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
dream steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

After the Cloud is Gone

author’s note:

Another failed attempt to write a love poem for Valentine’s Day.


AFTER THE CLOUD IS GONE

While walking through
an empty field last week
I spotted a roiling cloud overhead
and thought of the ways you shift
when waking in the morning.

The desire I felt then
stirred up a deeper desire—
to my surprise, I again felt the love
I’d declared dead over a year ago.

But too quickly
your rounded shifting shape broke
into little tufts

which the wind then swept away

leaving only empty sky above.

But the love remained.
However, with the cloud gone
I had no object to focus that love on.
So I gave the feeling to the whole sky above.
Though I thought myself a fool
I felt compelled to raise my arms
to that open blue vista.

What a powerful release I felt then—
a burden of emotion lifted from my body—
suddenly I felt so clear. Blessedly empty.
As I confronted the magnificence of the infinite
I felt joyfully insignificant.

But what exactly did I love in that moment?
What did my arms want to embrace?
God?  The sky?  The Universe?
All of the above?
What?

The question lingers
but I’ve stopped trying to answer
instead
I think about what I felt in that moment

in order to spur myself on
as I try to find some other way to summon
that strange liberating love
up from my depths.

So now
I’d like to thank you
for passing by that day
then passing on
so I could discover
my deepest desire—

a desire even deeper
than my deep desire for you.

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

When I Went for My Waterfall Blessing, I Found a Divine Dog

author’s note:

“What a feeling!”
        — Irene Cara, “Flashdance…What a feeling”


WHEN I WENT FOR MY WATERFALL BLESSING, I FOUND A DIVINE DOG

PART I

Today I went to visit the waterfall

as I do whenever
the mud and dust
of my life in this world
just seems too much.

When I stand beneath
the water rushing down
I imagine a blessing descending
on my bowed head—
cleansing me.
So when I emerge
I feel clear again
and for a moment
again feel the purity of my spirit.

But I believe we’re all
pure in spirit.
I need that belief
in order to accept
all the mud and dust
of our life in this world.

PART II

But when I arrived
at the end of the forest trail
I found a dog playing in the pool
beneath the waterfall.

Possessed by a dance, it was—
leaping up
trailing beads of spray
then landing down
in a winged splash—
a joyful rebellion against gravity—
a joyful acceptance of defeat—
spray
and splash
spray
and splash—
ecstasy.

But I’d come there for a blessing

so I waded around the canine
and stepped into the curtain
and let the full force of the fall
pound my head relentlessly.
The water cold but hot in its intensity.

Soon overwhelmed by sensation
I lost every dull thought in my head.

But when I stepped back out I saw
the dog had stopped its revelry.
Standing still, it stared at me—
head tilted to the side. Puzzled
by my trembling solemnity.

I didn’t want to ruin the dog’s frolic
by causing it concern
so I then began my own splash dance.
Which broke the spell—
in an instant the creature joined me.
We jumped up and down
and barked and laughed
and my feeling of purity
meshed with a feeling of joy.

Again I was the child I once was—
the one who’d rebel
against the mud and dust of his world
by going into a ritual
with just one rule:
dance—dance—dance
dance like a divine dog.

mythsteps · when I went for my waterfall blessing I found a divine dog

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

Spirit Lost and Found

author’s note:

I hope my computer doesn’t realize what I’m saying about it.


SPIRIT LOST AND FOUND

Often after hours of tapping
on this flat keyboard
these fingers will begin to malfunction.

But I can easily fix my digits
by going outside for a spell
to see…to breathe…to feel.

My spirit then wakes

wakes
as that high-spiraling vulture
lifts my eyes with its glide

wakes
as that all-knowing stone
says silently:
sit down and ease your doubt

wakes
as I share an embrace
with that oak tree merging heaven and earth.

My spirit wakes to their spirit.

As for this hypnotic mechanism…
maybe it lives, but without spirit.
As a result, while tapping
I often feel too much alone.

So when my hands say stop
the cause is not merely fatigue
but also the weight of alienation.

Lifted
when I escape to the elemental reality
of rock and roots and leaves and wings.

Yet I return
to the manufactured reality
after just a short recess
because

with this cool tool
I can grieve publicly
over spirit lost

and also share
the joy I experience
when I resurrect my spirit.

mythsteps · Spirit Lost and Found

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
dream steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Storm Ritual

author’s note:

“Splish splash!”
           –- Bobby Darin


STORM RITUAL

Why didn't I run
from those stallions of storm clouds
rushing toward me
over the grassland of the valley?

Obviously I felt compelled
to wake my sleepy head
but maybe I was also held
by this secret wish:

to stand naked
and let the god of lightning
blast apart the stubborn fist
that binds my heart—
a block resistant to my persistent pleas
for freedom.

And maybe I opened my arms
to the cold merciless rain
because my dreams keep telling me:
wash yourself clean.

Whatever the deeper reasons may be
I can say for certain
the silly child I still am
found joy in the splashing dance

and as sunlight followed storm
I instantly instinctively felt hope—
for a moment, quiet ecstasy freed my heart
as the rainbow arc
joined one mountain to the other mountain
across the valley.

Finally, a ritual has elicited
the heightened sense of reality I seek.
But I must find a safer way
to reconnect with my truth.

If I don’t
deep need may drive me
to again stand and say
come on
next time I see stallions of storm clouds
rushing to wash me down.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Opera of Life

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I don’t know opera.

But I do like the idea of opera--life amplified to its true grandness.


THE OPERA OF LIFE

Beginning at dawn
I can feel a song rising

if I stop to listen.

If I stop
I can feel
all those songs around me:
the song of the blue flames on the stove--
the song of the empty white cup--
the song of torn brown dish towel:

the room booms with a chorus.

If I stop to listen
to the opera of life
I feel prompted
to sing in response.

But many days I don’t want to stop:

what a pain to try to sing
when what I feel can’t possibly be sung--
even by a bird
much rarer than I

and besides
the opera of life
doesn’t seem to need my song.

But
I feel I’m a participant
when I sing in response
and an alien
when I shut down.

So I persuade myself
to accept the pain
then open my big ears
to the opera of life
then open my big mouth
and join that grand chorus.

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

My Quest for Gold

author’s note:

If a quest didn’t present us with one frustration after another…

…would the quest really be worth our time and effort?


MY QUEST FOR GOLD

Years ago
someone said:
look--
can you see the gold
in this piece?

Well, yes--
when I stopped, I could--
though only dimly at first

yet enough to wake in me
the desire to see
the gold of this world

because when I saw, I felt
the gold within me

then saw more clearly
then felt more.

Such pursuits qualify as quests.

But alas
to search for the ideal
creates frustration:

what I was told was gold
often didn’t touch me

and what had once touched me
might later feel like silver
or sometimes even lead
when I returned
hoping for a repeat
of the first feeling.

But then someone said:
if you open your eyes more fully--
focus yourself completely--
you can find gold
in any ordinary thing.

What a joy to realize
the truth of that beautiful sentiment
(even if the vision lasted
  for only a few touching moments).

Following that discovery
I could have led
the blissful existence of the aesthete.
But no

I felt driven to respond
to all the gold I found
by trying to create
some gold of my own.

A quest with even more frustration.

My hope is:
maybe occasionally my failures
will come close enough
to the sublime reality
to touch a memory
and in that way, help you locate
some gold you’ve misplaced.

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

Pedro

author’s note:

I’m a pessimistic optimist.  But maybe that's obvious.


PEDRO

Yes, Pedro and I
still find ways to beam joy
during these spinning days
of confusion and blood.

While I sing
that child grins his cracked teeth, rings
his tambourine--
I pan for gold
with my banjo.

Yesterday, I took him to Congress
so we could sit in the balcony
and laugh at the show
but

I kept on seeing us
down below.
So

I brought Pedro back out
to bask in the sun’s rays
and witness the smiles
of the many wounded. &nbps;I say:
no one ever loses his soul‑‑
it only gets misplaced.

Many claim
that many children now
grow up
with their souls
outside their bodies.
But Pedro and I, we both agree:
it's always been that way.

Still, we’re hopeful fools.
Pedro says

if enough get mended
the balance might tip
then keep on tipping.

To that end
we spindle personal projects--
turning cranks inside our own mines,
hoisting up buckets of ash--
all the while searching for
the occasional
jitterbug diamond.

Satisfying yet also frustrating:
our hands seem so small.

Yes, reports from a thousand battlefronts
tell us we’re not working alone.
But losses seem to outpace gains--
a monster
on the opposite side of the wall
jacks the odds against us.

But maybe the wall is illusion.
So maybe we can bargain.

In any case, Pedro and I remain
determined
to task happy:
my banjo is banjoy
and Pedro’s tambourine
sings with ringing--sparkles
like the bright folk
who hold this world aloft.

Maybe no one hears us
but at least this way
our eyes don’t bruise
when the tears begin to sting.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Quiet Ecstasy

author's note:

I'd like to recommend: Ecstasy: Understanding the Psychology of Joy by Robert A. Johnson.


QUIET ECSTASY

Stand up!

Having heard those words all my life
by now, the command’s
baked-in

so any time gravity
seems to increase
I automatically fight
to stay on my feet

and if I slip to my knees
I’ll then see defeat
and curse myself, yelling:
Stand--dammit, stand!

Then in response
I’ll push my body upright
and keep on going.
Here’s the routine:

I walk until I drop
then force myself back up.
I walk until I drop
then force myself back up.

A pattern broken when
the force of nature
grows stronger
than my conscious will.

At that point
realizing I’ve no real choice
I’ll finally surrender
and lay myself down--all the way down
on my back on the ground.

Then comes the slow sweet ache
of vertebrae softly bursting
to sink down hungry thirsty roots--
to tap the heavy water and feed
on the rich black pith of the earth.

I once thought “ecstasy” meant
a flail of dancing
and long howls at the moon.

Yes, but not always:
sometimes ecstasy comes
from holding yourself still as a well
and allowing body and spirit to fill
with an excruciating sense
of life’s abundance

while fighting the fear
of being overwhelmed.
And stopping myself from standing again
as soon as I’m able to crawl back up--
forcing myself to wait ‘til I’m done--
wait until I’ve regained
the full strength of my love.

Yes, I want to show how tough I am
but this walk feels joyless--empty
whenever I lose my sense of beauty.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
Listening to Silence: poetry ebook

Song of a Wheat Plant

author’s note:

If I thought my poems were only about my own life, I wouldn’t bother.


SONG OF A WHEAT PLANT

I can’t escape the scythe
I can not avoid the millstone

but I can sing
when the cut sears--sing
as I’m ground down fine:

sing not only of pain
but also of joy--
sing the song
of the happy sacrifice

because
without this crucifixion
from blade and stone
I would not rise.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog