Only a Fool Argues with Stone

author’s note:

I learned the way I often learn: the hard way.


ONLY A FOOL ARGUES WITH STONE

Long ago a clever storyteller saw
the features of a human face
on the gray stone of the bluff
overlooking the bend in the river

then invented the tale
of the wise woman spirit
who sees all who pass as her children
and warns them with an echo:
steer away from the rocky shore.

A legend we love because
both young and old
want to feel protected by Mother.

Many of those who canoe
down the river today
will slow their paddles at the bluff
and ask that stone sage for guidance.

And the ones who truly listen
may discern an answer
buried within
the distorted amplification
booming back across the water.

I’ve known people who refused to accept
what they needed to do
until they heard the woman of stone say:
you know the truth.

But you need not travel to our river
when burdened with a question.
I say:
wise stone spirits can be found
all over this planet

and if we approach with reverence
they will tell us
what we need to know--
even if they don’t echo
we can hear their thoughts
if we quiet our hearts.

I myself have sometimes received
an answer of truth
from a cliffside or a boulder
or even a rock in the sand.

And though I often want
to reject that wisdom
I don’t because I’ve learned:

only a fool
argues with stone.

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

Maternal Tenacles

author's note:

The fossilized skeleton we call “Lucy”, is known in Ethiopia as “Dinkinesh”, which can be translated as “you are marvelous”.


MATERNAL TENTACLES

A year ago I saw a show
about an ancient ancestor

found under earth and rock
in dry savanna gorge--
they named her “Lucy”.

I immediately fell in love
with the poor innocent
and that night I dreamt
her tiny skeleton slept beneath
a blanket of my own ancient dust.

Yes, dreams tell incredible truths--
apparently the white man I am
carries this humble stone mother spirit
deep in his innards:

we hold more
than we’ll ever know
but
it’s good to know
as much as you can
about what you hold
because

I now feel the loss--
I now grieve the death
of this simple loving nature.
Now I will nurture
that maternal engine
back to life.

As I feel empathy for myself
I feel empathy for the world:
I can see this loss all over the world.
Men lactate in their own way--
a buried reservoir awakens.
I could stop the flow, but dare not--
for too long I’ve known
the pain of being dry.

Nonetheless, I’m tentative
as this milk spills over--spreads--extends
its tentacles
beyond the borders
of my domain‑‑
these feelers want to feel
but remain afraid:
    they’ve encountered
    blunt objects before
    and been blunted.

But with this fledgling spreading
the gray beneath Lucy's fingertips
slowly bleeds back to pink
and pink desert flowers bloom:

the prickly desert slowly transforms
into a desert garden.  Oh so slowly.
But slow change endures.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel