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

Opening My Nose

author’s note:

I envy the Bloodhound.


OPENING MY NOSE

Born with a poor sense of smell
I decided I should work to develop
the few olfactory nerves I possessed

and in the process
of stopping to smell smells
I discovered many surprising benefits--

for instance:
how the crisp scent of frost
clears the mental faculties

and
how the fragrance
of wet decayed leaves
leads me deep within.

I swear I once detected
the odor of mushrooms
on a spring breeze
and for a moment at least
I became a big-headed gray alien
visiting a wonderfully strange planet.

I can even enjoy a whiff of chlorine
on a summer’s afternoon--
such pungent scents wake me
and in waking
I become more aware
of what I see and hear and feel.

Yes, I appreciate the presence
of every strong smell.

Well, maybe not every.

But I dare not close my nose
to what disgusts
because by cutting off
I would also lose the beautiful.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Opening the Chest

author’s note:

Still pulling.


OPENING THE CHEST

At first, the wooden chest
seemed to be just another
lifeless museum piece--

antique, but cheapened by wear:
a big chip out of one stout leg;
a crack in the pediment;
the wood finish faded.

But those closed doors
piqued my curiosity…

So when the room cleared
the little boy in me
stepped over the cord
and tried to swing open
those two doors--

feeling the tightness
of the creaking hinges
in my own chest.

But despite the tension building within
I kept opening:
obeying my spirit
by fighting that resistance.

I pulled, I pulled
until
a sudden piercing pain
brought the relief of release:

a welling glow spread
out from my center
as I stood, transfixed--
witnessing
that goblet on the top shelf--

its silver plating tarnished
and diminished with dust--

so plain!
but also so open
as if to say:
here I am--
ready to be filled
so I can give
what I’ve received.

I felt the humility
of naked exposure--
I felt the tears
and bold strength
of willing sacrifice
(the victorious surrender).

But at that point
I stopped myself
because
I dared not go too deep
in such a proper public place.

Ironic:
I rarely find meaning
in those spaces and things
that’re supposed to be meaningful.
More often I find meaning
by glorious accident.

I can’t seem to manufacture
such experience
but I can return
to that greater response
by remembering
the blessed chance event.

Return again and again.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook

Washing in the Rain

author's note:

Some may ask: does this the poem describe an actual event?

Metaphorically, yes.


WASHING IN THE RAIN

I knelt down in an empty field
I raised my arms to the storm

and begged
the god of lightning
to blast me open--

so desperate
to break my stubborn bars
I'd risk total destruction.

But once again that god
refused to respond
and once again I realized:

you don't tell the gods
what to do--
they tell you.

And so, once again
I laid myself down
in defeat and wept
and let

the blank rain soak
into my blood
into my bones--

cleansed, I was
though in the mud:

I love
to rediscover
that cold blue naked purity

until
my shivering
goes from mild to violent--

the body's way of saying
be sensible now--go inside

and so I did
and so I sit
working on this poem--
working to open:

obeying the orders
of the god of myself--
though I'm so annoyed
to hear, once again:

be patient.  Go slow.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

How Beauty Came from Pain

author's note:

It is apparently more important to nature that one should have consciousness, understanding, than to avoid suffering.
            -- C.G. Jung


HOW BEAUTY CAME FROM PAIN

In the dream
beauty came from pain

as I watched you
embrace the tree--
a lover finding the lover
who knows her need:

to be healed
so she could heal others
in pain.

A symbiotic relationship
working by osmosis:

as you healed yourself
with the tree’s love
you fed the tree with your love

and so your eyes gleamed
on one of its emerald leaves

but many eyes appeared on the leaves above

next time
I hope to see mine

so I've renewed my vow
to open and embrace

despite the slow pain of surrender...

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
finding Beauty: poetry ebook