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
dream steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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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
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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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
dream steps 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.


© 2020, Michael R. Patton
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.

mythsteps · The Original Wound

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!

mythsteps · I Once Was Servant to a Cat

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
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Your Light

author’s note:

Once I was blind…

...now I’m a little less blind.


YOUR LIGHT

Your light remains
long after you
have left the room‑‑

a torch bearer, you were--
a messenger of light

still beaming at me--trying
to wake me to my own light.

Whenever I look at this world
through your luminous eyes
I see the light I usually miss:

perhaps shining behind
the shadow of a face.

An open hand beams.
But even a closed hand glimmers.

I can see the light of dead leaves.
Rich black soil glows.
I behold the firelight within stones.

I imagine you now among the stars--
another light to help guide navigators
when, in desperation
they turn their eyes to the sky.

But to keep from tripping
as I navigate
I also look down
and in so doing, I sometimes
I see the light
you told me lives
in every blind step I make
on the way of my path.

you tube channel
33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 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

Strange Beauty

author's note:

This poem wasn’t written to anyone in particular...

So maybe it was written to everyone in general.


STRANGE BEAUTY

That first long look
down into your eyes
told me
there was more there
than I could ever possibly see

but I keep trying
because
where there's more
than can ever be seen
there is mystery--

there is beauty.

l want to witness your mystery
so I can remember
how beautifully strange
this life is--
feel again
the deep strangeness
of my own life.

Once I saw the face
of a stunned alien
reflected in your dark pools

only to realize
those big hungry peepers
belonged to me.

We both seemed like aliens then.

How beautifully strange.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: 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

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

My Better Eyes

author’s note:

Pollyanna gets a bad rap.


MY BETTER EYES

I

Hard for me to see
god in me

but often even harder
to see god in the other.

Nonetheless
I occasionally make the effort
to open my better eyes

especially when I feel the need
to feel the love
that opens up when I see god.

II

The idea of “god within”
can be useful when dealing with conflict
because
if I can see god in the other
the other may feel
the love coming from me
and then respond
by opening his own better eyes.

No, I can’t know for certain
where god lives
or even if god does
but I can see what best serves--
in other words:
I'm keeping that god concept
in my toolbox of beliefs.

III

But to be honest
that tool usually goes unused
when most needed--
too often I succumb
another belief
long accepted as fact:

you can avoid hurt
by seeing the demon.

But in the aftermath
of that bad choice
when I retreat to my solitude
I’ll again feel the need to feel the love
that opens up when I see god

and so
I’ll again make the effort
to open my better eyes

and by opening, again see
those painful truths--see
how I actually create more hurt
(for myself, for you, for all of us)
by keeping my better eyes shut.

At such times
I encourage myself
with these words:
if you’re strong enough to see
both your best and your worst
you’re strong enough to learn
how to keep your better eyes open.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
Searching for my Best Beliefs: poetry ebook

How to Achieve Buoyancy

author's note:

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


HOW TO ACHIEVE BUOYANCY

I've seen some who always seem so buoyant.

I ask myself:
even if they're not weighted
with personal conflict
how can they witness
the struggle and conflict
of our world
and not feel a burden
of incessant frustration?

I assume many are simply oblivious.

However
I believe a few
are born blessed with wisdom--
what they see up-close
they also view
from the mountain

and then maybe others
once felt as heavy as I do today
but gradually found courage enough
to open--to surrender

to the flood waters we hold
but try to hold back--
for fear of being overwhelmed
by our empathy for all humankind.

So now, instead of sinking
at the sight of so much pain
those brave people ascend--
lifted by the rising waters.

A possibility--or so I hope
as I struggle to cope
with all I witness
in this wounded world

which of course, includes
the wounded man
I often criticize--
the one who writes these lines.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook