King Kong Dances on the Winter Grass

author’s note:

I write prescriptions for myself.


KING KONG DANCES ON THE WINTER GRASS

As I walk over this expanse of stubby brown grass
I’m inspired by the morning sound
of ice crystals crackling under my boot heels
and for a few moments I become
King Kong—

I dance with my big hairy feet—
pulverizing the cruel ice.
Crunch crunch crunch.

King Kong lets his inner child play
and in so doing, frees the winter grass.

But after only a few minutes
Kong has started to huff and puff
and when I sit down on the ground, I know
I’m just as mad
and just as sad
as I was before my big ape dance.

Yet cleared by increasing my heartrate.
And satisfied aesthetically now:
Yes, I live in a brutal world
but I can still breathe deep
the cool watery smell of this melting ice
and the sharp mineral scent of the awakened soil.

I am a child.  I am King Kong.
I am a lover of the natural elegance of this planet.
And when I release those aspects
I may become a dancing fool

which helps to clear my head
and also helps clear a patch
of yellow-brown winter grass.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Opening for a Morning

author’s note:

The recording may sound a little rough, but I refuse to use auto-tune.


OPEN FOR A MORNING

This morning, a shock of grief

when the news showed that jet
shattered and smoldering in a field.

But every day I see a disaster report.
Why did this latest elicit
such a strong response?

Perhaps I used that crash
to mourn my own losses—
I needed to open—
to open that well—

the well I usually keep lidded
because if I didn’t
I could be overwhelmed
by sudden upswells of emotion
at random times throughout the day.
How could I possibly function?

The problem is:
after a day of functioning efficiently
I can feel so dully dry.

But when I break down
like I did this morning
I often feel fully alive.

So I guess I wept
in order to save my life.

But I know
from past experience
this release could also
help one or two others live today:

following a swell of grief
like the one I felt this morning
I’m often able to sense the losses
of crash survivors I meet

and some of them seem to respond
to my unspoken empathy—
they share feelings
usually kept under the lid.

And as they open

I’m overwhelmed by my well
once again.

I guess the truth is:
on days like today
I’m actually functioning
at a higher level.

mythsteps · Open for a Morning

Survival: poetry ebook
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Nightly News

author’s note:

A short poem…

…that took me sixty-eight years to write.


NIGHTLY NEWS

I am wounded.  And so is this world:

I hear my pain repeated on the nightly news.

Whether those at the horn use cool reason
or scold and threaten
beneath their words I hear them plead:
How can we end all this wounding?
How can we heal all these wounds?

I believe we all mourn our failure:
even those who celebrate
the wounding they do—
they bellow and sing
to bury the cry of grief within.

Sometimes I tire of trying
to heal this wound—
I ask myself:
Why not sleep until death wakes you?

But then I hear the wounds of the world again
weeping on the nightly news.

mythsteps · Nightly News

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Good Fake

author's note:

"One dog barks, one hundred dogs bark."
            -- old Chinese proverb


A GOOD FAKE

When I heard their growl
I started to growl--angry at how
they attacked beliefs I held dear--

I barked and growled
until I finally heard myself
and realized
I sounded much like those I criticized.

So I decided to work
to keep a cool calm--
with my unshakable peace
I’d defy their barrage
of false claims
and cruel accusations.

But though I’ve clipped my tongue
I can’t stop myself
from growling and barking inside--
lower instinct still rules.

Nonetheless
I maintain this calm face
because
to let the mad dog out
would only add to the tumult
and do nothing to help
raise us up.

Good intentions--but what a fake!
Sometimes I feel so ashamed

but then, in my humility
I cease to growl inside:

for a moment at least
I’ve raised my higher instinct
to its rightful place.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
my war for peace: poetry ebook