The Dream of the Drop

author’s note:

The theory stated by the train traveler in this poem is a truncated version of an idea first proposed by Dr. Allan Hobson.


THE DREAM OF THE DROP

Before I woke this morning I saw
a drop of rain fall down through
a strange starless night
and land
with tiny silvery ripples
in a river glistening black—a river
without beginning or end.

In the dream, I then
peered through a microscope lens
and found in that dark-blue drop
a luminous web of complexity.
The sensory nerves of a spirit.

Thus
an event that first seemed
of little importance
suddenly felt momentous.

Later I told a man on the train:
“That drop is me, my life
 and the river symbolizes
 this metaphysical truth:

“what is here now
 has always been
 and will always be.”

With a yawn, the man replied
“You’re so desperate for meaning
 you’ll invent meaning
 where meaning
 doesn’t actually exist.

“Don’t you know?—
 dreams are merely the product
 of random neural firings
 in the brain as we sleep.”

Having heard that argument before
I then ended our little engagement
with this countermove I’d practiced:

“If an event feels significant
 then isn’t it significant?
 Yeah, maybe I am desperate
 but life loses life when life loses meaning.

“The fact is:
 neither one of us can prove our ideas.
 So now the question is:
 of the two, which belief serves us best?”

mythsteps · the dream of the drop

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

The Bee

author's note:

"Buzz!  Buzz!"
        — Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew


THE BEE

Years ago
while searching for beliefs
that would give our life meaning
I said “yes” to this idea:

a plan exists for each human being.

Yes—the life stories I heard
often seemed to confirm that thought.
Many times the wise design was so clear.

However

when I looked back at my own tracks
I couldn’t even see a vague outline
in that gnarly mess.
No sense, just nonsense.

Finally in frustration
I stood up from the table
and walked in a straight mile
to the clover field—

I would lay myself down and allow
that laid-back expanse
to lull me into a sweet nap.

But the brilliance of the sun
kept my eyes open—
amid the green, I spotted a bee
zigging and zagging and zigging.
No apparent pattern in its avid track
and yet
it found one small white flower after another.
Restlessly relentless—
that bee was me.

I’m still trying to see
the grand design made for me.
However, now I don’t doubt
my life serves a purpose.
Consider this indisputable fact:
mad-active bees load this hive with honey.

mythsteps · The Bee

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

The Little Farmer Feels Grand

author’s note:

I have met the space alien and he is me.


THE LITTLE FARMER FEELS GRAND

I claimed this land

then built a house and fence
that could withstand
the ferocity of the seasons

and under a sky, deep and wide
sowed a crop.

So I felt quite satisfied with myself
when I sat down to rest
but then

I began to sense a presence
pervading this broad valley.

Later that night I woke in the dark
to hear this message whispered:

you own nothing here—

you are a visitor, a stranger

allowed to take for a moment

then whisked away like a speck.

Though my ego felt wounded
I realized the truth of those words.
I was not mighty; I was a mite
supping on an indomitable creature.

I’d seen this farm as a monument
to my courage and endurance.
But after my passing
the elements would soon
erase all I’d done.

But I also knew:
if I stopped work—
if I abandoned this dot of earth
I would feel
even smaller than I felt now.

So I decided on this strategy:
during the long day
I would focus on the task at hand
and not let my eyes wander
toward those distant mountains—

not gaze across the sweep of this valley
to the horizon

and if I began to sense
that all-knowing presence
I’d shut down my awareness.

As a result of this tactic
my daily labor still seems meaningful.

But at twilight
when I’m done with chores
I sit down once more
and allow my perspective to stretch—
allow myself to again
feel the living presence.

Allow myself to remember
I’m nothing but wee alien visitor here.

An odd thought—a little disturbing
but at such moments
I regain my sense of wonder.

I never felt so grand
until I became
just a bit of airborne dust
living for a breath in a kingdom
of heaven and earth.

mythsteps · The Little Farmer Feels Grand

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

Digging Up (or: Why I Persist)

author's note:

I can dig it, he can dig it
She can dig it, we can dig it
They can dig it, you can dig it
Oh, let's dig it
     -- from "Grazing in the Grass" by The Friends of Distinction


DIGGING UP (or: WHY I PERSIST)

In sad frustration
I finally gave up
trying to jump--
jump up to heaven:

I just kept coming back down.

However
the desire for more
still agitated me without mercy

so
to release the impulse
I began to dig down
into the stubborn ground

and persist to this day
though the plunge of the shovel
often pains me as the blade cuts into
old abscessed wounds.

Yes, light may burst from the break
but after the flash, I feel diminished
because I’ve seen my blindness again

yet I persist

though in the dimness I often wonder
if the gold I've discovered
is really only costume jewelry.

Yet I persist and why not?--

this mound of dirt I’m piling up
is a pyramid rising, is it not?

Well, maybe yes, but maybe not
in any case, I will persist--because
even if I never find the mother lode
at least, I've found purpose
through this work

and anyway, I believe

if we want a glorious life
we must suffer the pain of healing--
we must struggle to open our eyes
and match doubt with faith

and anyway

you can't fall down
when you're digging.

Everywhere, everywhere--
so many people jumping.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
the truth of the dream: poetry ebook