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

The Spiral Staircase

author’s note:

A stairway with no end.


THE SPIRAL STAIRWAY

I may seem to be going in circles
over a path worn down to dusty ruts
but I believe:

I’m actually going up
a spiral stairway—
rising higher with every step—
with every step rising higher—
higher:

where the soul wants the heart to go.

To those who insist that’s nonsense
I say
Consider how this belief benefits me:

Because I believe our dizzy life
has a grand purpose
I’m willing to endure the vertigo.

And this belief encourages me
to keep on trying
to lift myself up—
high enough
for me to take
the next big step on this stairway.

And that helps everyone, doesn’t it?

I can see
why someone would think
we are only going in circles.
But whatever the reality may be
shouldn’t we try to find beliefs
that will motivate us
to keep on lifting ourselves up?—
to keep on lifting our world up?

High enough
for us to take
the next big step on this spiral stairway.

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

A Real Boat

author’s note:

I’ve learned the hard way: you don’t tell the river what to do, the river tells you.


A REAL BOAT

When I found a rowboat by the bank
the wise one within gave me this whim:
why not step
into that little wooden boat
and shove off down the river?

Yes, I use metaphor
but I really am in a rowboat.
Oh yeah—
when rough waters
began to pummel the hull
I could barely walk down the street
as I rocked and reeled
from the turbulence I felt.

But I didn’t consider jumping
until I reached the shoals
because then I was forced
to go slow, so very slow.

In frustration
I pulled harder on the oars—
I pulled…I pulled…I pulled—
oh how I struggled!

To little effect, yes, but
as a result
I did not fall asleep
but instead
built strength.

Then by handling the madness
of all those twisted turns
I found I could handle more
than I ever believed possible.

Yes, I could’ve educated myself
with a long walk along the bank.
And if I’d taken a steamer
I would’ve traveled much farther
down this river.
But I would not have learned
how to push and how to pull
how to steer and how to follow.

I will now use a pun:
I keep enrolling in this river class
because the course continues to change
and so I continue to learn
how to pilot this boat
I once chose on a whim
guided by the wisdom within.

mythsteps · a real boat

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Plume from a Whale

author’s note:

I’m a menagerie.  But who isn’t?


A PLUME FROM A WHALE

Today’s dark rain reminds me
of the day I almost drown.

And with the memory
I struggle once more
not to drown in the dark.

At such times I sometimes
get a lift
by telling myself I’m a whale.

And like any other whale
I have great capacity
nonetheless
I must rise to surface occasionally

to shoot my geyser of steam
up at the sun—
a glittering white plume.
But a painful release, that offering.

Some say my fountain
is just a bit of spit.
Maybe so
but that brief blow allows this whale
to take another breath
before returning
to the dark blue life
that feeds us so well.

Today, I offer these lines
to all you other leviathans
because we need to remember:

even the strongest creature
must sometimes surrender
and rise to spout the deep water out
so we won’t drown in the dark.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

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

New River

author’s note:

“Well, I love that dirty water”
        — from “Dirty Water”, by The Standells


NEW RIVER

“Today I surveyed
 the new river that recently
 cut through our desert town

“and realized the obvious:
 it’s just that old river I once swam in
 making a sharp turn now
 after slamming into a mountain.

“I’m disturbed by its abrupt change—
 now, the mix seems even muddier.
 Wilder too.
 But I know better than to try to talk sense
 to river water—
 I’ve learned you can never win.

“Nonetheless
 I can still protest
 refusing to jump back in.”

So I wrote by candlelight last night.
But then as I lay down my pen
I heard the wise one say:

you know that mud bath
will force you to struggle
to find your truth within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but just look at all that turbulence—
such anger in those waters!

The wise one told me then:
you know how that chaos
will force you to create better balance
as you spin within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but
I can still find my truth
I can still create balance
if I stay on the bank—
as long I dance
as I move through my day
and meditate at sunset.
And read lots of books
during these long quiet nights—
especially those
that are smarter than I am.

The wise one remained silent then
because now I suddenly felt the truth:

When I first arrived
at this slow dry town
I needed a rest
in order to survive.
But now to live
I must dive
back into that mad river water.

mythsteps · New River

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

What I Tell Myself while Dangling in the Dark

author’s note:

Hang in there.


WHAT I TELL MYSELF WHILE DANGLING IN THE DARK

Moonlight whitens a spider
bobbing up, then down
amid the shadow leaves.

The sight elicits a visceral response—
I identify with that daredevil:
we’re both dangling in the dark—
hanging in mid-air.

However
the metaphor isn’t perfect:
the spider knows his own string well
unlike me—
I don’t know what holds me.
So I worry

then worry about the amount I worry:
doubt could pull me down
into a night without moonlight.

So every day I try to lift myself
with these thoughts:

“I am but a puppet
   moved by higher forces.
   And those gods will not let me fall.
   Because I serve them.

“Yes, they keep me suspended in suspense
   but only because I must learn to trust.

“Yes, it’s good for me to be here:
   this instability forces me
   to find the strength needed
   to deal with our uncertainty.”

To be honest
these ideas don’t ease my anxiety much
and yet
I repeat them often
because
the story they tell
gives this precarious life meaning
and without that significance
I might just say:
I have had enough.
I give up.

mythsteps · What I Tell Myself while Dangling in the Dark

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

Working to Earn a Gift of Wings

author’s note:

To those reading this poem five hundred years from now:

Humans used to count off seconds by saying “one Mississippi”…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…” and so on.


WORKING TO EARN A GIFT OF WINGS

This morning
while painting the eaves
I suddenly felt what I hadn’t felt in weeks:
that tension in my shoulders

as once again
two wing buds bulged out
from my scapula bones—
right side and left.

I knew, from experience
I shouldn’t try to force those buds to sprout.
But despite my restraint
the shoots shrank back
before I could count to “nine Mississippi”.

Yes, teasers like that one disappoint
but at the same time
they reawaken hope—
this morning, I vowed once more:
one day with wings I’ll soar.

Don't laugh
know what’s possible—
years ago I met someone
who could fly to the high clouds
on wings she usually kept hidden.

And occasionally for me
two shoots have shot all the way out
and spread into wings.
Yes, the feathery sails soon retracted
but I still had enough time each time
to go on a short flight
like the one once done at Kitty Hawk.

But I’m not waiting idly
for such blessings to descend:
every day I work to elevate heart and head
hoping unseen forces
(both without and within)
will respond when I rise high enough—
will reward me
with a permanent set of reliable wings

to unfurl when the need arises.

But I though I use tested tools
I only bump up a tiny bit each day.
So I’m realistic:
I may not live long enough to earn that wingspan.
Nonetheless
I’ll keep trying all the way to the end—
I will because
the innocent in me still believes
my daily efforts at elevation
help lift this ground-dwelling species up.

Yes, I realize
my total contribution
may only be one iota
but with enough iotas
we will have iotas enough.

mythsteps · Working to Earn a Gift of Wings

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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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
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

How We Make Wine

author's note:

"Drink me."
       — from Alice in Wonderland


HOW WE MAKE WINE

Some use alchemy as a metaphor
when talking about personal transformation

but gold seems such a lofty goal.
I believe a better metaphor
would be winemaking.

Consider my reasoning:

like the grape cut from the vine
so many of us get stomped on—
repeatedly stomped—crushed.

But those stomps are just the first step:
we must process our experience—
we must process
in the quiet stillness of the cellar—
process and develop
down in dusty catacombs.

The process can’t be rushed.
But when the time finally comes
what’s made in the basement
must be brought up—
I say:
the resurrection isn’t complete
until we pull the cork and pour
so others can drink.

Maybe I’m not vintage
but even a middling wine can elevate—
all you’ve got to do
is lift this topfull glass.

mythsteps · How We Make Wine

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Catching Fog

author's note:

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


CATCHING FOG

While walking to school
one childhood morning
I thought I could lose myself
in a fog cloud hovering
on the other side of the field.

But though I ran hard
I arrived to find
that thick cloud had fled
and when I turned, I saw
the mysterious vapor waiting
over there where I’d started.

So I raced back
but again that fog tricked me.
Hooked by my fantasy
I ran again—I ran

until
I finally had to stop
to get
my wind
back.

Only then did I feel
the burn of those wet wisps
deep inside my chest.

Satisfied that I’d caught some fog
I lifted my head and walked on
as the sun began to clear the cloud.

That childhood folly
later became a useful metaphor
when I needed to accept
what appeared to be the folly
of my adult life.
Consider the story:

for years
I raced here and there
and back again.
But no matter where I went
the imaginary heaven I sought
was never where I was.

Finally forced to stop
I felt I’d lost
until
I discovered I burned hot
with all that I had taken in.

After that realization
I lifted my head again
and saw that the fog had begun to thin
cleared by insight—
or
in the words of this metaphor-maker:
sharp rays of the morning’s sunlight.

mythsteps · Catching Fog

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, 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 Walking Metaphor

author’s note:

Based on an actual event.


THE WALKING METAPHOR

Sometimes a metaphor stuns me.

Like the one I saw this morning:

a woman walking
backwards
on the sidewalk by the park.

Soon
the trees hid her from view
and I recovered enough
to decipher my response:

I can see the past--
I can see I’m on a path
but
I can’t see for certain
where I’m stepping.

With that realization
I remembered
a dream from the night before:
I saw the tracks I’d made
as well as the tracks
I would make
shining on a dirt track.

That dream told me:
you must learn to trust your deep luminous eye.

That woman in the park
steps with confidence
--why?--
because she trusts
her deep luminous eye.

I can see her now
and feel inspired.
However
when someone walks backwards
you naturally worry they’ll fall.

I suppose I could pray
for her safe passage
but wouldn’t that show a lack of faith
in her inner strength--
in her spirit?

But I can still pray--
I will pray a way that honors her:

every day
in my heart I will thank her
for being
a walking metaphor
for all to witness.

mythsteps · The Walking Metaphor

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

Ocean Adventure

“And if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--
        your life--
what would do for you?”
        -- Mary Oliver


OCEAN ADVENTURE

I once believed
I’d missed my chance
for a life of gusto and adventure

then I realized:
though the air I imbibed
was sometimes dry
I have always sailed with full sails
because I’ve breathed deeply

and when moored, I often explored
the dark depths

and didn’t shut my eyes
when shocked
by the creatures I discovered.

What a grand voyage!--
I’ve landed on many unknown lands.
I’ve steered through countless storms

but I must admit
I occasionally wrecked.

Yes, I’ve survived br> a variety of calamities--br> this dim captain has been lucky.

Unlike some who’ve navigated
these seas with me.

But I guess it’s wrong
to think I’m the fortunate one--
after all, they’ve gone on
to other adventures.

Well yes, but I doubt
their new journeys could be
any more wondrous
than the wild trip they took
on this mysterious planet.

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

Miniature Golf Education

author’s note:

I have some perspective.

Unfortunately, I keep losing it.


MINIATURE GOLF EDUCATION

Though at first I didn’t want to play
I became hooked
before the end of the first round--
after I saw the metaphor.

Before
the game had always seemed so silly.

But I though I laughed
at my first failed attempt
to putt the ball past the windmill
I didn’t laugh
after my second try
nor after my third.

Then, at the fifth hole
I really started to burn
as I struggled to navigate
that ninety-degree turn.

Finally at the seventh
I began to curse the course
in frustration

then stopped when I suddenly saw
how I’d shrunk myself down.

So began an education.

In the many rounds played since that day
I’ve learned a number of lessons--
including this paradox:

Sometimes
in order to get past the alligator
you must roll right into
those snapping jaws.

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Jump

author’s note:

“Might as well jump”
         -- Van Halen


JUMP

What should you do
if an inner voice tells you
to “jump”?

Fortunately
I knew enough to know
the message was a metaphor.

However
a metaphorical jump
off a metaphorical cliff
can feel as scary as a literal leap.

So though my deep self assured me
this step into the unknown
would bring more life
I rejected the order at first:
I argued in defense
of good common sense--

what if I fell into an abyss?--!

However
from experience I knew
if I didn’t move
I’d probably be pushed
and if I wasn’t, I’d wither.

I also know from experience
I may still doubt the decision
after I see where I’ve landed.
But if so, I’ll just tell myself
that where I am
is where I need to be.

I find strength in that belief--
strength enough
to lift myself up
should my hopes collapse.

Common Courage: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Armadillo Mirror

author’s note:

Another mirror.


ARMADILLO MIRROR

I try so hard to see
but seem to make little progress

except when some sight jolts
my eyes open
to another obvious secret.

As on that night
when I stood
gazing at a half-moon
while lamenting
my lack of accomplishment

until a rustling sound
suddenly pulled me out of the clouds--

down on the lawn
I found an armadillo
rummaging through the leaves.

Fascinated
I watched that little armored grubber
trundling along on its bitty legs:
a dwarf clawing for its life
in the medieval dark.

Such resolve!
An irrepressible spirit!
Thriving despite all the hardships--
an accomplishment, to be sure.

As that creature is, so are you--
I whispered this secret to myself
as if channeling a deep soul.

But before my pride
could rise too high
I was struck again
by another realization:

yes, it’s found a way to survive
but eventually, shells limit us--
as any bird chick will tell you.

Can I ever convince myself
I’m strong enough
to live free from this cell?

Will we ever convince ourselves
we’re strong enough?

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Resurrection War

author’s note:

A “thank you” to M.S. Gutierrez for the spontaneous, energetic portrait above.


RESURRECTION WAR

When young
I tried (for safety’s sake)
to tamp my spirit down.

But by nature, this spirit wants
full experience and expression.
So eventually, it rejected
that death sentence
and began to work against
the smaller one I’d become

that then battled back--
fearing for its life.
Strong for its size.

So though I now fight
for my spirit
the crypt only opens
bit by bit by bit.
After all this time
the struggle continues.

Yes, I often tire of war
but at least I’ve made real
my childhood dream
of being a warrior.

I once believed
this resurrection would end one day
with a glorious triumphant bloom
for all the world to see.

But I realize now
I must adjust my metaphor:
   as I try to create
   moments of peace
   in this endless war,
   bright buds keep popping out--
   begging me to help them break open.

My War for Peace: poetry ebook—new and improved!
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Confession of a Plant

author’s note:

Flower power.


CONFESSION OF A PLANT

I wanted to tell of my fight
without telling of my fight
so instead I spoke of a plant
I’d found rooted down in dark rich loam
in junk behind a shed.

With the airs of an aesthete
I described
how the plant’s little green shoot
had fought its way up and out--
with glee I wrote
of how the stalk had turned and twisted
between the pitchfork tines
as the plant sought
the dangerous but life-giving sun.

In delicate detail
I told of how the leaves

had slowly anxiously unfurled
to provide sustenance
to a flower opening--despite its fear--
offering itself up
to guarantee the future
of the species.

Through this metaphor
I found relief in public confession
while sparing myself the embarrassment
of displaying my pain in plain view.

But as I bowed in respect
to that beautiful weed

I saw in its openness a challenge
and became embarrassed about
my fear of embarrassment:

a shame I now hope to ease
with this confession of my struggle.

Common Courage: poetry ebook
you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

a taste of green sky

author’s note:

To all the giraffes out there.

I think you know who you are.


A TASTE OF GREEN SKY

As I struggled
up the tree trunk--
  seeking without knowing
  what I sought--

a giraffe lowered its neck
and let me ride
all the way
to the leaves at the top

so I could feed as it fed

on that green nectar:
the dark mineral of earth
combined with the lightness of sky.
I grew giddy and dizzy with delight
and surely would have fallen

if the giraffe had not bent back down.

My host then shook me free and moved on.

At the time, I thought: quite rude!

But now as I grapple
with these thorny branches
I thank the giraffe
for granting me that taste

so that I might realize
what I truly sought
then fight my way upward--
accepting the cost.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook