How to Make Death Smile

author’s note:

Is Death a “he”?

Yes—if Birth is a “she”.


HOW TO MAKE DEATH SMILE

As is typical of youth
when I was young I ignored
the possibility I could die young.

Even as I watched
so many with the same blindness
stumble into graves.

Only later
as I looked back
did I see how lucky I’d been.

I then began to step more carefully.

But now as I watch
so many my age
retire to their graves
I worry I’m becoming
just a little too cautious.

The life I’m afraid to lose
won’t have much life
if I don’t follow
the true desire of my spirit

which was and still is:

to go forth and know the world.

So though my legs tremble
I will stretch my stride.
No, the width won’t match that of my youth.
But the stubborn fool I am now
shows more courage
than the obtuse fool I once was

because now I can feel Death
watching me and waiting
as I struggle on these steps.

But my reaper is not so grim.
No, beneath that black hood
he smiles wide in appreciation.

Death sees I am doing
what he wants us to do:
to grow in strength
by confronting
the deep fear that keeps us alive.

mythsteps · how to make Death smile

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

The Good Little Boat Grows Brighter

author’s note:

Do I sometimes exaggerate for effect?  Well, yeah.

But not this time.


THE GOOD LITTLE BOAT GROWS BRIGHTER

Psychopathic pirates now rule the seas.
Cutthroats who feel no guilt.

But instead of defending ourselves
against those bloody Blackbeards
we honor them for their gall
and get drunk on their grog
after being blatantly robbed.

I would fight
those big flashy swords
but I fear the inevitable losses
would begin to darken my heart.

So for now
I’ll just keep feeding my little light
and share what I’ve got
as its flame slowly grows brighter.

And keep repeating
a hope I believe to be based in reality

and that is:

despite appearances
the age of Blackbeard has nearly
burnt itself out.
Millions of good boats
now roam the seas—
navigating—
lighting the way
toward a future
that may not be that bright
but at least, won’t be as bleak
as our present dark passage.

mythsteps · good little boat grows brighter

I’m Responsible: a 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
dream steps blog
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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

Living with Ghosts

author’s note:

A long time ago, I learned to make pain my friend.
              -- Kid USA, pro wrestler


LIVING WITH GHOSTS

I’ve learned:
I can’t get rid of a ghost by shouting
Leave me alone!
No—
curses and pleading
will not dislodge a ghost.

Nor can I outrun them.
For years, I sped like a bullet train
but when finally forced to stop
my ghosts shot out of the shadows.

Sometimes a ghost may seem
to disappear completely.
But then something I hear or see
will raise that wraith from the grave.

I’ve wrestled with my specters for years
and lost a million times or more.
So now I’m trying a new strategy:

whenever a ghost resurrects
and an old wound wounds me once more
I’ll try to remain calm
and say quite casually:
Well, hello my old companion—
stay if you want—leave when you wish.
No, I’m not finally at peace with you
but I waste so much energy
when I try to fight or flee.

However
I won’t sit
when your sadness
tries to leaden my heart—
No!
I’ll leap and skip in a golden dance.
Though I can’t deny you, I can defy you.

But maybe I should thank you.
Didn’t I learn through you?—
Didn’t I grow?
Yes, and now I’ll learn even more
by staring deep into your eyes
with all their shades of blue.

But though I say in my head:
You should embrace that ghost
my words I haven’t yet convinced my heart.
So until I grow some more
the best I can do is accept you
and dance dance dance—
dance ‘til the night becomes dawn.

mythsteps · living with ghosts

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

Why the Rose Keeps Blooming

author’s note:

The proof of what I say is you.


WHY THE ROSE KEEPS BLOOMING

Some believe
the rose struggles to break free from the bud
because it wants to be lovely
but no—
it’s possessed by a mad desire to live.

However
after opening its eyes
the flower may discover
it resides inside a little cage.

The rose may then sink into self-pity
but soon enough
that willful plant will rise up
to protest the injustice
and as the flower finds its strength
a new bloom will come from the old one.

The bars of the cage
will then surrender to its power
and fall down to the ground
like the dead shards of a husk.

But alas!—
beyond the parameters of fallen cell
the rose will find another cell.
So though our hero enjoys
the extra space it’s earned
it still feels caged.

And so, as before
the rose will rebel
and by struggling, grow some more
and so
the bloom will bloom once more.

But just as before
after the cage breaks open
a new cage will emerge from the shadows.

In this way, that stubborn perennial
will move through a succession of cages.
The irony is:
because it expands with each new blooming
no cell ever feels big enough for that plant.
And so, the rose continues to grow
to the very end.

Maybe like me
you look at your petals
and see brown blotches
and ragged edges—
our blooms reveal our battle wounds—
yes, in this fight for life we’re scarred.

So I will try to solace you now
by telling you what I tell myself:
a flower with a blemished blossom
always speaks lovelier
than one still stuck in a spotless bud.

mythsteps · why the rose keeps blooming

Survival: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Sun in My Future

author’s note:

I believe our greatest accomplishments often go unnoticed.  We don't even see them ourselves.


THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip
and forget
my deep desire
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.

mythsteps · the sun in my future

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Cry as I Laugh

author’s note:

AI wanted to help me write this poem.  But I said:

“Get a little more life experience under your belt, then we’ll talk.”


WHY I CRY AS I LAUGH

One night as I laughed
at that couple on TV
they suddenly turned to me
and with their icy eyes, said:

Why do you laugh as we argue?
What’s so funny about
two people constantly fighting?

In that moment, I realized a secret
that I then shared with them:

“Those silly battles you engage in
  echo my own inner conflicts.

“So when I laugh at you
  I’m actually laughing at myself.
  Allow me this release, please—
  I need to laugh, otherwise I’ll cry
  at my failure to create peace in my heart.”

The ice in their eyes then began to melt.

But as they wept for me
they also wept for themselves,
knowing now how
all those battles on the show
echoed their own unresolved inner conflicts.

Seeing their grief
I could no longer hold back—
I wept for all of us, I wept
until I realized
we could drown in that deep dark blue.

So then I found a reason to laugh
as I cried—
yes
I chuckled, I guffawed, I chortled.
“How absurd!” I said to my companions.
  I want to heal the world
  but can’t even heal my own head.”

The couple then began to laugh with me.
We laughed as we cried.
And in that way
kept ourselves from sinking
down into darkness.

Since that episode
the couple have stuck to the script
and continue to bicker every week
over every little thing.

But now as I laugh at them I also cry:
I allow myself to laugh
because the relief lifts me up.
But I also allow myself to cry
because when I grieve this war
I become even more determined
to create a lasting peace in my purple heart.

mythsteps · why I cry as I laugh

My War for Peace: 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

The Cure

author’s note:

I don’t finish poems.  I just give up eventually.


THE CURE

She wanted to express
the complex emotion of that moment
in words
or paint
or song.

If only for her own benefit.
Her plan was:

On days when she felt blah and dim
she would return to her creation
and experience once again
that emotional moment
and in that way, cure her malaise.

However
she soon discovered
the work of writing was such drudgery
as was the work of applying paint
as was the work of crafting a song.

So she decided on a different strategy:

on those bleary days
she would instead open her mind and heart
to the complex emotions
conveyed by artists she loved:
poets
and painters
and magicians who made melody.

And because she now realized
how hard they’d worked
her appreciation for their gifts deepened
and so, she opened even more.

Nonetheless
one night she felt so flat
she could not muster the strength
needed to open her door and enter
the rooms created by those master carpenters.

In desperation
she then wrote:
If I feel too dead to open
to the life that gives life to my life
how can I live?

Honest lines
and yet
they sounded rather mundane.

And so she tried to find better words—
and more of them!—
she wanted to create incisive verses
that would fully truly express
the debilitating frustrating blandness
of that moment.

And by laboring long
she managed to transform those lines
into a melodic poem of color.

Not bad, maybe even good
but still
her creation somehow didn’t seem quite right to her.

Nonetheless
she felt she’d gone deeper
than she’d ever gone before.
And so
though she felt disappointed
she also felt rewarded for her efforts.

And that complex mix of emotion
cured her malaise.

For a moment, anyway.

Years later
she remains frustrated in her work
but keeps on because
she knows she deepens and heals
each time she tries and fails.

mythsteps · the cure

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

Empathy at the End of Winter

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I have used “sashaying trees” in a poem before.

But if you steal from yourself, is it really stealing?


EMPATHY AT THE END OF WINTER

On that morning
I couldn’t express the heavy feelings I felt.
But when I looked out the window
what I saw expressed how I felt.

I knew that black skeletal tree
felt so weak beneath
the gray sky hovering just overhead.
But its desire for life kept it upright.

And when I saw the brown leaves
still stuck on the pale-yellow grass
I could feel those dead leaves
clinging to my skin
and knew
the grass desperately wanted
a loving spring breeze to rise
and whisk those leaves away—
all of them—away—
so its pale blades could green again.

With such empathy swelling my chest
I could barely tolerate
what I saw outside.
But I did not look away
because I now saw
the power of my desire—
because I now saw
the strength of my endurance.

But then I did step away from the window
because suddenly I knew
how I could express what I felt
at the end of the winter
and knew

I needed to open my chest
and release those winter feelings
and try to resurrect
a bright spring inside

so I could love
when spring resurrected itself outside—
so I could feel the glory
of those towers of white cloud
and feel the abundance
to be found in my own little patch
of sashaying trees and sparkling green grass.

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

A Brief Reprieve

author’s note:

And that’s probably more than you want to see.


A BRIEF REPRIEVE

I wanted to feel what the poets feel
when they say:
I am a child of nature.

So I decided to go to the forest alone
and throw off all my clothes.
I wanted to feel at one with
all the trees and rocks and birds and squirrels.

But as I began to disrobe
a stern voice within me said:
“Though your skin be bare
  underneath you’ll still wear
  the suit of your civilized self.”

After a thoughtful pause
I then answered,
“Well, maybe so.
  But I’ll tell you why I’m going to try:

“As children, sometimes we’d dress up
  and pretend to be adults.
  That harmless fantasy
  would give us a brief reprieve
  from the frustrating smallness of childhood.”

“Now, in adulthood
  I often feel frustrated
  by the smallness of this civilized suit.

“But maybe today I can get a brief reprieve
  by throwing off my outer armor
  and pretending to be
  a child of nature
  frolicking naked in a forest garden.”

mythsteps · a brief reprieve

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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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

The Wonderful Cipher

author’s note:

Continuing a theme.


THE WONDERFUL CIPHER

When he saw her at the dance party
my friend nudged me in the ribs
and said with a laugh
Would you look at her!

So I turned my eyes
to the woman across the room:

Obviously anxious.  Shy.  Vulnerable, she was.
Perhaps embarrassed
by how her ears stuck out from her hair
or how
those two front teeth stuck out from her mouth.

But I choose to believe
all humans hold the magic of nightfall
(though we often hide the mystery well)
so I studied her until
I again felt the reality of that belief:

She’s a wonderful cipher
I then told my friend.

When he realized I was serious
he focused his beams
and after he saw what I had seen
he swallowed a deep breath
and strolled over to her—

moving carefully—
the way one approaches a deer
or a space alien.

I say:
the power and blessing of this belief
comes from how it asks us
to open our eyes
and see for ourselves.

mythsteps · the wonderful cipher

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Silhouette

author’s note:

Who among us is not mysterious?


THE SILHOUETTE

At the new year’s party
the host dimmed the lights
just before midnight
so when my friend turned
he saw only a silhouette
at the other end of the hallway—

a shadow stepping his way.

Then when the lights came back on
he found a plain open face
peering into his plain open face.

That face soon became part of his days.
A good face
because it belongs to a good woman.

But when seen every day
the good can begin to seem ordinary.

So in time my friend lost sight
of what he first saw
when he first saw her that night.

But fortunately for both of them
he soon woke up again—
brought back, I believe
by the god that steers from within:

While mowing the lawn
late one afternoon
that good man turned without thinking
and found her shadow
standing at the window.

In that instant
he remembered that midnight silhouette
and his eyes opened again.

I’m happy to report
he has not forgotten the truth since then.

mythsteps · The Silhouette

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

A Shout

author’s note:

Yes, I shout.  But I don’t scream.  Screaming…that’s much more serious.


A SHOUT

For many years
I held the shout down in my heart

until I finally realized the obvious:
if I didn’t release it
the fire of that feeling might destroy me.

Yes, I could have shouted with a crowd
inside an arena or in a big stadium.
But my shout felt very personal.
The feeling belonged solely to me.

I tried to write it out
but words could not express
the gnarl of feeling I felt.

So I went deep into the woods
and in the shadows I shouted.
No words, just sound.
I shouted my hot noise out.

Shouted until my throat felt scorched.
Shouted until exhausted.
Then lay down in the leaves.
At rest.
Quite cool inside I was.

Until I returned
to the human world.

Having heard my shout aloud
I could now hear its echo
in the fevered shouts of others.
All over this planet.

Our gnarl of disturbance
had disturbed me before
but now it disturbed me much more.
And so I fell from my perch—
I lost my equanimity
and again felt the fire of frustration
rise in my heart.
And again felt the need to shout.

But that complicated feeling
of desire and confusion and hurt
was no longer so personal.
So I wrote a poem to the whole human race—
again I tried to express the inexpressible
and again I failed
but accepted my failure now
because this way I could at least convey
some sense of that feeling
and maybe people would realize
they sorta felt the same way.
So my imperfect verses would also be their shout.

Yes—I would shout those words to the world.

Maybe the world wouldn’t listen
but no matter:
I needed to get that shout out of my heart.

Years later
and I’m still shouting—
sometimes when I start I won’t stop
until my fire burns out.
That way I can rest for a moment in the ashes.

As long as I can get that brief reprieve
occasionally
I’ll gladly do what I must do
to live as a human being on this planet.

mythsteps · A Shout

My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Crystal Goddess

author’s note:

Another flawed vessel.


THE CRYSTAL GODDESS

I wanted to create a crystal goddess.
I would

transform a glob of molten glass
into a vessel so glorious
a mere glance would cast a spell
over the innocent pilgrim
and awaken deep aspirational desires
in their psyche.

Then maybe they would again sense
the divine flame
held within their meat and bones.

But my labor
though intense and loving
produced instead
the abomination of a blob body
with a knob for a head
and little round pegs
for breasts and legs.

Those tiny air bubbles
permanently trapped
in the bloated belly
reminded me of gas.

No goddess would have gas!

But though embarrassed
I could not discard my failure
because it had been born
from a wish to give more.

So I put the inflated figurine
on my backroom windowsill
for only me to see.

Then forgot about it
until the power outage in December.

As I sat in the dark
I thought I heard a mousetrap snap shut
so I fumbled my way to the back
by the light of a Christmas candle.

Then stopped still—

what I saw was so real
it seemed unreal:

the black oil of midnight
had filled the vessel of the crystal woman
and there, within her bosom
the reflection of my candle flame shone—
a suspended drop of liquid gold.

Enchanted I was—entranced

until the overhead bulb
abruptly brightened the room
a few minutes later

or maybe I’d stood there an hour.

Now, whenever my night becomes dim
I visit the goddess by candlelight
to remind myself of the divine flame
held within the crystal glass
of our meat and bones.

mythsteps · crystal goddess

Myth Steps: poetry book
dream steps blog
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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

Signs of Higher Life

author’s note:

Did this event actually happen?

Yes.  Maybe times.  In different ways.


SIGNS OF HIGHER LIFE

As I wait to cross the blaring street
in the glare of a summer’s day
I feel the urge to elevate above
the dull feeling of the mundane.

So I search for signs of higher life—

maybe someone
in this swarming sweating crowd
shines with the beatific beauty
that comes from within.

But in so many faces I find walls.

The same wall I see in my own face
when I spot my image
on the lens of someone’s sunglasses.

Maybe I built that wall to hide
how I struggle to deal
with all the stuff
this life stuffs into our lives.

Suddenly I feel compassion
for all those people
who like me, struggle behind walls.

Overwhelmed
by that wave of emotion
I lower my head
and prop myself against a lamp post.

In the next moment
someone asks me:
Are you alright?

A show of empathy.
A wall has fallen.
For a moment, at least.

Thanks.  Don’t worry—I’m quite alright.
I answer.

Encouraged
by the concern of a stranger
then I walk on.

Though my wall only fell
for a moment
in that moment
I found the beauty
of two human spirits
and got the lift I needed
on a glaring summer’s day.

mythsteps · signs of higher life

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