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
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© 2026, 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 Impossible

author’s note:

Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.
           — Mary Oliver


THE IMPOSSIBLE

“Love” doesn’t seem to be word enough
when talking about love.
We need a magical mix of language—

a perfect concoction
that would coalesce to create a golden wand—
an instrument that could open our hearts
with just a touch—
open us to the secret
of what we truly feel.

We’d return to that eternal alloy
again and again and again
and each time experience
the same soft explosion of emotion.

A revolution of empathy—
we’d turn and turn
and turn into
the better version we need to be
in order to survive
this calamity we’ve made.

No, forget what I just said—
that dream was dreamt by the child I once was
—not me.
Even the mystics
who created those ritual songs and texts
failed to do the impossible.

Maybe I still seem to be trying.
Well, I am and I’ll tell you why:

in this slow tedious labor
occasionally, I accidentally
touch my heart.
Yes, I touch my own heart.
And during those brief openings
I feel the secret—
I feel
just how deeply I love us.

mythsteps · The Impossible

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Drumbeat Down in the Well

author’s note:

“We experience a dream as real because it is real.”
             -- William Dement


DRUMBEAT DOWN IN THE WELL

When the mower suddenly died that day
I said: “Must be a sign from above!”
and lay myself down on the lawn.

Then as I eased into a half-doze
I detected a pulsing murmur--
perhaps a distant drumbeat

for a ritual dance
of men, women, children--

a tribal circle reaching up
to the circle of the moon:
a celebration I might find
by going where my shadow pointed
as the sun sank in the west.

So I stood up and began to walk
or maybe I only dreamt I did--
in any case
I traced that quiet seductive summons
across a broad savanna
through the starless dark

until I arrived at a well
round as a drum--
its waters reflected a full moon.

I knew I’d reached the source
yet the sound had died down
so I listened down
down into that glowing whole
and as a result
I began to feel the beat
softly echoing up
from a deeper chamber of my heart.

I knew then
I was the ritual circle dancing--
reaching up
even as I listened down.

I understood:
I celebrate this life
every day with every beat--
even when I feel dull gray--even then
I’m still amazed
by this mystery we’re in.

Then
having finally realized the obvious
I returned--
finding my way back
with natural ease
because I was no longer lost.

But though we go back
we never really lose
what we’ve gained, do we?

I can still hear that deep drum--
even now as I mow
this sunny lawn.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Modest Woman Who Glowed

author’s note:

A poem about modesty for these immodest times.


THE FABLE OF THE MODEST WOMAN WHO GLOWED

When he said she glowed
she replied,
“I only reflect some distant sun.”

But later
after they became more familiar
he placed his hand over her heart
late one night
and told her:
“I can feel the deep fire of spirit.”

“No, only heat from
 the pumping of blood,”
 she sighed.

“So, would you prefer I see you
 as merely something mechanical?”
 he asked her.

“Well, okay then, if you insist:
 I glow with the deep fire of spirit.”

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Gray Paper Heart

author's note:

I feel I'm learning a lot--though often I'm not aware of what I'm learning.

Looking back, I'll sometimes realize what I learned at a particular time.  But maybe not until long afterwards.


GRAY PAPER HEART

I once explored a stationery store
for an hour
in search of a sheet
from which I could cut
a gray paper heart

to match the one that’d vanished
when I reached down in a dream.

Somehow I knew
texture was even more important

than color in my choice.
So I traced my fingertips
across sheets of many grades and weaves--
each held its own particular pleasure.
Some felt almost right
which meant:
they were not the paper I sought.

Finally
like a magical moment in a fairy tale
I spied the one I knew was the one
at the end of the middle shelf:
a light-gray standard-size sheet, it was--
the fiber, somewhat coarse
but perfect in its imperfection.

I touched with trepidation
and in turn, was touched
by a material so quiet
yet so alive.

Something inside silently said:
I am that.
To which I replied:
“I don’t think I understand.”
And then no longer felt that something.

Not until the evening
when I began to work my scissors
tenderly into those fibers
did I remember
someone I once saw leaning
against the side of a stucco building
deep in shadow.

No, I didn’t see her face
just the back of her long plain gray dress.
I could hear her tears--
not dramatic, not bereft--
her sighing calm suggested
she didn’t want to but knew
she needed to cry.

I felt pained because
I desired to help her but could not.
So I soothed myself
with this understanding:
she didn’t need me.

Now, as I touch that cut heart
I feel the woman’s strength again.
Though quite human
she was also a vision.
Another lesson
in my education.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Luminous Living Things

LUMINOUS LIVING THINGS

I tried to satisfy my hunger
by finding Zeus in the clouds.

But apparently the sky god
had abandoned his throne.

Finally, in sad frustration
I looked down.

Only then did I begin to notice
all those luminous living things
on the ground:

things that want to be seen--
things that need to be seen--
things that can feed me

including this stream
with its myriad slivers of sun
dazzling--
silver ribbons twisting
yet remaining in place
as the waters slide on--
rippling with gentle excitement.

If I’m patient
sight and sound then become
a feeling:
too much for my chest
but my heart wants more.

At such moments
I feel blessed
to live in a world
abandoned by Zeus.

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

The North Star

author’s note:

When I see that twinkle in your eye, I know you’re star.


THE NORTH STAR

Have you ever felt like howling
at the North Star?--
perhaps spurred by
the natural desire
to reach what seems
beyond reach?

Years ago
with my mind spiraling
I acted on impulse
and climbed out the upstairs window
to sit on the roof and answer
that star with my heart.

Tantalized--!--I maintained
my hound dog moan
until yanked down
to the ground
by the dawn.

I felt rough and burnt
all that morning
but tried to comfort myself
with this thought:
the star had seemed closer
than ever before
in its shift of clouds.

But alas. I couldn’t ignore
how that diamond refused
to lower more
despite my pleading.

Then at noon
I remembered the dream
in which I looked down
and found a star in my heart.

At that moment, I realized
the truth behind
the desire that has me spiraling.

myth steps blog
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Pin

author’s note:

A long poem.  But I tried to be concise.


THE PIN

Early on, I was pushed
to put a pin in my heart
by those who believed
hearts should be pinned

and I obeyed--hoping
they’d then stop pushing.

Well, at first, I was able to ignore the pin.
But as the world continued to push me around
I began to wake and as I woke
I began to feel the pin stabbing my heart--
a stab with every step:

usually just the pin’s point
but

sometimes, that tippy tip tore a sore.

And as I continued to wake
I woke to the people passing--
I saw so many wincing in pain
just as I was:

good to know what people feel
but
I didn’t know how to help them--

I could hardly help myself.

In the distress of this confusion
and the burden of seeing and feeling
so much pain
I grew tired
and sought refuge in a winter’s cave.

But as I kindled myself
in the cold dark
I could feel the pin burn
even more intensely
in my heart.

So I pulled at it
with all my focused might.

And yet
I still couldn’t pry that spike loose

but continued because
to work felt better
than to rest in defeat

and I saw no greater challenge--
to succeed would be
a redeeming accomplishment.

I then realized I’d found
what I’d gone inside to find--
thus
I’d completed my stay in the cave

so I walked out
and around
and once again, saw people wincing--
I saw pain from heart pins
everywhere I went--

I felt that pain
and wanted to tell those folk
what I’d discovered underground
however
I knew I needed heal myself more
before I spoke--
I’d not yet earned the right.

Frustrated I was, but
I did find some comfort in this thought:
by trying to heal myself
(to the highest degree possible)
I would be doing at least a little
to heal the wound that began
at the birth of humankind

and furthermore:
if I opened my chest just a bit more
--a bit more--
some of the wounded in our wounded world
might notice me trembling
in the slow removal of the pin
and see their own struggle in mine
and know again:

despite the frustration of such tedious work
better we fight than lose hope--
what greater occupation
than to balm and bind
the wounds of this world?

  © 2020, Michael R. Patton
  Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook

The Quest

author’s note:

Happy Valentine’s Day.


THE QUEST

The young man told the wise man:
when I saw that silver palace
I felt overwhelmed
by an ecstasy of love.

So I now feel compelled
to search faraway lands
until reality matches my dream.

To that, the old man said:
no need to hunt--
you can find your love ecstasy
merely by appreciating
the simple beauty
of this earth.

Though disappointed by his master’s reply
our hero did indeed try:
he set himself down
in a field of wildflowers
and observed the world
as twilight darkened into night
and fireflies began to blink.

Soon entranced
by the quiet beauty
of those gold flashes
he felt a stir of warmth
within his chest.

Nice, yes, but not enough for him:
he yearned for a greater ecstasy.

But even more than that:
he wanted to heighten his life
by enduring the hardship and pain
of traversing that grand mountain chain
in pursuit of a divine ideal.

So the lad stood up,
aimed himself toward the rising sun
and began his quest--

a journey
which led him into
many deep valleys
where he shook with the fear
of being lost in dark shadow.

But he also knew the glory
of standing on a mountaintop
and watching golden-red dawn
flare up on the far horizon.

He walked miles and miles
of dry flat land
and found achievement
in the monotonous grind.

He fought the undertow
during many river crossings--
emerging shivering wet, yet
victorious.

But despite the sincerity of his work
the dream palace remained elusive.

Eventually, his divine desire
could not surmount
the reasonable demands
of body and mind.

His disappointment
made the hard ground
feel even harder when he hit:
he wept like a child
who’s lost his wish--

wept until his tears
emptied him--
leaving our man openly innocent:
open enough to find his love again
by finding beauty
in firefly flashes of gold
at twilight.

But the warm stir in his chest
stirred him up--
soon, he wanted more.

So he rose once again
to continue his quest.

How does this story end? you ask.

I hoped you might tell me.

But no matter--
I’d rather discover
for myself.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
40 New Fables: ebook

Opening the Chest

author’s note:

Still pulling.


OPENING THE CHEST

At first, the wooden chest
seemed to be just another
lifeless museum piece--

antique, but cheapened by wear:
a big chip out of one stout leg;
a crack in the pediment;
the wood finish faded.

But those closed doors
piqued my curiosity…

So when the room cleared
the little boy in me
stepped over the cord
and tried to swing open
those two doors--

feeling the tightness
of the creaking hinges
in my own chest.

But despite the tension building within
I kept opening:
obeying my spirit
by fighting that resistance.

I pulled, I pulled
until
a sudden piercing pain
brought the relief of release:

a welling glow spread
out from my center
as I stood, transfixed--
witnessing
that goblet on the top shelf--

its silver plating tarnished
and diminished with dust--

so plain!
but also so open
as if to say:
here I am--
ready to be filled
so I can give
what I’ve received.

I felt the humility
of naked exposure--
I felt the tears
and bold strength
of willing sacrifice
(the victorious surrender).

But at that point
I stopped myself
because
I dared not go too deep
in such a proper public place.

Ironic:
I rarely find meaning
in those spaces and things
that’re supposed to be meaningful.
More often I find meaning
by glorious accident.

I can’t seem to manufacture
such experience
but I can return
to that greater response
by remembering
the blessed chance event.

Return again and again.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook

Obedient Scrub

author’s note:

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


OBEDIENT SCRUB

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

So
I decided to use
a different tactic:

I began to scrub—
hoping to erode
that obstruction.

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

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

Nonetheless
I’ve continued this slow attrition

because

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

to wear down that block wall.

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

She Said

author's note:

Someone once asked if I ever wrote love poems.

They're all love poems.


SHE SAID

When I offered
to cross a hundred rivers
just to win a pink ribbon for her

she said

you want to break your heart out
by worshipping a dream cloud.

Well, you can also free
your heart
by trying to lift up
the children in the mud
(which is: everyone--
  including you).

She said

both ways of love allow one
to bow in humility

both ways of love allow one
to expand with the upsurge
of too much feeling

but the dream love
pulls you up
only for the moment
of its gust

whereas the other love
can lead to many great steps
on your long steady climb.

She said

you believe
swimming a hundred rivers
will raise you to the mythic.

Well, you can still live a myth
by pretending
your penknife is a sword
and your flashlight: a guiding torch
struck by a lightning bolt.

And so I did, and so
I now blaze
with sword and torch
on this climb

except when I forget
what she said
as the door closed:

stop, ever so often
and pretend
your sword is a penknife
and your torch, a flashlight--
otherwise

you will trip
over your own myth.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
myth steps: poetry ebook