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

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
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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

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

Ouch!

author's note:

If laughter is the best medicine, maybe it’s good for me to joke about my pain.


OUCH!

When slogging through
a dark morass of agony
some of us will only say
"ouch".

By that I mean:
we'll answer your sincere concern
with a little joke--
understating our pain
in the manner of a cartoon character
toasted to a crisp by a bomb.

Maybe I'm not being honest about
the state of my heart
but to share my burden
would only burden me more
because then I'd worry
you'd worry
much too much
about the state of my soul.

Please, believe me:
I can endure what I must--
if I couldn't I wouldn't
be able to limit my cry
to this silly-sad
mouse-like
"ouch".

mythsteps · Ouch

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

While Waiting in a Distant Province

author's note:

Written after reading the anthology The Clouds Should Know Me By Now: Buddhist Poet Monks of China, edited by Red Cloud and Mike O'Connor.  Excellent.


WHILE WAITING IN A DISTANT PROVINCE

Despite the good reviews
I’ve received for my song and dance
the Imperial Palace has yet to respond
to my request for an audience.

I’ve been stuck at this outpost for months now.

Initially I managed
to ease my impatience
by appreciating the gifts
of my rustic surroundings.
For instance:

How the morning sun painted
the round stones in the creek rose-pink—
each one the cheek of a lady-in-waiting.

And how the sunset shone golden
on the rusty gate of my humble abode—
as brilliant as the gold palace doors.

Such positive thinking
helped me ignore
my whimpering disappointment

until the night
I heard someone faraway in the dark
scream
then scream again—
ripping cries
aimed up at the moon—
burning cries
coming up from a deep wound.

I wanted to cover my ears
but I did not want to cover my ears
because in that pain I heard mine
and suddenly felt that old wound again.
And because I remained open then
I felt the pain of the scream deep down—
I felt the pain of our life deep down.

A day later I was told:
for therapy villagers sometimes go
into the dark woods
and scream
and scream
up at the moon.

More of them lately;
nonetheless
I never close my ears—
I need the release.

And during the day
I occasionally stop
and listen to my own pain
because I’m trying to discover
a dance, a song
that can help with the healing of wounds.

If I do find some mix
that seems effective
I hope to perform that medicine
at the Imperial Palace.
I believe:

when those at head heal,
those at the feet
will be royally relieved.

mythsteps · While Waiting in a Distant Province

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Ghost Lady & Me

author’s note:

Maybe every place on earth is haunted, in one way or another.


THE GHOST LADY & ME

The desk clerk says:
people have often seen
the ghost lady
as she ascends this hotel stairway—
her steps heavy with grief.

I believe I know
the reason she doesn’t move on.

I believe, like me
she’s trying to reach a place
of perspective—a place
where we finally feel at peace
with losses that seem so unjust.

Occasionally I’m able
to rise that high.
But then my ego feels threatened
and begins to fight for survival

and in the spin of the ensuing battle
I will eventually trip and tumble

and go bump bump bump bump bump
back down the stairs.

Just as the ghost lady did
the night she died.
As she still does
every evening at this old hotel.

But despite our failure to hold the position
after we land, we always stand
and start the struggle
all over again—
because in those brief moments at the top
our hearts feel
the relief of freedom.

No, I may never be able
stay at that place of peace
on a permanent basis
but each time I climb
I grow a wee bit stronger—
so who knows?

So much joy to be found
in this stubbornness!—
I bet the ghost lady feels it
each night as she tries to rise
to a new life
at this grand antique hotel.

mythsteps · Ghost Lady and Me

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Working in the Desert Garden

author’s note:

As a boy, I liked that guy Moses.

I still like Moses.  But not the guy—the symbol.


WORKING IN THE DESERT GARDEN

As a child I felt encouraged
when I heard how Moses
managed to exit Egypt.

Like him, I waited patiently
and when those waters finally parted
I split.

But then
as I explored the desert
I discovered
a part of the story
not mentioned in Exodus:
how the chains remain within us
long after our brave escape.

To those struggling
to find their way free
I’ll share what I know for sure:
you must loosen those chains slowly—
link by link by link by link.

When such tedious progress
burdens me down
I’ll lift myself by remembering
those victorious Moseses I’ve met—
they told me:

keep going
and you will eventually reach
the promise land of peace

but along the way
don’t forget to appreciate
the countless blessings
of this desert garden.

mythsteps · Working in the Desert Garden

Survival: poetry book
dream steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

An Education in the Cave

author’s note:

Though I’m still pretty dim, recent dreams show me attending college.

So, at least I've graduated from high school.


AN EDUCATION IN THE CAVE

The wise one told me:

when the first gods found the first humans
fumbling around in fog
they decided to brighten the sun.

But to see the truth so suddenly
shocked the humans—
they ran into a cave to hide

then got lost deep inside that dark maze.

A hard life—
stumbling around without light.
But in time, people adjusted.
Incredible as it may seem
eventually, humans forgot they couldn’t see.

But oh—
sometimes we remember
when we collide with a stalactite
or get bitten by a bat

or worse yet
fall into a pit.

Oh yeah, I told the wise one
I’ve known the pain
of the collision—
the toothy sting—
the hard landing.
After so many severe reminders
I’ve devoted my life
to the struggle to see.

Ah yes, the wise one replied:
calamity can awaken
our desire for clarity.

But wise one, I asked
if you’re so bright
why can’t you guide me
out of this dim cavern?

My teacher then gave me
this last insight:

Before I found my light
I felt the same doubt you feel now
so I do what I can to help.
But alas, that’s limited.
The final irony is:

the only one who can lead you
to your light
is that wise one within.

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

author’s note:

While you give to me and I give to you
True love, true love
          — “True Love”, Cole Porter


THE TREE SPEAKS TO THE TREE HUGGER

As a tree, I can see
you now fight the need
to release your abundant burden of love.
But please, surrender:
encircle me with your weary arms—
I am here to accept your offering.

As a tree, I know
you struggle because
after so much hurt
you dare not touch
anything at all.

You’re trying to escape—
you’ve numbed the pain
you’ve numbed the love.
Neither living nor dead—
you’re one more lost ghost.

But I trust your higher instinct—
I trust
your irrepressible desire for life
will eventually lift you above your fear.

Nonetheless
this separation pains me.
Yes, humans need trees
but trees also need humans—
I’m only complete when I can be
what I am meant to be:
I need to serve up comfort
to people who need
to serve up their love.

I give breath to you—
you give breath to me.
Not just the physical breath—
neither one of us can live long without
the spiritual breath of the heart.

mythsteps · The Tree Speaks to the Tree Hugger

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Plus of My Minus

author’s note:

We all have a stairway.


THE PLUS OF MY MINUS

In a dream
I climbed to the top of the stairs
despite missing a muscle in one leg.
How I struggled.

Why would anyone hampered
by such an injury
drag themselves up a stairway
when they could just as well sit
and rest ‘til death?

Maybe I imagine
through the act of lifting myself up
I’ll transform
into someone whole.

Or maybe I hope
when I reach the top
success will ease the pain
of this deficiency.

However
I don’t think I felt triumphant
at the end of the dream.
In any case
my leg hadn’t grown another muscle.

But that’s okay--
now I can see
how my minus actually benefits me:

as I struggle I grow stronger.

So I’ll keep struggling--
I’m desperate
to rid myself of this feeling of weakness.

Perhaps my dream
is also a dream for the human race:

yes, we’re missing at least one muscle
in at least one leg
but as a result
maybe we’ll continue to struggle--
maybe we’ll continue to climb.

No, I don’t think
we will ever be whole
but with each step we take
we will lift ourselves up
and then stand in a better place.

mythsteps · The Plus of My Minus

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Healing Cough

author’s note:

To all those in the coughing chorus.


HEALING COUGH

As a child I took in
so much toxic stuff.

For decades now
I’ve struggled to cough out
all that suffocating dust.
But

I do not lament.
No—
I write to celebrate
this chest work I’m doing
and to show I'm fighting--
fighting for my life.
I am coming back to life.
I hack with pain
but also with joy.

I want to bellow this song!

But alas
at this time
I can only cough.

mythsteps · Healing Cough

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
myth steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

author’s note:

Someone once asked me if I ever wrote love poetry.

They’re all love poems.


THE LOVE LIFE OF THOSE WHO LIVE IN THE COLD

I asked my Arctic hosts
how they managed to thrive
in that frozen land.

And they replied:
we try to find ways
to love those hardships
we can’t escape.
For instance:

we love
the spring morning wind
that burns our face raw red—
we love when that cold fire shrieks:
I want to wake you from your stupor.

When some stir troubles us
we remember that goddess
and then feel grateful
for the disturbance on our waters.

We also love
the all-consuming darkness of winter—
in his murmurs we hear:
I’m here to help you
deepen down
into yourselves
so you can know
how much more you truly are.

Whenever a shadow falls upon us
we remember that winter god
and then feel grateful
for the darkness in our path.

Yes, in this extreme land
we might moan all the way to death
if we didn’t recognize the blessings
in the incessant adversity of our life.

I thanked those wise lovers then—
telling them:
maybe now I’ll feel grateful
for the disturbance and darkness
that stirs me
that deepens me
in my own frozen land.

mythsteps · The Love Life of Those Who Live in the Cold

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

To All Sensitive Innocent Aliens

author’s note:

I think we’re all scientists.


TO ALL SENSITIVE INNOCENT ALIENS

I once heard a scientist on TV say:

whatever we broadcast
drifts in waves from this planet
then travels through the Universe.

Since receiving that information
I’ve worked hard
to raise my best from the depths

even though my resolve
causes so much stressful strain.

Through experimentation, I’ve learned:
no way to avoid that pain
without repressing my higher impulse

and I wouldn’t want
to create waves that might wound
sensitive innocent aliens.

mythsteps · To All Sensitive Innocent Aliens

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Talking to the Baby

author’s note:

A lot of waves of memory lately.


TALKING TO THE BABY

Emerging from the warm womb
into the harsh raw air of this world
I cried
“Why!  Oh why!  Oh why oh why!”

Since then
I’ve heard many answers--

some I’ve actually found to be of benefit.
For instance:

to accept that we’re here to grow
helps me to accept my growing pains.

Well yes, but
when an old painful memory
suddenly rises like a wave to douse me
even the wisest wisdom
can not buoy my spirits.

At such times I may switch
from philosopher to mother saint
and speak to the saturated heart
as if comforting a squalling babe.

But I need to believe
the world needs me
to do more than just be here
so in short time I’ll shift to the father--
knowing he’ll say:

“Enough honey for now, baby--
 show some courage--dive on in.”

mythsteps · Talking to the Baby

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Devil Frog

author’s note:

"My life needs editing."
               -- Mort Sahl

THE DEVIL FROG

One night
as I walked through the park
reflecting again on events of the past
I suddenly heard
a little raspy voice whisper:

“I can answer your wish--
 I’ll erase from your memory
 whatever you’d like to forget!”

Turning quickly, I spied
a tree frog perched on a low limb.
Without thinking, I replied:

“Frog, if you’re not playing a trick
 I’ll gladly accept!--
 as long as I can keep
 what I’ve learned
 from looking back.”

“What you’ve already learned
 you’ve earned,”
 the frog croaked back.

What a relief! I sighed.
I’ve tried so hard to understand.
Now I can finally rest--
I’ll no longer feel pressed
to resolve those old conflicted feelings.

With that thought, a bubble popped
and I began to run

fleeing from that devil frog--
afraid that I might succumb
to a temptation
that would deliver me
to a sweet Eden
if I gave up this bigger wish:

to one day finally graduate--
having achieved
the higher degree of peace I seek.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

God in a Breath

author’s note:

In a recent dream, my car had a flat tire.

Apparently, I need more air.


GOD IN A BREATH

At first, the child believed
God lived in the clouds

then she heard that God lived within

but that idea didn’t make sense--
how could God possibly fit?

But she’d often sensed
something hovering near--
something she couldn’t see or hear.
Must be God, she thought.

But if God was right there
why didn’t he protect her
from stings and falls and mean dogs
and people who acted like mean dogs?

He just stood and watched
while the world tormented her.

She burned with frustration
and humiliation
at the indifference of God.

But the hot tears on her cheek
soon cooled into grief
and she breathed a deep sigh
then sighed deeply again

and in that moment
she suddenly began to feel
a quiet warmth
kindling within her chest.
So she took another breath
and felt that glow grow.
She told herself:
This must be what Mother means
when she praises
“the peace of God’s love”.

Slowly then
our young heroine
began to see her mistake:

God really did care
but did not help her in her struggles
because
(as her father often said)
she needed to learn
how to deal with such things
as falls and mean dogs and mean people--
she needed to learn
how to deal with the stings.

And because God
had not interfered
she’d now learned
at least one good way
to deal with such things
and that was
by letting God in:
   if she took a deep breath
   then another deep breath
   and another and another
   whatever it is that is God
   would come in—she’d feel it.

That’s why we sigh so often,
she thought:
We’re trying to breathe in God.

Many times, many times
that silly belief helped soothe
the wounds of childhood

and also the wounds
of adulthood.

But to be honest
the woman usually forgot about God

except in those moments
when doubt darkened
into despair--
then she’d finally remember
to close her eyes
and take a deep breath
and another deep breath
and another deep breath
and concentrate
until she again felt
that healing soul
fill her heart
with the warmth of love.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton