Net of Memories

author’s note:

Why did I choose the beach?

I wanted to make my hair wavy.


NET OF MEMORIES

Fatigued by certain persistent memories
that afternoon I laid down on the ocean beach
hoping to find some peace.

And as I dozed between two worlds
a wave came up and sloshed my head.
Then receded—
dragging all the bric-a-brac in my brain away—
away into the gently-breathing bay.

Soon another wave
would bring it all back
but for a few moments
my collection of memories spread
through those soothing blue waters—
each one was a living cell
connected to several others
by fibers strong as violin strings.
Taken all together
they formed a complex web.

I realized then:
if my wish was granted
and I could cut away any cells I didn’t want
each extraction would leave
a hole in that net.

Ever since that nap on the beach
I’ve embrace all my memories—
even those that spark powerful pain.
I need the net intact in order to feed this brain.

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

Forest Church

author’s note:

Maybe church attendance isn’t actually falling.


FOREST CHURCH

I stop
and watch the trees reach for the sky

and then as before
feel the higher desire
hidden in the deepest part of my heart.

Knowing that pain again
I vow to work harder to heal the breach.

Did I go to church today?
Yes, of course, most definitely.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Deep Thrill of Mystery

author’s note:

To all my fellow specks.


THE DEEP THRILL OF MYSTERY

Sometimes as a child
I’d stop
all my buzzing about

and in the sudden quiet
I would sense mystery.

No matter where I was.
Even standing in a shiny white appliance store
I’d feel the world watching me.

So I’d be a little afraid
but also get a little thrill.
So I liked to stop occasionally.

But these days the world seems
to have turned its eyes away from me.
The world seems quite bored with me.
Even the stuff in my own house.
Even my own house.

However I can still summon
the deep hushed thrill of mystery
by using this trick:

I will force myself to stop
buzzing about

then tell all I see in the world around me:

Yes, I may be just a speck
but so are you—
we’re all just specks on a speck.

We’re all just appliances
and neither you nor I can say for certain
where we came from
or where we'll go
once we’re done here.

Those unanswerable questions
will then spark my mind
and I’ll begin to ask myself:

How could something come from nothing?
And what purpose does all the stuff
of the Universe serve?
Does a purpose even exist?

Of course, all my pondering
will lead nowhere
and when I finally give up
I’ll be left with an empty head.
I’ll just stand there
in the quiet stillness of the moment—
overwhelmed
by the mystery of this universe.
What a buzz.  What a thrill.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

At Twilight I Become a Dog

author’s note:

To all the twilight lovers out there.


AT TWILIGHT I BECOME A DOG

This evening walking home from the woods
a wandering dog spoke me with its eyes
saying:
Like so many humans, you seem to love twilight.
Why?

After a moment of reflection
I arrived at this explanation:

“As the sunlight evaporates
 and darkness filters in

“as trees shade into silhouettes
 and the distance grows obscure

“the familiar becomes unfamiliar
 and suddenly
 I’m not so sure of my steps.

“So to compensate
 I open my eyes and ears
 and in that state
 of heightened sensitivity
 I again sense
 the strangeness of this place I inhabit

“and again realize
 our mundane world
 is always infused
 with a world unseen.
 Or rather:
 the two are always one.

“Ironic, yes—
 in my unease
 I experience wonder again.”

At the end of this spiel
the dog wagged its tail
and said with a grin:

You have good instincts, my friend.
Maybe someday
you’ll be brave enough
to hear and see and feel
as dogs do all day long.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Occasionally I Become an Island

author’s note:

So did I actually endure such a night?

Yes—many times in my life.  In many different places.


OCCASIONALLY I BECOME AN ISLAND

I’d heard
at low tide a narrow land bridge
would appear above the waves.

You could then walk
from the shoreline
to that little island of rock—
that ragged gray pyramid
bare beneath the open sky.

However, you could only stay an hour
—two at the most—
before the waters covered the bridge again.

But alone in the purity of that fresh world
I felt my spirit elevate
and so I decided to ignore the time
and continued stepping from stone to stone
until I’d reached the plateau on top.

By then, the waves had swallowed
the narrow passage below.

But I merely laughed and danced like a goat.
Ecstatic as I watched the sun descend.

Later, as I hunkered and shivered
under the cold stars of evening
I blessed my tuna sandwich for its sacrifice
and thanked the scrawny trees
for slaking my thirst
with the dew they gathered on their small leaves.

I also said “thanks”
to the dark gray islands of cloud sliding above.
Yes, I thanked them
because they told me again and again and again:
remember your higher aspiration.

At the same time, I thanked the waves
for telling me again and again and again:
this life is deeper than you can imagine.
Yes, I thanked them
because I then tried to imagine.

In that way, I expanded
until morning came
and the bay lowered again.

Since then
I’ve endured more teeth-chattering nights
on that pyramid of rock.
I’ve even created my own little alcove
near the summit.

And when friends ask
Are you trying to punish yourself?
I answer:
I don’t go there
for enjoyment—
I go there for joy.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

How She Keeps Her Beam Bright

author’s note:

Now is that a light in the sky or just a spark in my heart?
       -- Graham Parker, “Waiting for the UFOs”


HOW SHE KEEPS HER BEAM BRIGHT

She told her friends
she was going to camp
at the lake that weekend
because she needed to be
alone with the stars again.

But secretly she hoped
if she sat down on the shore
and let the breeze blow away
all that fluff stuffed in her head
and let the night sky speak to her spirit
then her little light might brighten
and so, attract the attention
of the space beings flying above.

And they’d respond
by beaming her aboard.

Yes, what followed then
would probably be harrowing
but
she’d return as someone transformed.

Call her a fool if you want
but after struggling for so long
to disperse that dull gray cloud
she’d become desperate
for a drastic change of mind and heart.

But alas
after sitting on the bank for hours
searching the thousands of stars
she began to feel the dumb dry emptiness
of one who admits with regret
their sincere wish
is mere childish fantasy.

But then around midnight she glimpsed
a shooting star above the silhouette of a ridge
followed few moments later
by three blinks of blue light
from the trees on the other side of the lake.

When she next opened her eyes
she was stunned to find
time had jumped forward two hours.

She then realized:
the beings could’ve used those blue blinks
to put her into a trance
then lifted her up to their craft—
which she’d seen as a meteor.

Yes—
and once inside the ship
they had put her under a special ray
and healed all the damage done
over the years
to her spectral body.

Then, before lowering her back down
they’d erased the entire event from her memory.

Yes, must be so
because she did indeed feel different now—
all the next day a special sparkle
pervaded her body and being.

But to her chagrin
that sensation quickly faded
when she returned home to the city.

However, she’s now discovered this trick:

when that gray cloud begins to creep in again
she only needs to stop and sit
and close her eyes
and see in her mind the lights
of that blessed night
and then the feeling returns.

Yes, just for a few minutes
but those few minutes
are enough to keep her beam bright.

mythsteps · how she keeps her beam bright

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

My Alien Brother

author’s note:

In memory of Gary Booker, Keith Reid, and B.J. Wilson of Procol Harum.

Blokes, I hope you’re enjoying your new tank.  Send a sign if you feel inclined.


MY ALIEN BROTHER

One day at a cathedral-like aquarium
I watched an octopus in a tank
pulse its body up through the dark water
by throwing its tenacles out
then pulling some unseen string
and bringing them back together again.

I saw the force of life in those propulsions.

Where does such energy come from?—
how can a dinner of little fish
possibly be enough to keep that engine going?

As I pondered that question
I again began to feel
the energy that pulsates
through my own physical frame.

Like the octopus
I seem to be plugged in.

But plugged into what?

Can we ever see
behind the curtain of this mystery?
I asked the octopus.

But all the creature wanted was to enjoy
its rhythmic jaunt through the murky water.

Sometimes in an odd hour
I’ll turn my thoughts to that alien brother
and again feel the quiet thrill
of expanding my small mind
by trying to imagine
what secrets might be revealed
if I could ever
pierce through the veil.

mythsteps · my alien brother

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Power of Metaphor

author’s note:

But when I do drown, I’m always able to resuscitate myself.


THE POWER OF METAPHOR

Occasionally a submerged memory
will leap up in a sudden wave

and as the breaking crest topples down
onto my head
the undertow
will begin to pull me under.

But I’ve learned
at such times I can save myself

by calmly repeating this instruction:
don’t try to resist—open yourself
open up your arms—open up
the cage of your chest:
surrender
and feel the full force of the feeling.

And if I then do as told
I will rise up
from the deepening darkness
to the sun
spangling golden
on those light blue waters

and a rolling wave of peace
will carry me home to the sandy shore.

Yes, by using metaphor in this way
I can stop myself from drowning.

But so easy to forget
when a sudden wave rises
and my head gets pounded once again.

mythsteps · power of metaphor

Survival: poetry book
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© 2025, 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
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Bless the Starlings

author’s note:

I don’t think they like me either.


BLESS THE STARLINGS

Yesterday I woke at dawn
with a sense of disturbance.
Looking out the window
I then saw the cause:

a hundred starlings loitered in my yard.

A foul fowl in my opinion:
traveling in herds, they shove out all the other birds.
Arrogant.  Ignorant.  Belligerent.
Their voices always full of complaint.

So I waved my arms
and shooed those devils away.

But they merely circled round
and settled back down on my lawn.

So again I waved and shouted.

Only to see the flock return moments later
with dozens more in its defiant chorus.

After two more tries
I finally said with a sigh:
“Okay you feathered fiends, you win.”

Then went inside.

But I could still hear
the racket of that flock—
the fidgety fluttering, the raspy chattering.

But what could I do?

I saw no other option
but to fall back on my bed
and try to accept what I’d rejected.
Maybe I could become accustomed
to the torture.
Then my anger might unclench its fist
and I would know calm within.

And indeed—
as I endured patiently
I felt the ruckus slowly settle down
to a dull innocuous murmuring.
Yes, I achieved a relative peace.

Then suddenly all grew still
both inside and out.

I realized the starlings had fled.
By surrendering, I’d won.

But that vacuum was soon filled
as my inner monologue began again—
amplified now by the quiet.

That spiel spills out
with hardly a pause
during my waking hours.
Sometimes the words come from
an elevated place.
But more often the words come
from a place lower down.
That’s not what I want to hear from myself.
But I haven’t found a way
to shut that base voice down.

Sometimes I’ll stop
and shoo that noise away.
But too soon the disturbance returns.

Yeah—
just like those starlings on my lawn yesterday.

My opinion of the species
remains pretty much the same
and yet, I bless them now—

through those birds perhaps I’ve learned
a way to come to terms
with that lowdown being inside of me
fighting for survival.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Grand Temple

author’s note:

Does a comet realize it’s bright?


THE GRAND TEMPLE

Years ago, I visited a temple
prompted by my cat-like curiosity

and the light I found inside dazzled me.

Nonetheless, I did not stay—
I wanted to see what
the next temple might bring.

And to my delight
in the next I also found
the light of many jewels—
the same light just arrayed differently.

But no, I did not stay—
I wanted to know
if I could find more.

I traveled that path for a year—
finding jewels of light in so many temples
and some of what I found
stayed with me
after I moved on.

And so, I gradually grew brighter.

Then one day an old monk
told me of a temple
grander than all the others.

“Where?” I begged to know.
Despite all the light I’d found
I felt a driving need to find more.

“I can not show you,”
  the monk replied.
“But if you keep going
  you’ll eventually discover
  the temple I speak of.”

So of course, I kept going.

But as the days added up to months
and I did not find what I hoped to find
I despaired
of ever finding what I sought.

And so
though I stayed on the road
I felt lost

until the night I stopped
at the small adobe home
of a quiet peasant woman.

When I asked her if she knew
of the grand temple of my search
she did not speak
but led me to the backroom

then blew out the candle.

In the sudden darkness
I found myself surrounded
by a dazzle of diamond light—
so many facets flashing illumination—

moving, swirling around me
like a school of incandescent fish
in water deep black.

Quickly dizzy
from the unexpected spectacle
I nearly swooned.

“Where did you find all this light?”
  I whispered with my heart in my throat.

“I went to the temple within,”
  she said.
“Every day, every night
  I go to the temple within.”

After that evening, I ended my search
and returned home
carrying with me all the jewels
I’d gathered on my harvest trek—
including the fishes gifted to me
by that gifted woman.

All this brilliance helps guide my way
as I try to bring forth
those diamonds of light
hidden in the shadows of that backroom.

mythsteps · grand temple

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Love the Penguin

author’s note:

To all the penguins out there.


WHY I LOVE THE PENGUIN

Why did I respond so strongly
to that penguin video?

Why did I nearly cry
when I saw that little fellow waddle
over the white Antarctic ice?

And why did I sigh
when the bird plonked
into the chop of the sea
then glided
in intelligent undulations
down and down
through deeper shades of blue?
It flew through the water
on wings that before seemed useless.

Maybe in that waddler
I saw how I usually am in the world.
And maybe in that sleek swimmer
I saw my secret desire.

When I go below the surface
I feel the grace within.
A quiet intensity that defies expression
so for the purposes of this poem
I will call it “soul”

knowing that those who read poets
will understand
what I mean when I say:
I feel more grace, more soul
the deeper I go.

But I’ve never been able
to go deep enough
to know pure grace, pure soul.

Like the penguin
I’m only able to stay under a short time
then I must emerge
to waddle around on the ice once more.

I enjoyed the penguin before—
it looked so cute in its tuxedo.
But now I love the penguin
having witnessed
its deep desire for soul.

mythsteps · why I love the penguin

Listening to Silence: 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
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

That Wise Woman on Guitar

author’s note:

I don’t have the ability to play music.  But I do have the ability to listen to music.


THAT WISE WOMAN ON GUITAR

On a twilight evening
in a foreign town
the fog crept in so thick
I could not see
where to point my feet
as I walked a deserted bridge.

So when I heard
a deep piercing melody
coming from a guitar
I decided I should follow
its thread through the gray drift—
maybe the player could direct me.

And soon I found
a small clear space
walled all around with cloud—
a sheltering bower
a sanctuary.

In the center, stood
a white-haired woman
in a burlap gown.
Her feet in sandals on cobblestone.

With eyes closed
she made those perfect notes
with fingers both gentle and strong.

Though I hated to interrupt
in my desperation, I said a clumsy:
“Hello, can you help me?”

Without opening her eyes
or pausing her playing
she then answered in a weathered voice:
Close your eyes and listen
and you will find your way.

The watchdog in me suspected a trick.
But I’m also a hopeful fool
and in my need
I ignored the protest of reason:
I shuttered my eyes
I stood still
I listened

and as doubt and impatience
slowly relaxed
I began to feel
all those soft confident sounds
move down into my depths

until they found
the higher spirit
hidden in the shadow.

I remained in that peace
for a timeless time
before the hunter in me said:
now, go forward.

So I opened my eyes.
And in an instant, the music ended.
The woman had vanished.
But hey—so had the fog.

Now whenever I feel lost
I close my eyes and listen
until once again I hear
that wise woman on guitar.

mythsteps · that wise woman on guitar

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Stop & Go

author’s note:

We’re all explorers.


STOP & GO

We’ve seen this story before:

A seeker runs
here and there and everywhere
hoping to find what might satisfy
a nameless need vaguely sensed.

But exhaustion
finally forces the searcher to stop.

They then try to appease
their desire to explore
by turning their eyes around
and looking inside themselves.

A story much like my own:

The search lifted my spirit
but because I didn’t know
I needed to rest
I eventually felt drained of spirit—
empty.

So then I had to sit
and try to recover what I’d lost.

But luckily I remembered
what I’d once read in a book:
you will find a secret well
down in your dark depths.

Curious what I might discover
but also desperate for a cure
I then delved within.

And yes—
as I descended, I began to sense
a subtle strength rising up—
filling me up
lifting me up

and so I stood again
and began to walk again
and began to run again
and search again
then examine what I found.

I’ve continued that routine
to this day:
I scurry about
filling myself with experience
until I begin
to feel exhausted
in body and mind.

Then I again sit down
and shut up
and begin to delve—
knowing
the well waters will rise
in steady response.

But these days
I linger a while
before I go
so I can explore
those fathomless waters.

mythsteps · stop and go

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Improving My Vision

author's note:

Dedicated to you.


IMPROVING MY VISION

For my own protection
I worked to comprehend
the mad behavior
of the human being

and saw so much
in the course of my investigation—
naturally, I became confused.

So for clarity
I looked to the only person
that could grant me full access
to the heart and head of a human—
I sat down in the shadows
and turned my eyes within.

And felt both amazed and blessed
by the motley bounty I found inside.

But as I understood more
I also understood less:
whatever illumination I gained
was overshadowed
by the expanding mountain of information
I gathered in my inquiries.

I tried hard to sort it all out
but in time, I needed a rest.
So I turned my eyes back out.

I then discovered
my vision had improved
during the turn:
now
when I looked at someone
I often noticed something
I had already seen in myself.

And so it was with you:

As soon as I saw you, I saw
you held quite a lively mix inside
and so I wanted to look deeper.
And so I saw your pain

and so I felt compassion for you

then also felt compassion for myself—
or at least, the part of me
you reflected.

You say you now want to turn away
and look within yourself.
Well, I’ll miss you, but please do—
yes, explore the wonders
of that Universe—
take in until your head spins.

You may become even more confused
but at least you’ll feel empathy for
all those overwhelmed by the mix
who react in spasms of bad behavior.

mythsteps · Improving My Vision

My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Pebble

author’s note:

A poem for our stormy times.


THE PEBBLE

On the ocean horizon I saw
a bouffant pile of mad black clouds
rushing toward my shore.

So I thanked my stars I'd found
that boulder on the beach—
a cleft on its leeward side
opened to a secret chamber:
a womb
where I could sit in safety
during the chaos of lightning and rain.


And indeed I did feel secure
as I hunkered down inside—
felt secure
even as the winds rose
even as the waves swelled high
even as bullets of rain
began to rattle down
on the roof of my rock.

But then the waves began to break
on the boulder’s backside—
with every four beats, an explosion:
One…two…three…boom!  One…two…three…boom!
Threat followed threat.
I could shelter my body but not my mind and heart
against those angry blasts.

In desperation
I dove into my depths
hoping to find
a solid stone foundation of being
somewhere down there in the dark

but no—
all I could locate
was a pebble.

But since I had nothing else to hold
I held it
and though the little rock didn’t elicit
a sense of security in me
I made myself believe:
as long as I kept a firm grip
on that strong stone
I would endure.

In that way
I was able to maintain myself
—yes, indeed!—
until
after a long short time
the endless storm decided
to wait and return some other day.

So once again I stood on the sunny beach
as modest waves retreated to the sea.

I wanted to unfurl glorious lines
to celebrate my triumph.
But honesty prevailed as I wrote:

Rock walls will not protect us
from the anxiety provoked by storms
but we can survive our fear
if we’ll find that little bit of strength
hidden down within

then hold it to our heart
as we tell ourselves:

pebbles grow into bigger stones
through challenges like this one.

mythsteps · The Pebble

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Universal Sigh

author’s note:

I can’t get through this poem without sighing.


UNIVERSAL SIGH

Science still hasn’t determined
the exact purpose of the sigh

but based on my own empirical research
I can state with confidence:

When we lack adequate language
we breathe a deep sigh
and in that way
give voice to the soul
and in so doing
ease the heart’s burden.

Yes—
my heart would’ve collapsed long ago
from the strain of being a human being
had I not occasionally exhaled
the sigh that expresses this wish:
If only things could be different.

But sighs aid in other situations as well.
For instance:

My heart stopped
when I first saw
that stark violet mountain

but then started again
when I released a deep sigh.

I believe sighs also help
the hearts of other creatures—
many times I’ve heard soul
in a dog’s sigh.  I’ve also heard soul
in the sighs of cats.

I remember the first time
I felt a tree sigh:

As I lay in the fallen leaves
beneath those bare black branches
what I felt in that sigh
was what I often feel in mine
when I listen deeply
and that is:

this life is too much for me
and yet, I want more life.

Based on empirical research
I say:
the whole damn Universe sighs!

I have felt the mountain sigh
as the stars appeared in the blue-black sky.
Then felt the soulful sigh
of the moon rising over the peak.
Then felt the stars sigh
as they gazed down upon me.

I then answered them all
with my own full sigh.

I always feel less alien
when I sigh along with the song
of the great Universal sigh.

mythsteps · Universal Sigh

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Meditating Upon a Centipede

author's note:

I dedicate this poem to those who wanted the Carlos Castaneda books to be true.

I dedicate this poem to myself.


MEDITATING UPON A CENTIPEDE

Influenced by that author
who told us how he’d seen the unseen
I decided to go into the forest alone
to try to pierce the veil of ordinary reality—

maybe if I believed strongly enough
and razored my intent
I’d see that spirit world for myself.

Call me a fool if you wish
but I desperately wanted
to experience wonder again—
to rescue myself
from a mire of dullness.

So I walked deep into the woods
then stopped and stood and stared
into the dense shadows
using extreme focus—
as described in the book.

I would remain in such intensity
until my power vision revealed
the truth of what exists all around us.

For many minutes
I squinted with determination.
I refused to quit—to fail.

But then my eyeballs began to ache
with frustration.

So finally I surrendered
and sat in a slump on a stump.

But then with my head hanging down
I noticed a stirring
in the dead leaves on the ground—
honing in, I saw
a centipede ambling
through a rich wasteland.
Its white hide almost luminous.

Such vigor
in its relentless investigation.
Such harmony
in that party of dancing legs.

Amazed
I held my focus without effort—
without strain

as that sensitive creature
stepped and stepped and stepped and stepped and stepped

and stepped

until it stepped into
a small dark doorway
at the base of the stump.

I then realized
I’d entered an elevated state—
maybe I could see the spirit world now.

But no—
the surge of desire
caused the bubble to pop—
in an instant I returned
to my usual state of mind.

But no, not quite—
I walked away alive to that forest world—
awake after witnessing
the spirit of an incredible creation.

Centipede—centipede—centipede
I say:
thank you—thank you—thank you.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton