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

Crow Cry Moonrise

author’s note:

One night as a child, I saw the moon following our pickup truck.

Then I decided: probably follows everyone around.


CROW CRY MOONRISE

Here’s a fable I wrote recently
for you to enjoy and ponder:

The cry of a crow came
at the moment the tip
of a gold moon appeared
across the desert on the eastern horizon.

So the moon believed
it’d caused the bird to cry.
And the bird was sure
it’d caused the moon to rise.

Obviously in the poem
the crow and the moon are both fools.
But maybe the bigger fool
is the one who wrote them both into being—

reading those verses again, I suddenly saw:

I did not understand
the motivations of my own characters—
why did that bird cry?
And why does the moon
still want to rise
when to rise means
you’ll hear all the cries?

After careful analysis, I realized:
the crow had called out because
I’d squelched that cry in my heart.

And the Harvest Moon rose
because one day I hope to rise
and shine a bit of light
to help those who travel through
long nights of grievous confusion.

Okay
but what about the writer?—
maybe he was trying to impress you—
using humor to state a universal truth.

Well yes, but
after careful analysis, I now realize:
I hid my pain and my hope
under that joke.

But though I feel embarrassed now
I’ve decided to publish those lines anyway
because:

Maybe when they hear that crow
some will begin to feel
the cry they’ve stifled in their depths.
And maybe some will imagine
that moon in full bloom
and then begin to feel
their own gold moon struggling to rise.

And if they don’t
perhaps they’ll at least enjoy the jest.

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

How She Keeps Her Beam Bright

author’s note:

Now is that a light in the sky or just a spark in my heart?
       -- Graham Parker, “Waiting for the UFOs”


HOW SHE KEEPS HER BEAM BRIGHT

She told her friends
she was going to camp
at the lake that weekend
because she needed to be
alone with the stars again.

But secretly she hoped
if she sat down on the shore
and let the breeze blow away
all that fluff stuffed in her head
and let the night sky speak to her spirit
then her little light might brighten
and so, attract the attention
of the space beings flying above.

And they’d respond
by beaming her aboard.

Yes, what followed then
would probably be harrowing
but
she’d return as someone transformed.

Call her a fool if you want
but after struggling for so long
to disperse that dull gray cloud
she’d become desperate
for a drastic change of mind and heart.

But alas
after sitting on the bank for hours
searching the thousands of stars
she began to feel the dumb dry emptiness
of one who admits with regret
their sincere wish
is mere childish fantasy.

But then around midnight she glimpsed
a shooting star above the silhouette of a ridge
followed few moments later
by three blinks of blue light
from the trees on the other side of the lake.

When she next opened her eyes
she was stunned to find
time had jumped forward two hours.

She then realized:
the beings could’ve used those blue blinks
to put her into a trance
then lifted her up to their craft—
which she’d seen as a meteor.

Yes—
and once inside the ship
they had put her under a special ray
and healed all the damage done
over the years
to her spectral body.

Then, before lowering her back down
they’d erased the entire event from her memory.

Yes, must be so
because she did indeed feel different now—
all the next day a special sparkle
pervaded her body and being.

But to her chagrin
that sensation quickly faded
when she returned home to the city.

However, she’s now discovered this trick:

when that gray cloud begins to creep in again
she only needs to stop and sit
and close her eyes
and see in her mind the lights
of that blessed night
and then the feeling returns.

Yes, just for a few minutes
but those few minutes
are enough to keep her beam bright.

mythsteps · how she keeps her beam bright

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

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

The Good Little Boat Grows Brighter

author’s note:

Do I sometimes exaggerate for effect?  Well, yeah.

But not this time.


THE GOOD LITTLE BOAT GROWS BRIGHTER

Psychopathic pirates now rule the seas.
Cutthroats who feel no guilt.

But instead of defending ourselves
against those bloody Blackbeards
we honor them for their gall
and get drunk on their grog
after being blatantly robbed.

I would fight
those big flashy swords
but I fear the inevitable losses
would begin to darken my heart.

So for now
I’ll just keep feeding my little light
and share what I’ve got
as its flame slowly grows brighter.

And keep repeating
a hope I believe to be based in reality

and that is:

despite appearances
the age of Blackbeard has nearly
burnt itself out.
Millions of good boats
now roam the seas—
navigating—
lighting the way
toward a future
that may not be that bright
but at least, won’t be as bleak
as our present dark passage.

mythsteps · good little boat grows brighter

I’m Responsible: a book
dream 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 Higher Mountain

author’s note:

I say: we’re all taking the same walk.


THE HIGHER MOUNTAIN

When I first glimpsed
that mountain peak
through the clouds
I instantly experienced
an expansion of spirit—

suddenly I saw the purpose
of this grinding walk
up a long incline.

And so
I started to push harder—
I begin to step with intent.

Even so
easy to forget my higher goal
because this life asks me to tend to
so many details.

But when I remember
to look up from my work
I’ll see the peak through the trees and fog
and again feel that lift.

However
all these years later
that white spire still seems so distant.

But I dare not sit on my aspiration—
my spirit would deflate.

So when the naysayer in my head says
maybe you’re creating an illusion—
clinging to a delusion
I answer:

consider this benefit:
these difficult steps I take
not only improve my state
but also the state
of the whole human race
(a little bit, at least).

Yes, my steps help us
as we struggle, struggle
to take a massive step up.

mythsteps · The Higher Mountain

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Sun-Fire Pool

author’s note:

Did I actually see that sun pool?

Well, no, not literally.  But yeah, I did.


THE SUN-FIRE POOL

Years ago, I woke to see
a whirling circle of sun-fire
emerging from a fog cloud
hovering right above me—

concentric bands
of razzling orange-gold energy.

But with a peaceful pool
in the center—
its aqua-blue surface
deepening down into cobalt blue.

I felt that well draw me in
and shut my eyes in fright

but then in a fright, realized
I might’ve lost my chance
to know a greater mystery.

So I popped my lids back open.

But of course
the fog and fire and pool
had vanished.

I knew then
every morning I’d hope to find
that whirling sun-fire above me
when I opened my eyes.
And likely be disappointed
every morning.

Yes—years have passed
and I haven’t yet received
a second invitation.
But my feeling sense tells me:
the mystery still lurks
on the other side of the curtain.

So I remain tantalized.
No, I have not given up.

But I’m not merely waiting
I’m working—
every day when I rise
I repeat this message to myself:

I will earn the return
by becoming strong enough
to overcome the natural fear
of jumping into the fiery hoop—
the fear
of descending up through
the deep cobalt blue.

mythsteps · THE SUN-FIRE POOL

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Rediscovery

author's note:

At a time of many disasters, I'm working not to become a disaster myself.


REDISCOVERY

Though I don't pray
sometimes I do
lower to my knees
then lower my head
and join right palm to left

because this pause
and position
somehow quiets thought
and allows me to deepen down
and find that place of peace
where I can hear
the wordless wisdom
of what seems to be
my own god within.

In the humility of lowering
I realize again
the promise of a potential
and so
once more feel hope.

mythsteps · Rediscovery

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Hope for the Fallen

author’s note:

I’ve met two people who were once knocked unconscious.

Both felt they benefited from the experience.


HOPE FOR THE FALLEN

A wise one once said:
the fire that flares up
soon burns out.

Was she talking about my nation?

Maybe she was talking about the two of us.

That wise one also said:
those who don’t stop to look
to see where they’re going
soon fall and hit their heads.

Was she talking about the two of us?

Maybe she was talking about our nation.

Or maybe
she was talking about the other day
when I tripped
and landed hard on the hard ground.

But as I regained my senses
I suddenly remembered
the night I feared I’d freeze

but then found a small ember
in a big pile of ashes
and built a fire that lasted ’til morning.

I may still be a fool
but at least now I know
not to give up hope.

mythsteps · Hope for the Fallen

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Light of December at Midnight

author's note:

Posting this poem each year has become Christmas tradition with me.


THE LIGHT OF DECEMBER AT MIDNIGHT

Night feels darker in December

and as I open to
the strange deep quiet
of Solstice
I stop my walk

to re-examine
the outdoor nativity scene
that before seemed so kitsch.
But now
I suddenly see

the pink plastic baby
lying in tinsel straw
is the new life
hidden in my heart--

a slow gestation,
the birth, not guaranteed.

Then I see
that glittery styrofoam star
is the wise one within--
the one who often sighs with sadness
at the sight of my rough antics.

Then--alas!--I see
that plywood cow beside the manger
is the domestic animal I usually am--
the unenlightened me.

Yes, this bovine is quite dim
but I can see my vision has improved--
consider this:
I’m seeing light I missed last year.

So this hope remains:
to eventually grow
into a wise old child
who can gaze into the mundane
and realize
the glory of its light.

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

Healing Cough

author’s note:

To all those in the coughing chorus.


HEALING COUGH

As a child I took in
so much toxic stuff.

For decades now
I’ve struggled to cough out
all that suffocating dust.
But

I do not lament.
No—
I write to celebrate
this chest work I’m doing
and to show I'm fighting--
fighting for my life.
I am coming back to life.
I hack with pain
but also with joy.

I want to bellow this song!

But alas
at this time
I can only cough.

mythsteps · Healing Cough

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
myth steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Story from a NIght Stranger

author’s note:

Based on a true story?

Kinda.


STORY FROM A NIGHT STRANGER

Consider this humble tale
told to me by a stranger:

while living alone in the country
she opened her door one night
to a silent explosion of light.

By instinctive response
she kicked the door shut
then in an instant realized:
she’d lost her chance.

At what?--she wasn’t sure--
but something more
than she’d ever known before.

So she flung the door back open

but of course
saw only darkness
deepening into the trees.

Though she knows
the opportunity will probably never return
she’s also seen
what can happen
when you give up hope
so

every day
she works to be ready--
she works to build strength
by constantly trying to find
the truth hidden within
the cloud of noise in her brain.
She works to build strength
by delving deeper
and deeper
into the well of her mirror.

She shares with others
the light she finds
in her foggy head
in her dark depths.

But I wanted my own light
so I asked her
how can I delve down?
Teach me how to work.

But she turned then
and returned to the shadows.

Her soft smile of parting
said:
I’ve learned the blessing of loss.
The sharp gleam in her eye told me:
I know
you will find your own way.

Yes--
I now know how to build strength.
So maybe I’ll be ready
should I ever open my door
to a silent explosion of light.

mythsteps · Story from a Night Stranger

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

Prometheus, Revisited

author’s note:

Maybe the Greek gods were real after all.  That would explain the capriciousness of life.


PROMETHEUS, REVISITED

The myth of Prometheus
would seem to be a warning
to those who’d try to bring fire
down from the mountaintop.

As they did with him
the gods might wrap you in chains
and send an eagle down to devour
your liver every damn day.

Nonetheless I accepted the risk—
hoping to satisfy my creative impulse
(and my ego as well, of course).

But with that choice
I put myself in the chains
of ambition

then later refused
to set myself loose
when my sparks only made
small flames
that dwindled and died.

Though my ego died a bit
with each pathetic death
I actually pulled the chains tighter
because

those flickering promises
kept my aspiration burning

and by then I’d realized:
if I let that mad dream die
life would lack meaning
and so
my life would lack life.

Maybe I stoke my inner fire
with delusion
but hey—
sometimes in that way
fools make blazes
bright enough
to rouse the jealousy
of those who try to play god.

40 New Fables
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Crypt & Crib

author’s note:

Soil music.


CRYPT & CRIB

Sensing I might’ve lost
something valuable
in the dusty shadows below
I decided to descend.

So began years of tedious searching—
of gathering back together
the many parts I’d discarded.

Knowing the difficulty
I now want to help others
who also struggle in the dark.
But the little I’ve learned for certain
they probably already understand

which is:

today, we have no suitable rituals
to help us navigate the passageways
of our subterranean life:

we must be our own undertaker
we must be our own light
we must be our own midwife.

A dream showed me a baby
in the tunnel of a crypt:

a glowing grub-bug it was—
shifting through the dust
as it crawled along—
finding lots of odd bits:
chips of flint stone
and skeleton bone
as well as a few jewels.

All of it provided nourishment
for the infant

so the child kept expanding—
filling the tomb

until finally, up above
the earth of a fallow farm field broke open
and my dazed head sprouted from the womb.

But the next morning
I awoke to the same barred crib.

Yes
this old baby must gestate a while longer.
Must grow more.
Must devour those jewels
and the better side
of everything else I discover
in my dark depths.

At least I know I’m not alone:
witness the many perennials at labor—
determined to be reborn.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Bridge

author’s note:

When I discovered the Golden Gate bridge wasn’t actually painted gold, I felt disappointed.

But later, I realized: regardless of the color, it’s golden.


THE BRIDGE

In the dream I saw a bridge
arc across the sky

only to fade too soon as rainbows do.

So as I woke
I felt both hope
and disappointment:

again I knew a drive that often irritates--
the desire to bridge a divide within
and end this war with myself.

“You can’t even maintain
 that bridge in your dreams!”

sighed the adult
who, for years, has felt
the tiresome frustration
of continually struggling
to create a peace
that, once made, soon evaporates
like a fantasy.

But then the bright child I sometimes am
countered with this claim:
though you can’t yet hold that bridge up
under the pressures of this world
its truth always lives within you.

But before the two could argue
the wise one rose up from down deep
to tell me:

this dream came because
you needed to remember
that the pain of desire unfulfilled
feels worse than the pain of fatigue.

Now you’ll keep working
to strengthen your golden bridge.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

While Working in the Sock Department of a Major Chain Store

author's note:

In memory of a friend who often said: "it's an outer manifestation of an inner reality".


WHILE WORKING IN THE SOCK DEPARTMENT OF A MAJOR CHAIN STORE

Recently, I’ve noticed
many people passing over
those socks with the polka dots
and choosing the ones
with that plaid design
instead.

I view this trend
not as a mere fad
but as a message
from the human psyche:

I believe
that plaid represents
work those folk are doing
on an inner level--

bringing opposing forces together--
    joining left with right
    and up with down--
to create a stable structure.

Seeing the strength that results
from their labor
more will then dedicate themselves
to this job of creating a union within.
They too
will realize their inner plaidness.

And when they do
their actions will reveal
a deeper human truth.

Maybe you’ll scoff at my belief
but consider how it helps me:

now when I see
someone choosing
a plaid pair of socks
my hope for the human race lifts

and I become
even more determined
to unify all my parts
and rid myself
of this weak feeling--
this feeling of being
just odd assortment of dots.

When I’m more together
I can join with those others--
I want to be part
of that grand plaid design.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Jump

author’s note:

“Might as well jump”
         -- Van Halen


JUMP

What should you do
if an inner voice tells you
to “jump”?

Fortunately
I knew enough to know
the message was a metaphor.

However
a metaphorical jump
off a metaphorical cliff
can feel as scary as a literal leap.

So though my deep self assured me
this step into the unknown
would bring more life
I rejected the order at first:
I argued in defense
of good common sense--

what if I fell into an abyss?--!

However
from experience I knew
if I didn’t move
I’d probably be pushed
and if I wasn’t, I’d wither.

I also know from experience
I may still doubt the decision
after I see where I’ve landed.
But if so, I’ll just tell myself
that where I am
is where I need to be.

I find strength in that belief--
strength enough
to lift myself up
should my hopes collapse.

Common Courage: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Armadillo Mirror

author’s note:

Another mirror.


ARMADILLO MIRROR

I try so hard to see
but seem to make little progress

except when some sight jolts
my eyes open
to another obvious secret.

As on that night
when I stood
gazing at a half-moon
while lamenting
my lack of accomplishment

until a rustling sound
suddenly pulled me out of the clouds--

down on the lawn
I found an armadillo
rummaging through the leaves.

Fascinated
I watched that little armored grubber
trundling along on its bitty legs:
a dwarf clawing for its life
in the medieval dark.

Such resolve!
An irrepressible spirit!
Thriving despite all the hardships--
an accomplishment, to be sure.

As that creature is, so are you--
I whispered this secret to myself
as if channeling a deep soul.

But before my pride
could rise too high
I was struck again
by another realization:

yes, it’s found a way to survive
but eventually, shells limit us--
as any bird chick will tell you.

Can I ever convince myself
I’m strong enough
to live free from this cell?

Will we ever convince ourselves
we’re strong enough?

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton