I can’t get through this poem without sighing.


UNIVERSAL SIGH

Science still hasn’t determined
the exact purpose of the sigh

but based on my own empirical research
I can state with confidence:

When we lack adequate language
we breathe a deep sigh
and in that way
give voice to the soul
and in so doing
ease the heart’s burden.

Yes—
my heart would’ve collapsed long ago
from the strain of being a human being
had I not occasionally exhaled
the sigh that expresses this wish:
If only things could be different.

But sighs aid in other situations as well.
For instance:

My heart stopped
when I first saw
that stark violet mountain

but then started again
when I released a deep sigh.

I believe sighs also help
the hearts of other creatures—
many times I’ve heard soul
in a dog’s sigh.  I’ve also heard soul
in the sighs of cats.

I remember the first time
I felt a tree sigh:

As I lay in the fallen leaves
beneath those bare black branches
what I felt in that sigh
was what I often feel in mine
when I listen deeply
and that is:

this life is too much for me
and yet, I want more life.

Based on empirical research
I say:
the whole damn Universe sighs!

I have felt the mountain sigh
as the stars appeared in the blue-black sky.
Then felt the soulful sigh
of the moon rising over the peak.
Then felt the stars sigh
as they gazed down upon me.

I then answered them all
with my own full sigh.

I always feel less alien
when I sigh along with the song
of the great Universal sigh.

mythsteps · Universal Sigh

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

The Ghost Lady & Me

author’s note:

Maybe every place on earth is haunted, in one way or another.


THE GHOST LADY & ME

The desk clerk says:
people have often seen
the ghost lady
as she ascends this hotel stairway—
her steps heavy with grief.

I believe I know
the reason she doesn’t move on.

I believe, like me
she’s trying to reach a place
of perspective—a place
where we finally feel at peace
with losses that seem so unjust.

Occasionally I’m able
to rise that high.
But then my ego feels threatened
and begins to fight for survival

and in the spin of the ensuing battle
I will eventually trip and tumble

and go bump bump bump bump bump
back down the stairs.

Just as the ghost lady did
the night she died.
As she still does
every evening at this old hotel.

But despite our failure to hold the position
after we land, we always stand
and start the struggle
all over again—
because in those brief moments at the top
our hearts feel
the relief of freedom.

No, I may never be able
stay at that place of peace
on a permanent basis
but each time I climb
I grow a wee bit stronger—
so who knows?

So much joy to be found
in this stubbornness!—
I bet the ghost lady feels it
each night as she tries to rise
to a new life
at this grand antique hotel.

mythsteps · Ghost Lady and Me

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, 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
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Clam Who Opened

author’s note:

Planning a vacation?


FABLE OF THE CLAM WHO OPENED

She left a note
for the old woman upstairs
saying:
don’t worry—
just wanted to realize the dream
of escaping to
a tropical island.

But as often happens to human clams
as she lay on the beach
the tide crept up and pulled her down—
down through the shallows
until she fell from the shelf
into that roiling murky bay bottom.

Frightened by the depth
she closed even more
which only increased the pressure—
the pressure that comes
when a clam clamps down on itself
and tries not to feel what it’s feeling.

No longer able to ignore the pressure
she realized she’d soon explode
if she didn’t let go.
And so she finally opened:

an action that brought her back to the beach—
she awoke shaken but stronger.

Many have shared their own version of this fable:
when we try to escape change
the better one within
may pull us down into an ordeal
that will only end when we end
our resistance.

Good to remember that moral.
But let’s also inscribe on our minds
the second part of the story:

In the following years
many in distress
crossed the path of our heroine
and when they sensed her openness
often responded
by opening to her

and as they gave themselves up
they released the pressure building within
and so, did not explode
but defused with a peaceful song:

wave upon wave of notes—
high and low, low and high.

mythsteps · Fable of the Clam Who Opened

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

Working in the Desert Garden

author’s note:

As a boy, I liked that guy Moses.

I still like Moses.  But not the guy—the symbol.


WORKING IN THE DESERT GARDEN

As a child I felt encouraged
when I heard how Moses
managed to exit Egypt.

Like him, I waited patiently
and when those waters finally parted
I split.

But then
as I explored the desert
I discovered
a part of the story
not mentioned in Exodus:
how the chains remain within us
long after our brave escape.

To those struggling
to find their way free
I’ll share what I know for sure:
you must loosen those chains slowly—
link by link by link by link.

When such tedious progress
burdens me down
I’ll lift myself by remembering
those victorious Moseses I’ve met—
they told me:

keep going
and you will eventually reach
the promise land of peace

but along the way
don’t forget to appreciate
the countless blessings
of this desert garden.

mythsteps · Working in the Desert Garden

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Quiet Resurrection

author’s note:

Robert Bly didn’t tell men to become wild men.  He told us to feel what we feel.


THE QUIET RESURRECTION

The first time he passed those woods
on the way to school
the sight of their dark depths
caused a sudden thumping in his chest.

As a storm began to roil inside him
that boy of six then remembered
the sci-fi movie he’d seen—
maybe a wild creature within
was trying to take control of him.

So he raced away
and after that day
lowered his head
and crept with hesitant steps
around the forest
so as not to wake the beast.

Unfortunately
he begin to use that same caution
wherever he went—
keep the monster down.
That way of walking
became a way of being.
As a result
by the time he’d reached adulthood
his life felt drained of life.

So he bought a book about
“increasing your vitality”.
But then felt confused when he read:
you must let the life hidden within you live.

Okay, but how?
How could he set free
that unknown unlived life?

He then recalled the dark forest
he’d avoided as a boy.

In his desperation he decided:
maybe a little look would provoke
those ashes in his belly.

So on a quiet afternoon he finally approached
those shadowy woods
and crossed the border
into the shifting twilight shade.

As his heart began to thump
he again became that boy—
afraid some untamed force
would rise up from within
and take control of him—
making him behave in ways
that would wreck his world.

But when the fantasy
didn’t become reality
he actually felt a bit disappointed.
Better the ripping transformation
than the drip drip drip of tedious attrition.

Nonetheless
through his act he did find life.

After his expectations collapsed
he was able to wander through
that ordinary paradise
with thoughtless ease
and soon became entranced
by the sound of soft rain tremoring the leaves.

Only later at home
did he notice that gently buzzing thrill
running through him, body and spirit:

the first sign
he’d begun to resurrect
the life he had buried
down in his dusky dusty depths.

mythsteps · The Quiet Resurrection

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