Elevating the Mole

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. Can you dig it, baby?”
      -- from “Grazing in the Grass”, by The Friends of Distinction


ELEVATING THE MOLE

I’m here, in part, to gather information
for a big knowledge bank—
the same metaphysical storehouse all humans use
when they need to deposit what they’ve gleaned.

Though I can’t imagine the ultimate purpose
I still like that idea
because I want to believe
I’m doing more here than just surviving.

But recently I’ve begun to wonder
about another life—
the life of the mole.
like me, he’s constantly gathering.

Yes, his eyes are small
but just think of all the information
he takes in with his tiny pink paws as he digs and crawls.
Information about soil, roots, grubs.
Information about life on this planet.

Because he wants to know more
he keeps on tunneling
and as he learns, he wonders:
Just how much more to this world can there be?
And so he will dig to the end.

Sounds like a great way to live
but I hate to imagine all that knowledge lost
when the body ceases to breathe.

Does the mole exist merely to exist?
Maybe we both contribute
to that big knowledge bank.

Scoff at that idea if you wish
but such thoughts
send my mind staring out the window
and when my eyes go out the window
I sense the truth
of what I like to believe:
All life has a higher purpose.

No, I can’t honestly say what that purpose is.
But I really like the storehouse concept—
I’m glad I’m saving that belief for posterity.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, 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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Eternal Cup of Coffee

author’s note:

"Good to the Last Drop"
          -- Maxwell House Coffee slogan


ETERNAL CUP OF COFFEE

On that evening
I sat at the table as usual
appreciating the comfort of habit

until my cup of black coffee
suddenly began to speak to me

saying silently:
this is almost a ritual
isn’t it?

“You mean because
  I always sit here at this hour
  and drink a cup of you?” I asked.

Well, yes, the coffee answered
but I suggest adding meaning
by expanding your perspective--
just think:

what’s done in this moment
will exist for eternity--
you’ll be sitting here
at this center of the Universe
forever.

I then suddenly experienced
what I usually so easily ignore:
I’m just a small dot on a bigger dot
that moves through a space so vast
I can not fathom its dimensions.

Nonetheless I again tried to fathom
and this time, when my mind went blank
all that I’d been
and all I hoped to become
collapsed
into the moment
and so that moment
became a moment of true peace

(----)

but in the next moment
I blinked
and again life was
as it usually is.

However
some sense of that forever moment returns
when I sit at this table in the evening
and meditate on that dot of coffee

until I can again feel the vast mystery
expanding out
from this miniscule center

then in a blink
the spell will break
as the coffee says:
time to drink me up.

And so
the habit has now become a ritual.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Your Spirit Spoke

Dance dance dance dance dance dance yeah!
                   -- The Beach Boys


YOUR SPIRIT SPOKE

Your spirit spoke to me last night
after I closed my eyes
and opened my mind--
your spirit told me

about your secret strings--
invisible wires that pull you
up and down and around--
this way and that--
according to plan.

Your spirit told me:
you don’t remember, but
you agreed to this plan in advance--
even those pulls that place you
in the path of a lightening bolt
are part of the agreement.

Yes--
your flipping and flapping and flopping
have all been choreographed

for a modern dance
expressing a courageous struggle
to answer life's shocking demands

performed to a music
that may sound jazzy
but the truth is
those notes are set on the bars of a score:

the bars not a prison--merely restraint:
the restraint experienced by all spirits
moving through time and space--

the restraint of human learning.

Yes, that’s what your spirit said
to me last night
as we watched you move
from a corner in your sunlit room

and when I awoke
in a light that reminded me of your sun
I decided to share the dream
because your spirit also said
you’ve refused to hear
its positive message--

that is:
how you work so hard to build strength
following a design quite brilliant--

no, you don’t see the beauty
of your fierce dance

as I do now
after listening to your spirit.

But despite its wisdom
I still can’t quite accept
what your spirit said
about my stumbles and slips--
your spirit claims
I can find the shine of my own elegance
in the luminous mirror of your dance steps.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
the truth of the dream: poetry ebook

Growing Motions

author’s note:

I’m not finished zinging.


GROWING MOTIONS

When I look back at my path…

I see much exuberant energy spent
spinning in a dizzy frenzy
as I zinged in zigs and zags

with little measurable gain
to prove the value of those motions.

So to ease self-doubt
I keep repeating to myself:

because of that chaos
I can write about
the pain of being tangled and lost--
I can provide
an empathic mirror
to those confused by a road
that goes here and there
without seeming to lead anywhere.

Well, okay, but
I want to do more
than tell them of a problem
they already know--

how can I offer hope?

Maybe my insight will eventually
sharpen enough
for me to perceive the designs hidden
in lives with wild lines.
But for now
I can only talk of what I’ve seen

and that is:
many many old vines
with torturous twists
and switchbacks--
quite a gnarly mess, they seem
and yet, those vines grew strong
because they struggled to climb.

How dare we condemn ourselves
for spinning in a dizzy frenzy
and zigging and zagging as we zinged
if while making those mad motions
we kept on striving to grow.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
youtube channel

Extreme Enjoyment

author's note:

Once again, while working on a poem, I asked myself, "Is this really how it is?"

My conclusion?  To borrow from poet Mary Oliver: "these aren't just words talking".


EXTREME ENJOYMENT

I've tried and tried
yet still can't quite describe
"consciousness"

but with each attempt
I consider my experience
and in that way, reconnect
with what I feel:

how the flood of this world, this life
rushes at me from all four sides

rushes within me, as well--

rushes from me--I spill

out into the world
even as the world roars into me...

no wonder I work so hard to distract myself:

we sit at the table, sipping our sodas
and speak of that broken kitchen pipe

all the while ignoring
how consciousness overwhelms us.

Though I often wish I could turn down the tap...

I also know a stronger desire:
to open myself to ever-increasing
amounts of water

and I will open, I will
as I learn, ever-so-slowly
to enjoy the threat--

to surrender myself
to the steady magnificence
of the amount I can, at present
just barely accept.


© 2013, Michael R. Patton
SOULTIME

High Crossing

author’s note:

In my early youth, I had a wild fear of walking over bridges.

But in Arkansas, we had what we called “swing bridges”.  Those bridges hung high above our rivers and creeks, and some of those rickety things were to be feared.


HIGH CROSSING

Crossing high over a river
on a swing bridge
that appears
none too trustworthy.

A swing bridge
with several broken footboards
and two long frayed ropes
for my hands to hold--

the fragile span creaks
as the wind rolls in

and the water flashes
far below me–its red rocks
look like mouths of sharks.

Nonetheless, none of this
can deter me from gazing
at the distant mountains
revealed in that open space
where the river parts the trees.

Fed by the sun, those mountains
rise like towers
overgrown with moss.
Or like a garden of green pillars.
Or like ancient tombstones.
--I’m reminded of many things
   that those mountains
   both are and are not.

Do they watch over us--?--
and if they do watch,
do they feel alarm--?--or
at least, some concern?

They worry not
for themselves--they know
we can not destroy them--
no matter how hard we work.
--I feel

the softness
of the wooden step
beneath my boot.

So I slide my foot
----cautiously----
onto the next footboard

only find that its wood
has gone weak as well.

I imagine all these boards
suddenly collapsing
like piano keys falling
into a river of applause.

But I can also imagine
walking on air
all the way
to the other side--

though I know
such wishes
are never honored--
such wishes
are just not honorable.

So for moment, I will watch
my toes and not the mountains...

but I can still feel the mountains

and in feeling, I listen
to their message:
if they can not die
neither can I...

So if I fall, I will try to fall
gratefully, gracefully
'til I'm borne on a bird
that lives in a cloud
toward those welcoming peaks.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

One and One

author’s note:

A simple dream image is rarely simple.


ONE KNOWN

I had a dream of
the numeral
                 One.

In the dream
a big “1"
just stood there
daring me
to confuse myself
with interpretation--

knowing I could not resist
the temptation to ask myself:
What is "1"?

The number shoots up,
the number signals us

to form phalanxes,
to build foundations,
to summon our ambition--

"1" pushes the stalk
from the earth,
"1" points the spear
and spire--

to lift us to our vision before
we whistle back down the pole
to live the day’s plain struggle.

One stands alone.
Lonely as a telescope.
The number is original,
individual--yet includes all.
For all are one.  So I’m told.
But I’m trying to see--

what One asks me to see:
what I already sense
beneath the ten thousand
glances and motions--

Unity.

To feel is to see:
I am too many fractions
and yet I feel
I remain one
beneath all the fractures.

But sometimes
when I’m filled with the strength
of my individual self
I begin to fear:
am I all I have--Uno?

However,
when I try to work my will
I can not ignore
I am not in control:
I am property.

One has me.

Yet I can know that One
through myself--

but also
through all those other Ones--
including stones,
including clouds,
including waves,
including you--

including all
the shadows
of all those things.

Like all previous
dreams of "1"
this One dream only asked
the question--

it’s always up to me
to painfully bless myself
with one or more
answers.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

dream steps
audacious audio

Worm World Wisdom

author’s note:

“I am a part of all that I have met.”
             --  Alfred Lord Tennyson

“I learn by going where I have to go.”
               --  Theodore Roethke


WORM WORLD WISDOM

In all our explorations...

maybe we’ll find
a planet of highly intelligent worms--

worms that seem to imbibe information
from the ground through their skin--sliding over
the earth and into the soil
would be a means of absorbing
not only facts, but also knowledge
--which, through the progressive digestion
             of deep rumination,
             would eventually produce wisdom--yes,
crawling could be a means of
cracking consciousness open.

They learn in this way because,
after all, what is their experience
of life if not soil--?--if not earth--?--
thus, the ground beneath their skin
is their education,
their means of learning
while on that distant loamy world.

And so, I guess, the worms
would never want to pause
for even a moment

--you think?--

but no, I suppose
some would feel overwhelmed
and choose to go slow.

Maybe they would even end
their education
by stalling--stopping.

No--wouldn’t that be impossible?:
no matter what the worm did,
it would have to learn something--

after all, a worm can never
completely stop--it must attend
to basic needs–and so
          even to eat, to procreate, to find shelter
would bring growth

--even if
a worm only passed
through this life
for one heartbeat
that worm would gain
something.

However,
wouldn’t you need a life
after life
in order not to waste
all you had acquired?

But even if dust just returns to dust
your dust would go back
to that same place
from whence your knowledge came--

so all future generations
could absorb some of what
you picked up, some of what
you digested
in your own attempt
at understanding.

Every motion you ever made
--even a breath breathed
   while you were
   standing still--
would add its modicum
of push
to the future momentum
of that world.

However, I believe
you’d have an even bigger impact...

Why should your advances
be confined to a single planet--?--
--are we not one?--
--do we not share the wealth?--
I believe
some humongous
universal bank of intelligence
exists somewhere
for your deposit
of worm knowledge.

If so,
does worm wisdom combine
in that bank with our own
human learning?--

If so,
then what is true
for worm
would also be true
for a poet.

Yes, that must be the reality;
because I have gained so much
from all my crawling,
from all my slogging,
from all my stalling,
from all my delving,
from all my...

...my oh my--

from just being born.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Lionix

author’s note:

“The lamb will lie down with the lion...but the lamb won’t get very much sleep.”
                  –  Woody Allen


LIONIX

The lion presses its paw
down onto my back
as I sleep, my face into the pillow.

If I look up
I fear
the claws may fall
into my eyes.

No matter--I can’t turn around
with that paw pushing down.
I have a mouthful of goosedown:
I’m nearly suffocating.

Now the lion begins to stroke
through my flesh
--as casually as raking leaves.
Showing some slight curiosity.

But of course--a cat.

Has the beast
come to free me?
To dig down
all the way
to my heart?

The lion lifts its paw
to claw again.
I seize the moment--turn over--

to face its wet black nose,
the splendid teeth,
splintery whiskers.
Those golden
dispassionate eyes.

If I am to be freed
through such rude treatment
I want first to address my unmasker.

But the lion clamps its free paw
over my mouth
while the other paw
now digs into
that most tender place.

The indignity!

I grab the leg
at the foot joint
and try to pry the paw loose.

I don’t want to scream,
merely to speak,
to tell the lion
just what I think--
       make the big cat
       feel shame,
       if at all possible.

But then I realize
I’m only trying
to defend myself.

So I let go of the leg.

I have nothing to say
to the beast now
except,
          “Hurry up.”

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Generous Monster

author’s note:

“We have met the enemy and he is us.”
          --  from Pogo, by Walt Kelly


GENEROUS MONSTER

Be prepared:
the Friendly Monster
              can be
              as big as an empire,
              or the size
              of a piranha

--and if the Friendly Monster seems strong
that may be because
you feel so weak, so very weak.

So I say again: be prepared--

you may hear a knock
             on your door,
                       one day

and a thunder-rumble of a voice will declare,
“I will help you, I will!
 Please let me in!
 You must let me in!”

Actually, you do feel you need some help--
you’ve had trouble standing up
and lately
the situation has only worsened--

so at that crucial moment,
you think your prayers
may have been answered,
as you say,“Oh...okay.”

Thus, the monster goes about helping you
fend off invaders--real and imagined--then
fixes your pipes, stocks your store room,
impregnates your daughter, piles a load on
your horse, scalds your cat, siphons gas
from your rattle-trap car--

and once the monster has done all that
--and more--
you realize he now owns your house--
he’s the infection that tells you
“I have healed you.”

Thus, you feel even weaker--
so weak that you don’t think
before you squeak,
“Would you please leave?”

Though the monster
is a monster, the monster
has feelings--for itself--
and so, will begin to sob,
rubbing its iron fists into
those tiny reptilian eyes.

Then you’ll spend
all day apologizing.
Because you now know
the monster well enough
to realize
that once the tears have dried
its wrath will rain down.

Even if the Friendly Monster does go away...

it will go in a huff.
It’ll poke its fang teeth
through your roof, grab a rafter
in its jaws and crunch--shake
the entire house all the way down
to the foundation. The walls will
fissure like parched ground; the plumbing
will pop and spew poisons,
the electric outlets will shoot out
sawtooth fire--

as you tremble and plead--

when the monster stomps boards into splinters
with its spur feet, pounds plaster
into white dust--

until your shelter is reduced
to a pile of gutter rubble.

Then the Friendly Monster
will stalk off, nose in the air,
still acting hurt.

“But at least I got rid
 of that monster,” you sigh,
 looking for the bright side.

Until--

lo and behold!--

the next day,
the Friendly Monster
will oh-so-casually wander by
and,
smiling sweetly,
say,
“Okay, I will forgive you--

“–as long as you let me help.”

But now you feel so much stronger--
through some strange alchemy
that ordeal has actually made you
stronger--

which, I suppose,
is the true value
of all such monsters.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Mountain Medicine

author’s note:

A poem previously posted and recently revised.  A poem for a friend who has moved on.


MOUNTAIN MEDICINE

Thank you for climbing
that mountain and planting
a flag and a tree.

I thought that mountain
was a hill--from where I stood
the climb did not look
so steep.   You warned me--

but I could not feel the pain
you felt--I had difficulty enough
just feeling what I felt.

Perhaps I was tricked
by seeing how quickly
you ascended.  Sometimes I think
you were born halfway up
that mountainside.

Whereas I started at the foot,
or even below--in a hole.

We have different ways--
as is necessary--but still
all paths have thorns
and death--

so your instructions
have been helpful--when I remember them
(though even then
  I often have trouble swallowing
  the truth).

But rest assured:
I’ve resolved to keep the medicine
you vesseled for us

and to add a few drops
of my own.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
shameless self-promotion

Inside Out

author’s note:

Another poem posted earlier and recently revised.

I've heard that whales can signal to each other from many miles away.

I think people can do the same thing--we just aren’t aware that we’re sending and receiving.


INSIDE OUT

Whales bounce sound around
in thickly-layered water--
vibrations
alien to me, and yet--
somehow familiar.

The whole planet floats, rocks
up and down
on the ocean.
You can feel the motion
in your sea legs

and in your stomach--you feel pregnant, you feel
that life has tricked you
while you slept in bed.  You used to see
a sidewalk and a street
and think that was the world.

Now you can’t very well
tell anyone what you hold--
though we all walk around
with these bulks
in our bellies--
               and any erratic
movement
can cause the water
to splosh,
to spill
and then some small part of you
will land on the pavement
like a broken egg.  Something
purple or maybe dark blue--something
of another world and yet
there it is
in this world.

So what do you do?

You feel an urge to clean that puddle
up.  You also feel the urge
to flee.

Maybe you broke because someone nearly
smacked into you--or maybe you two
did collide--and now someone you don’t know--
or maybe someone you thought you knew--
stares down, mesmerized but also partially
sickened by that inexplicable amniotic fluid
squiggling and twisting
on the asphalt.

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “No--my fault,”
comes the response.
But owning up doesn’t change the aftermath.
You’re both still shocked and awkward

and if you could leave you would
because the other person also spilled

and now his lake begins to
curl into yours as yours begins to curve
around his

and thus,
we are confronted with the supernatural,
with newly discovered lifeforms.

You knew they existed, but after
seeing that splotch
on the ground
you can no longer
ignore
their existence.

So again--what can you do?
You can’t run away because
the stronger will says to stay.
But you can’t wipe it up because
it's not a mistake, not even an accident--
what will be done is done and
what’s done is not yet over.
We’ll just have to let
what will happen
happen.

I will say this:
our life, at least,
is now
much more

interesting.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
poems in audio