When Gods Come Down from the Mountain

author’s note:

Much of what I see tires me.

Fortunately, much of what I see inspires me.


WHEN GODS COME DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

Sometimes a bored god
will put a human into a hypnotic trance
then enter the body and take control
because they want to feel the adrenaline thrill
we feel when we perform a superhuman feat.

Though confined by the small frame
a deity can still lift those without a boat
above the rising waters.
Or stare down a fierce fire at the edge of town.

Then when the rush subsides
at the end of the event
the immortal will return home
to the clouds on the mountain.

The human will then wake in a daze—
feeling hazy about what they’ve just done.

And when praised
they’ll wonder:
How did I do what I did?
Never guessing
a colossal god could ever fit inside them.

They may assume instead
secret potentials lurk within.
And as a result, decide
they should work to realize
their hidden capabilities.

What they accomplish then
will have the effect
of inspiring other ordinary folk
who say to themselves:

if that damn fool can be super
then so can I!

mythsteps · when gods come down from the mountain

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Small Gods of the Mountain

author’s note:

Can I get a witness!


SMALL GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN

The old ones told us children:

gods lived on the mountain outside town
but we couldn’t see them
because the clouds shrouding the peak
hid them from sight.

However
if we really tried
we could sense their presence
despite the distance--
the old ones told us.

But though I made the effort
I could not feel
any higher spirits lurking
behind the clouds
of my paltry mundane life.

Finally, one morning
I decided I must defy the taboo
and set out to climb that mountain--
hoping to find those gods
and receive a blessing
that would fill my empty heart.

But far from the top
I got lost in the wet fog--
rasping for air
I sat down in defeat.

Only then did I notice the wildflowers--
softly small
yet they thrived
in that gray rock.
In the bone-chill.
I witnessed their strong spirit--

and when we see spirit
don’t we then see god?

Now
when I feel the need
for the healing blessing of beauty
I’ll often steal away to visit
those gods of many colors
that ignite the mountainside.

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Fig Tree Communion

author’s note:

I don’t find my roots by looking back at ancestors I never knew.


FIG TREE COMMUNION

I take this fig onto my tongue
and as I savor its richness
I sense the spirit of the mother tree
spreading through my blood--

for a few blessed moments
I can feel her steady strength.

Then as the feeling fades
I begin to wonder:

can I ever be so strong?--can I

bend in the storm wind?--can I
keep my roots anchored down?

I doubt I can
but I’m inspired to try
when I see the power
of so many wise survivors
who now feed the world
with all those figs they’ve grown.

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

Glass House

author’s note:

I’ve often heard: those in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks.

I say: no one should throw rocks, because we all live in glass houses.

But some houses are clearer than others.


GLASS HOUSE

I can still see the light
beaming out
from the many windows
of your glass house.

That tough structure rests now
on gentle waters
while faraway
I fight to find my way
through cloudy nights
on heavy seas
that sink and heave.

Though some believed
your insight and brightness
was a natural gift
you let me know
how you’d struggled
to clear those panes.

I think you wanted me to see
the value of hard labor done.

But even now, many years later
I still have much work left to do--
I’m not half as bright
as the guide I knew.

Fortunately
I can look to your glass house
now and then
for encouragement

and for a little extra light
to help me navigate
on these dim nights.

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

The Archaeologist

dear reader:

An appropriate poem for Valentine's Day, I think.


THE ARCHAEOLOGIST

Every morning before work
as he sits in his stifling tent
he says her name:

the name of the one once worshipped
at these ancient temple ruins--Her.

With knees lowered
and his head bowed
he feels that name within:

a presence greater
a presence foreign

and yet
there it is:
a part of him.

From the strength of that feeling
he believes he follows a higher calling
and so, every day, he's able to endure
the dust--
the tedious shifting through dirt
the sweating madness of the desert--

he can even calm the fights
under that merciless sun.

But sometimes at night
while lying on his stiff cot in the dark
after another day of grinding labor
with little gain
that name--the goddess name
may not feel so meaningful

and so, for solace and inspiration
he instead whispers that other name

by contrast, a rather plain name

but like that ancient goddess
the woman of the plain name
also holds a cup to the sun:

no, not a cup of sanctified water--
maybe just a cup of strong coffee
or maybe a cup of stone-cut oats

but aren't such things also holy?--

this woman, not a goddess
but not wholly unlike one.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
finding Beauty: poetry ebook