A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

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

The Quiet Dark

author’s note:

A decades of life reduced to a few lines.


THE QUIET DARK

As a fledgling adult, I preferred the cacophony:

I thrilled to feel the energy
of the loud proud mishmash of noise
roiling in the public square.

But soon the commotion infested my head
and I wasn’t able to hear
my thoughts and feelings clearly—
a problem indeed

when choices must be made.
I was struggling to decide
which way was the best way for me.

I was told:
listen to your intuition.
But when I tried
I soon discovered
just how obtuse I’d become
from being in the blare so long.

In search of what I’d lost
I then delved down into the quiet dark.

Deep within
I could feel what I truly felt
and see the trouble in my thoughts.

Then of course, I wanted to find
what was behind
those thoughts and feelings.
And so I continued to explore.

No, I didn’t always like what I found inside
but good or bad, the discoveries amazed me.

Antarctica has already been mapped.
So I’m probing this other strange continent.

However
I’m still obliged to participate
in the cacophony outside.
And since I must, I might as well
open myself fully to the experience:
I’ll grin as I squint into the blare’s bold wind
and let my monkey dance in the mad parade.

I can still enjoy the superficial noise—
I just need to remind myself:
the show is not the substance.

I can play as a child
without becoming infantile
as long as I stay connected
to the wise one I’ve found
below the surface—
in the recesses of the quiet dark.

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

When the Men First Tried to Talk

author’s note:

I guess I could have used women instead of men in the poem below.

But men are more believable.


WHEN THE MEN FIRST TRIED TO TALK

Word had gone out
across the land:
   Men need to gather together
   to express what they think and feel.
   That type of deep cleansing release
   will benefit the world’s mental health.

In response to the call
nine men in our small town
sat down in a circle
at the community center
to share what they felt.

But the first one to speak
began by stammering
then fell into mumbling
then started to cough and sputter

then suddenly
he clutched his chest
and fell over to the floor.

As the others leapt to his aid
a cry issued from the man’s flaccid lips—
a big bellow of pain that froze everyone in their place.

In the next instant, they all collapsed onto the floor—
struck down by a shock to the heart.

The men lay blank for a moment
then rose slowly, still stunned.

Apparently the painful lament
of first man’s unseen wound
had triggered a response
from the unseen wounds of the other men.

The nine then realized:
talking about feelings is dangerous.
You don’t know what you might be holding
down there in the dark.
Better to keep the pain in a box.

So only a few minutes into the first meeting
the group decided to disband.

And then tried to shut down
the desire they’d roused:
the desire—the drive—to express
what they thought and felt.
This conflict led those men into
all sorts of destructive behavior.

Of course we know about substance abuse
but there are many other activities
you can use to drown yourself:
one man simply sank

lower and lower
into his TV sofa chair
while resisting orders to resurface.

But like the rest
in time, he sought a prescription for his excesses.
And like the rest, he was then told:

You need to give voice to your deep wounds.

Yes, talking about feelings
can knock you down
but not talking about them
will not only knock you down
but keep you down.

So a few months later
the nine men sat down in a circle again.
Again, they’d work
to raise those shadowy feelings—
but now they’d go slowly, gently.
And pause for coffee and donuts.

Nonetheless
someone still passes out occasionally.
But once revived
they merely shake out their head

then straighten their shoulders
and continue talking about the wound.

Yes, we still dread the deep sting of truth
but these days
we bare our chests
and proclaim:
In order to feel better
I must first feel worse.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

How the Family Found Their Grief

author’s note:

Maybe my family should’ve sung together.  We might have learned harmony.


HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF

In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.

But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.

Their music lightened many hearts.

But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.

Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.

By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.

They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—

their indifference now seemed monstrous.

A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.

Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.

Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.

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

The Magic of Imagination

author’s note:

Written after watching the 2019 documentary The Seer and The Unseen.


THE MAGIC OF IMAGINATION

One long-time resident
can actually see the legendary elves
who inhabit our island.

This woman especially enjoys
a quaint village she recently found
in a shadowy stand of oak
between two little knolls.

Yes, I believe her stories
because I can see the shine in her eyes
when she tells how she frolics with them
in a secret forest clearing.
They like to play fifes
and ring tiny tinny bells
as they skip about
in red shoes that curl at the tip of the toe.

I want to see as she sees.
Yes, I find beauty all over the forest
nonetheless
I’d still like to see an elf do its dance.

But until I’m able to defog my eyes
I’ll try to satisfy my wish
vicariously
by imagining her loving descriptions as fact.
No, I haven’t quite eliminated doubt yet, but
the response in my heart says:
if you can feel the magic, the magic must be real.

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

My Festive Song and Dance

author’s note:

My dancing feet refuse to learn dance steps.  I think they just want to be free.


MY FESTIVE SONG AND DANCE

I told the wise one:

“The love I feel in my heart
  seems inadequate for the task of life—
  I’ve tried but can not lose
  that quietly persistent sense of lack.”

And in reply the wise one said:

“Yes, you love the rain
  but you hate
  when rainwater floods your lot.
  And yes, you love the sun
  but you hate
  when those fiery rays scorch your crops.”

Aided by her insight I then saw the obvious:

If I saved my love for those parts of life I liked
my love would never fully develop—
I also needed to love the hardships I dreaded.

So I tried to love the times of pain:
I danced when merciless storms came
and sang a song of love
when the sun seemed so uncaring.

But despite my festive efforts
I still could not quite love
the fire and the flood.
However
since I loved to dance and sing
I did feel some love in my heart
during weather that seemed unfair.

But still not enough, not enough.

So I continue to try
to learn to love the deluge that ruins
as well as the sun’s cruel nonchalance.
Not easy work to be sure, but made easier
by my stubborn song and dance of love.

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

The Invisible Bridge

author’s note:

Realism.


THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

A wise one once told me
I’d eventually find a magical world
by walking down this path.

So I set off with great hope, vowing never to give up.

But after many years
filled with many thrilling trials
today, I encountered an obstacle
seemingly insurmountable:

I found myself at the edge of a steep cliff
with a deep dark chasm below.

I could see the path continued
on the far side of the gap—
the trail spiraled up a mountainside.
But how could I possibly cross?
I’d been told
not to deviate, but to stay on this track
and meet its challenges.
Had I been tricked?

Then a low voice unknown to me
echoed up from the depths of the canyon:

“The higher the cost, the greater the gift,”
  the voice murmured.
"Try and you will find
  a foot bridge before you—
  its invisible ropes
  and invisible boards
  will support your weight.
  To reach your magical place
  you must cross this magical bridge.”

Though I demanded more information
my words fell into
a silent void.

The epitaphs of those who test reality
often tell us:
“He died a foolish death.”
But after walking this path for so long
I preferred to die like a fool rather than go back, feeling defeated.

So I stuck out my foot
and searched around with my toes
until I felt something solid—
something like a board—
then I extended my hand
until I touched an unseen rope.

I’m not sure how much time has passed
since I took that first step.
I think now I must be at least halfway across.
But maybe not.
Unfortunately, curdles of fog came in
and hid everything—including the mountain.
Cloud has crept all the way up to my armpits—
maybe it’ll swallow me whole.
How long must this test go on!
I can’t stop my sensible knees from shaking—
they say to me:

Any moment you could slip.
Any moment you could trip.
Any moment you could fall and be lost forever.

But though I can’t make peace with my knees
I can still make peace in my head.
I’ve now decided
to love my decision—
I will, even if I fall—
all the way down
I will praise myself
for being willing to risk everything
on a magical trek of discovery.

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

A Paradox of Size

author’s note:

Still shrinking.


A PARADOX OF SIZE

One day I told a wise tree:
“I sense I’m being driven from within
  but I can’t see what
  I am trying to accomplish.”

With a sigh, the tree then said:
“You can’t see because
  your deepest desire is buried so deep.

“Look down deep and you will see:

“That you want to cross over a threshold
  so you live in a mansion open to the sky.
  There, you can rise to your full height
  and squeeze rainwater from the clouds.

“But before you can cross
  you must first shrink yourself down
  because the door is small and low to the ground.”

“You mean, I must become less than I am?” I cried.

“No, you just need to realize
  your actual size.
  Like everyone else
  you’re really quite little.”

“But if that’s so
  how can I possibly reach the sky?”
  I whined.

“Because of a paradox,”
  the tree replied.
“As you deflate, you grow.
  Just like everybody else.

“A slow painful process, yes
  but without humility
  height and weight can be dangerous.
  You’ll be helping the whole world.”

As I left the tree then
I felt so foolish
but at least I’d shrunk a bit more.

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

In a Field of Clover

author’s note:

If you can’t find a four-leaf clover, I say: just use a little tape.


IN A FIELD OF CLOVER

“Your body is a green field of clover.”

When I found that line recently
I cringed with embarrassment—
what a silly besotted troubadour!

But then I remembered
the meadow of clover
where we’d once laid down
to rest.

And then I wanted to unremember
and when I couldn’t
I decided to return to that clover field—
desperate for a way to resolve
the conflict in my head.

So Sunday morning I drove
along that isolated dirt road
until I found the field.
Then I stopped and wandered out to the spot
and laid down on my back.

Again I felt
the cushiony springs of green beneath me.
Again I felt
the bright fleecy clouds breezing above me.

And to my surprise
in short time
all the commotion inside died—
my head felt delightfully light.

But then suddenly
a tree branch at field’s edge
splintered the sun’s rays
and a prism fell right into my eye
and I began to cry.

But not like a child, no—
I wept like someone
who’s lived long enough
to have learned well enough
the value of the complicated relationships
we endure and enjoy
with the complicated people
who leap or creep into our lives
for reasons too complicated
to ever fully comprehend.

Yes, I’d often told myself about the value
but I’d never actually felt gratitude
until I put thought to rest
and allowed emotion to rule
in the naked quiet
of a meadow filled
with soft clover love
and love from a Sunday morning sun.

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

The Goddess Blesses Me with Rain

author’s note:

For those who ask, “What’s her name?”

I say: use whatever name you wish.


THE GODDESS BLESSES ME WITH RAIN

The gifts of spring come naturally
because Earth tilts on its axis.

And yet I thank a goddess
for bringing the raindrops
that awaken my gray head—

in this moment
I feel I’m being blessed
by one who understands
the struggle of my winter.

With the breeze she tells me:
You needed Winter’s darkness.
But now’s the time to break the seed.
Open yourself to green glorious Spring.

Yes, I know about the tilt.
But I’d surely be a fool
to reject such a loving goddess.

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

Common Adventure

author’s note:

We’re all on the same team.  But right now, it looks like we're losing.


COMMON ADVENTURE

I wanted adventure
and though my resume
may seem rather tame
adventure I have had—
I’ve endured many rocky seas
while walking on dry land.

Every day I work hard
to calm my waters down—
a challenge compounded
by the turbulence
I see and hear and feel
all around—

everywhere
I see people struggling
to stay on their feet
as the waves grow wilder.
And the waves grow wilder
because we shake with fear
as the waves grow wilder.

Our dragon breathes beneath the surface.

Yes, quite an adventure!

But what could be the purpose of this trip?

Based my own experience
I now believe:
We come into this world to build our strength.

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

The Fog of Love

author’s note:

Ironic: I see better when I listen.


THE FOG OF LOVE

I’ve often heard historians speak
of the fog of war.
But in my experience
the ecstasy of love
can also create fog.

Yes, between the two
I prefer the fog of love.
But in that cloud
the beloved and I
may bumble and stumble and fumble.
And the frustration we feel then
can lead to anger
can lead to sadness.

The fog of love
can quickly become the fog of war.

And my mind may still be fogged
long after the war has ended.

But desperate for peace
I’ll fight to clear my head.

No, I’ve never been able to achieve
perfect clarity
but every insight earned
remains with me.

So maybe next time
I won’t get lost in illusion
but be able to see through the fog—

see the new union clearly—
see my love for my lover clearly
see my lover clearly—
see if they see me clearly—
and if not, help them see
who I am.

To those who say
I’ll kill the mad ecstasy that way
I say:
Whether we stay together or part
I don’t want the sun we’ve made
to be lost
in the dark noxious fog of war.

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

Two Nervous People Comfort Each Other

author’s note:

I was trying to come up with something for Valentine’s Day.


TWO NERVOUS PEOPLE COMFORT EACH OTHER

As gray clouds gather
we find ourselves without shelter
in a bare open field.

And so, desperate for comfort
I embrace you and you embrace me.

And as we hold each other I discover
you tremble just as I tremble.

So I try to ease you down
with calming words—
the same words you use
as you try to calm me.

But
my words can’t convince you
and your words can’t convince me
not to worry about our safety.

And so, we continue to tremble.

But at least now
we don’t shake quite as much.

Ironic, I guess:
despite our nervousness
we’re still able to comfort each other a bit.

No, we can’t convince our bodies
not to fear for their survival
as we stand beneath this threatening sky.

But as I hold your body next to mine
I can feel your spirit
just as you can feel my spirit
as you hold my body next to yours.

And so in this moment
we both realize:
even if our bodies fall
you and I, we will survive.

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

Dream Life of a Crab

author’s note:

We may be better than we realize.


DREAM LIFE OF A CRAB

As twilight softens the day
crabs emerge from the sand
and walk sideways to meet
sparkling waves sliding up the beach.

While up on the hill
the choir begins
its evening prayer song
under the open pavilion.

I hear a song wave rise—
starting with a dark bass moan
then climbing higher and higher—

the voices strive
until they reach the pure crystal note.

However they can only stay at that peak
for a moment
before falling back down.
They fall all the way back down.

But then after a breath
another wave rises—
rises up from the deeper desire.

A desire I begin to feel within myself
as I listen to the song waves roll out—
those waves spread out—
spread out through the night
until lost
in the complex mix of rushes and sighs
of a monolithic ocean.

With its song, the choir asks
for a blessing
and by asking, blesses all.

Blesses me—
as I walk this borderland
between the earth and sea.

I try to take it all in
but soon I must exhale

and return to being a crab.

A lowly life, yes
but occasionally I’m able
to lift myself up
by returning to this twilight beach
in my imagination.
And then I remember this truth again:

As I crawl sideways—
hobbled and hoping and nervous—
deep within I’m always singing
this grand ocean wave song.

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

Raindrops are Pearls

author’s note:

I keep trying to improve my vision.


RAINDROPS ARE PEARLS

When I look at those raindrops
hanging from that branch
I see pearls

because

raindrops seem of little consequence—
here for a moment then gone.

Whereas pearls seem to shine
with a timeless intrinsic value.

I say:
though we enter and live in this world
as raindrops
we never stop being pearls.

Scoff if you want, but
wouldn’t you prefer I see you as a pearl?

I say:
our raindrop life be better
if we always saw each other as pearls.

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

Our Dream of Fog and Sun

author’s note:

Is this poem based on an actual dream?

Its truth is based on many many dreams.


OUR DREAM OF FOG AND SUN

At the beginning of the dream
I saw
the golden tip of a rising sun

but suddenly fog swarmed in
and I began to struggle
to find a way through
that messy mass of cloud—
hoping for another shot of brightness.

Twice, the gray fabric thinned
and I glimpsed the brilliant circle
of the sun god through the gauze

but soon—too soon—the clouds crowded in again.

When I awoke
the message seemed obvious:

At birth my clear eyes
could see the sun
but the fog of this world
quickly dimmed my sight.

And though I’ve struggled hard
to defog my head
the haze remains quite thick

except for those blessed moments
when I’m able to part the clouds long enough
to see the sun again.

Those splendid breaks
help keep me strong in the battle.

I now realize:
though I may never achieve
clear victory
as long as I continue to fight
I will never be defeated.

I say:
my dream expresses a predicament
faced by anyone born human.

Maybe we can never regain
what we lost at birth
but if we struggle
to cut through the fog
we’ll occasionally realize our truth.

And the light we find then
will stay with us
all the way to the end.

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

The Leaping Deer Sings Like a Howling Dog

author’s note:

“I praise what is truly alive,
 what longs to be burned to death.”
               – Goethe


THE LEAPING DEER SINGS LIKE A HOWLING DOG

When I was young I ran
hoping to lose that menacing shadow
nipping at my heels.

But one day a wise man told me:
you can only save yourself
by taking a long look
at what you’re running from.

So I took a long thoughtful look
and saw:
what a waste to try to escape myself.

Nonetheless
I kept on running
because

the blur of movement
felt so exhilarating
and my fire burned hotter the harder
I ran
and the heat felt the way I thought
life was supposed to feel.

However, in time
the flame died from exhaustion
and I had to lie down in the soft ashes.

But used the time to take
another long look—

because by then I realized:
once seen
a demon can be flipped
onto its angel side.

But as soon as my fire revived
I began to run again.
I ran I ran I ran
in mind, body, and spirit.

Years later
I’m still running.
Yes, the pace has slowed
but with age
I value each leaping step more

and so my exhilaration
has deepened into joy.

I’ve also learned to lie down
before I’m forced
and in those moments of stillness
I not only look down into that deep shadow
I also listen—
I listen, because I can’t always see.

And when I rise
I do what humans do
after they’ve heard the dark river:
I give words to the melody.

With those words
I sing our song as I run along.
And because the child in me
thrives on delight
I imagine I’m a leaping deer singing—
singing like a moon-eyed howling dog.

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