Education at the Mall

author’s note:

In the poem below, I don’t say much about the couple’s appearance.  I wanted you to see them for yourself.  Who knows?  You might see some people you know.

You might even see your own union.


EDUCATION AT THE MALL

Many years ago
I entered a contest at a shopping mall
hoping to win a diamond ring—
I wanted to prepare
for the eventual realization
of my romantic dreams.

No, I wasn’t ready yet—
I needed to learn more about love
before I could give the love
necessary for success with another.

As part of that education
the one who pulls the strings within
drew me to the second level of the mall that morning.
And then to the walkway
where I looked down to see
a couple strolling
across the checkerboard floor below.

Hand in hand they went—
happy as storybook twins
though they seemed a complete mismatch.
Not only a contrast, but a conflict of appearance.

Ah, but then my deeper eyes perceived
how each beamed with the same spirit.
Bright light had joined with bright light.
I saw:
The fire they’d made with their twin flames
could eventually grow into a blaze
strong enough to guide ships through storms.

I saw:

If I feared the sneers and jeers of our world
I might close the door to the light I need
and locked in my cell, I could not spread
the light I need to give.

As a student, I often feel humbled
and promise to do better
when I witness such bold proclamations of love.

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

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

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
dream steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Fog of Love

author’s note:

Ironic: I see better when I listen.


THE FOG OF LOVE

I’ve often heard historians speak
of the fog of war.
But in my experience
the ecstasy of love
can also create fog.

Yes, between the two
I prefer the fog of love.
But in that cloud
the beloved and I
may bumble and stumble and fumble.
And the frustration we feel then
can lead to anger
can lead to sadness.

The fog of love
can quickly become the fog of war.

And my mind may still be fogged
long after the war has ended.

But desperate for peace
I’ll fight to clear my head.

No, I’ve never been able to achieve
perfect clarity
but every insight earned
remains with me.

So maybe next time
I won’t get lost in illusion
but be able to see through the fog—

see the new union clearly—
see my love for my lover clearly
see my lover clearly—
see if they see me clearly—
and if not, help them see
who I am.

To those who say
I’ll kill the mad ecstasy that way
I say:
Whether we stay together or part
I don’t want the sun we’ve made
to be lost
in the dark noxious fog of war.

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

Raindrops are Pearls

author’s note:

I keep trying to improve my vision.


RAINDROPS ARE PEARLS

When I look at those raindrops
hanging from that branch
I see pearls

because

raindrops seem of little consequence—
here for a moment then gone.

Whereas pearls seem to shine
with a timeless intrinsic value.

I say:
though we enter and live in this world
as raindrops
we never stop being pearls.

Scoff if you want, but
wouldn’t you prefer I see you as a pearl?

I say:
our raindrop life be better
if we always saw each other as pearls.

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

The Woman of Gold

author’s note:

Continuing a continuing theme.


THE WOMAN OF GOLD

My friend, the comic
said he sought a woman of gold
but so far in his search
he’d found only lead.

I then mentioned a woman
he knew and I’d recently met.

But to that idea, he replied:

"What about those big ears
  and those big bug eyes
  and that big butt
  that wobbles from side to side
  when she walks up the stairs?"

I scolded him then, saying
“Consider the possibilities:

“Perhaps ears so big are made to detect
  the sound of gold hidden in this world of lead.
  And when that woman hears that gold
  that gold becomes
  part of who she is.

“And maybe eyes so big and buggy
  are well-designed to see the gold
  hidden in this world of lead.
  And when that woman sees that gold
  that gold becomes
  part of who she is.

“And to me, that wobble expresses
  the continual interaction
  of life’s yin and yang.
  That big butt bears witness
  To the universal creative energies within her.

“That’s not lead, my friend, that’s gold.”

Startled by my own response
I decided to let that obtuse man
find his way alone
then hurried home to phone
that glorious woman of gold.

mythsteps · the woman of gold

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Silhouette

author’s note:

Who among us is not mysterious?


THE SILHOUETTE

At the new year’s party
the host dimmed the lights
just before midnight
so when my friend turned
he saw only a silhouette
at the other end of the hallway—

a shadow stepping his way.

Then when the lights came back on
he found a plain open face
peering into his plain open face.

That face soon became part of his days.
A good face
because it belongs to a good woman.

But when seen every day
the good can begin to seem ordinary.

So in time my friend lost sight
of what he first saw
when he first saw her that night.

But fortunately for both of them
he soon woke up again—
brought back, I believe
by the god that steers from within:

While mowing the lawn
late one afternoon
that good man turned without thinking
and found her shadow
standing at the window.

In that instant
he remembered that midnight silhouette
and his eyes opened again.

I’m happy to report
he has not forgotten the truth since then.

mythsteps · The Silhouette

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Loving All I See

author’s note:

Even if we’re not with someone this Valentine’s Day, we can still express our love.


LOVING ALL I SEE

Some whispering people believe
I’ve fallen in love with myself
because I keep staring into the stream.

But no—
I want to see the reflection
of the limbs and leaves
with the wide blue sky beyond
where a lone bird drifts.

Yes, I could see the same
if I raised my head
but this way
I also see the shadow fish
darting beneath the surface
and a bed of stones worn smooth
where a crawfish scuttles backwards.

I love the leaves and sky and gliding bird
and the water and fish and those smooth stones.
And especially the scuttling crawfish.

And when I see my rippling face among them
I remember:
I am part of the nature I love.
So I should be fair
and love the lover as well.

mythsteps · Loving All I See

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

author’s note:

While you give to me and I give to you
True love, true love
          — “True Love”, Cole Porter


THE TREE SPEAKS TO THE TREE HUGGER

As a tree, I can see
you now fight the need
to release your abundant burden of love.
But please, surrender:
encircle me with your weary arms—
I am here to accept your offering.

As a tree, I know
you struggle because
after so much hurt
you dare not touch
anything at all.

You’re trying to escape—
you’ve numbed the pain
you’ve numbed the love.
Neither living nor dead—
you’re one more lost ghost.

But I trust your higher instinct—
I trust
your irrepressible desire for life
will eventually lift you above your fear.

Nonetheless
this separation pains me.
Yes, humans need trees
but trees also need humans—
I’m only complete when I can be
what I am meant to be:
I need to serve up comfort
to people who need
to serve up their love.

I give breath to you—
you give breath to me.
Not just the physical breath—
neither one of us can live long without
the spiritual breath of the heart.

mythsteps · The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, 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

The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

author’s note:

Someone once asked me if I ever wrote love poetry.

They’re all love poems.


THE LOVE LIFE OF THOSE WHO LIVE IN THE COLD

I asked my Arctic hosts
how they managed to thrive
in that frozen land.

And they replied:
we try to find ways
to love those hardships
we can’t escape.
For instance:

we love
the spring morning wind
that burns our face raw red—
we love when that cold fire shrieks:
I want to wake you from your stupor.

When some stir troubles us
we remember that goddess
and then feel grateful
for the disturbance on our waters.

We also love
the all-consuming darkness of winter—
in his murmurs we hear:
I’m here to help you
deepen down
into yourselves
so you can know
how much more you truly are.

Whenever a shadow falls upon us
we remember that winter god
and then feel grateful
for the darkness in our path.

Yes, in this extreme land
we might moan all the way to death
if we didn’t recognize the blessings
in the incessant adversity of our life.

I thanked those wise lovers then—
telling them:
maybe now I’ll feel grateful
for the disturbance and darkness
that stirs me
that deepens me
in my own frozen land.

mythsteps · The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

Common Courage: poetry book
sky rope poetry blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Declaration of Independence

author's note:

This poem has become my Fourth of July tradition.

Happy birthday, America!--I love your mad beauty, despite the flaws.


DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

I'll be damn if I'll be terrorized
by anyone

including the beast in my mirror.

If I can face that monster
why should I cower
before those who lack
the courage to look
into their own reflections?

When they bombard me
my legs may tremble
but I won't sit--
no, I'll pirouette
in a defiant dance of joy!

And if they curse me
with cutting words
I’ll answer with a song designed
to soothe the wounds
that are theirs and mine.

But my empathy still has limits:
I must heal myself more before
I have heart enough to love them.

So though I declare with sincerity
I can not yet say
I’m completely free.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Original Wound

author’s note:

Though Eden is lost
its loveliness
remains in the heart
and the imagination
         -- Mary Oliver


THE ORIGINAL WOUND

According to this myth:
our problems first began
when the first human being
felt confused because
it sensed it was more than one.

Unable to resolve that tension
the human then split in half
and one half went East
while the other half went West.

Perhaps you’ve already guessed
the happy ending:

eventually
both halves will meet
halfway around the globe
and recognize their missing part
then join together again.

But no—
the resolution won’t be so simple
because

as it walked, the East half felt
the same inner tension
felt by its parent
and so
soon tore apart
and one half headed North
while the other half headed South.

The West half also felt that tension
and so
quickly broke in half
and one half walked North
while the other half walked South.

Following that pattern
those four halves soon became eight
and then those eight became sixteen
and then…well, you get the idea.

Because we can’t accept all we are
we keep breaking apart

and because those losses feel so painful
we keep searching
for something that might heal us:

at first, a thing might seem to be
the exact right thing
but in time, we discover
it’s not the thing
that can make us whole again
and then the wound weeps even louder.

I believe this myth explains why
you seemed so perfect
when I first met you:

in you I saw the thing
I felt to be missing—
the thing could make my life whole.

And you saw the same thing in me—
I seemed to fill a void
and for a moment at least
you didn’t feel that sense of loss.

But our mistake was blessed one:
it brought the two of us together

and as we’ve struggled to return
to that garden we first knew
we’ve looked deeper into ourselves
and in the process
discovered many parts we’d missed.

I don’t know if our union will hold

but by working to repair the break
we’ve both become more whole
and in that way help to heal the wound—

a cut that first began
when the first human being
couldn’t resolve the first conflict.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

I Once Was Servant to a Cat

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: based on a true story.


I ONCE WAS SERVANT TO A CAT

Yes, I bowed to the whims
of that little god
but

to hear that satisfied purr
gave me such satisfaction--
to find happiness in another’s happiness
is elevated, is it not?

But maybe I also wanted
to express my love
to one who wouldn’t
suddenly start to hiss and claw
without apparent provocation.

In any case
I will not get another cat--
the world outside also needs my love.

But am I strong enough now
to keep my purr
from becoming a hiss
when another paw
suddenly shows its claws?--

without apparent provocation!

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

God in a Breath

author’s note:

In a recent dream, my car had a flat tire.

Apparently, I need more air.


GOD IN A BREATH

At first, the child believed
God lived in the clouds

then she heard that God lived within

but that idea didn’t make sense--
how could God possibly fit?

But she’d often sensed
something hovering near--
something she couldn’t see or hear.
Must be God, she thought.

But if God was right there
why didn’t he protect her
from stings and falls and mean dogs
and people who acted like mean dogs?

He just stood and watched
while the world tormented her.

She burned with frustration
and humiliation
at the indifference of God.

But the hot tears on her cheek
soon cooled into grief
and she breathed a deep sigh
then sighed deeply again

and in that moment
she suddenly began to feel
a quiet warmth
kindling within her chest.
So she took another breath
and felt that glow grow.
She told herself:
This must be what Mother means
when she praises
“the peace of God’s love”.

Slowly then
our young heroine
began to see her mistake:

God really did care
but did not help her in her struggles
because
(as her father often said)
she needed to learn
how to deal with such things
as falls and mean dogs and mean people--
she needed to learn
how to deal with the stings.

And because God
had not interfered
she’d now learned
at least one good way
to deal with such things
and that was
by letting God in:
   if she took a deep breath
   then another deep breath
   and another and another
   whatever it is that is God
   would come in—she’d feel it.

That’s why we sigh so often,
she thought:
We’re trying to breathe in God.

Many times, many times
that silly belief helped soothe
the wounds of childhood

and also the wounds
of adulthood.

But to be honest
the woman usually forgot about God

except in those moments
when doubt darkened
into despair--
then she’d finally remember
to close her eyes
and take a deep breath
and another deep breath
and another deep breath
and concentrate
until she again felt
that healing soul
fill her heart
with the warmth of love.

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

On the Continent of Love Lost

author’s note:

Someone once asked if I ever wrote love poems...

They’re all love poems!

Happy Thanksgiving.


ON THE CONTINENT OF LOVE LOST

She said
her heart had exiled her writing
to the island of love lost.

But I told her
that island can be a continent.
Here’s the difference:

on the island
when we write of love lost
we write of the garden lost

but on the continent
we realize
we must leave our gardens
in order to grow.

On the island, we write of how
we long for the return
of the one lost

but on the continent
we write of delving down
to find ourselves again.

On the island
we write of wounds still open

but on the continent
we write of mending those wounds
and in the process
healing old deep wounds.

On the island
we're afraid of losing--
of losing again

and on the continent
we're afraid of the same--
afraid of a love
we can not escape
at its beginning--

a love we can not hold
at its end.

But on the continent
we don’t try to escape
when we know we can’t
and don’t try to hold
when we know we can’t.

All this I wrote to her
but then admitted:

I don't always live
the “continent way”

but when I do, I'm able to lay
a wreath of gratitude
on gardens lost
while I celebrate
a present-time blessed
by the education gained
through the losses
of my past.

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

The Man Who Secretly Searches for Sophie

author's note:

Who is the man in this poem?

To answer that question would require a list so long it’d stretch all the way around the world.


THE MAN WHO SECRETLY SEARCHES FOR SOPHIE

The man of this story
lost Sophie so long ago
he doesn’t know he lost her

nor does he realize
how he searches for her

or how he sees her everywhere:

in the glowing pearl earring
found suddenly in a dark theater

in a soft hand print
on a frosted window
highlighted by the moon.

But also in vistas grand:

in a smokey orange sunrise cloud
building high above
a sea of shadowy pink.

So much of life echoes “Sophie”
to this searcher

including the way
the peasant woman in the photo
kneels at the creek as she scrubs
that pile of clothes
--he likes how her long black hair
   hangs down, touching
   the silver rippling water.

Fool that he is
he imagines himself standing near--
hands behind his back--
as he tries to say in broken language
how hot the sun feels.

She then lifts her gentle eyes to him--
a silent knowing gaze
that brings to mind
the monolithic goddess
that appeared in the darkness of a dream
when he felt so helpless.

Absorbed in that second image
our hero suddenly feels
a foundation of love within
the creaky hardwood of his chest:

a stone foundation resolute--immovable.

But in the next moment he turns the page--
though a dreamer, his tolerance for depth
has its limits.

Oh, but I haven’t given up on him:
I believe in time he’ll feel so desperate
He won’t flee
but stay there in his heart

and when he touches that stone
he’ll hear an inner voice--
(strange yet recognized as his own)
and he’ll sense
how those dark hushed tones
joyfully incessantly repeat this name
as a holy incantation:

Sophie…Sophie…Sophie…

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Lovers' Stone Quarry

author's note:

Why do old abandoned places have such mystery?

Maybe the mystery was always there.  We just didn’t feel it until all went quiet.


THE LOVERS' STONE QUARRY

After the machines
abandoned this quarry
the gray rains of winter
filled the granite pit
with cloudy-white water.

Now, near twilight
on an August day
a solitary couple
sneaks down the hill
to swim--to splash--to yell
in the sun’s splintered rays.

But in time the two
arrive at their quiet
and shyly open
to a deep embrace

then as cool wet skin
meets cool wet skin
both discover warmth
in the anxious heart of the other.

Discretion prohibits me
from finishing this scene
but before I endv I want to share a question:

if the massive complex
we humans have created
eventually collapses
under all its heady weight
what might life be like in the ruins?

My hope is:

those who remain
will find a new way of life
in the jagged pit we blasted.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton