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

That House

author’s note:

The house in the photo above is that house.  We never thought to take pictures of our own house, I regret to say.


THAT HOUSE

In a recent dream
I returned to my childhood home.

The belly of the whale—
the cacophonous womb
where I danced and wailed.

For years I’ve looked back
so that I might know that house
so that I could move on.

I’ve gone through those rooms so many times.
I’ve shifted through their closets and drawers.
I’ve searched deep, then deeper still.
I’ve catalogued and studied even the smallest finds.
I should be done with that mad house by now, shouldn’t I?

But no, I’m not.  Nor will I ever be.

Because that house keeps changing.
In this recent dream, I opened a new door
and discovered a hallway
that connects the sunny front
with the shadowy back.
That house continues to evolve with each new visit.
That house continues to evolve as I do.
I evolve as I work to change my perspective.

As part of the process
I try to find more sun now
when I look back at that house.
Here’s my idea, my hope:

My present reflects my past.  So
if I can find more sun in my early years
then today will be sunnier too.

The dream tells me:
Our education is never complete.
Always more to be known.
Walk down those dark hallways.
Even a little house is a mansion of doors.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Take a Vacation to The Moon

author’s note:

As a boy, I was once told the Moon was made of cheese.

From that point on, I ate a lot of cheese.


TAKE A VACATION TO THE MOON

I saw the Moon so close.
So round.  So bright.  So milky.

And so as before
my heart lifted my arms
to embrace that bewitching world.

But this time, to my surprise
I shot straight to the lunar surface.

In joy I bounced like a boy filled with helium
across stone-quiet plains so wonderfully stark.
I climbed holy spires.
And slid down the sides of steep craters.

When I walked
my shadow legs belonged to a giant.
And yet I felt so small—
I was but a moth
worshipping the brilliant light.

But then the Moon began to close its door
and shadow crept over the land toward me.
The swath of soft light where I sat
had soon shrunk to a thin slice.
My feet could barely fit inside—
the darkness on one side
had nearly met
the darkness on the other.
I’d drunk the light of the Moon
and now the Moon would drink me.

So though I wanted to explore more
I pointed my arms downward
and a moment later
found myself back
on the lovely soil of Earth.

But now
in my state of heightened awareness
I could feel the ground tremoring beneath my feet.

But analysis showed
the vibrations came from me.
And additional research revealed
many if not most on this planet
shake just as much if not more.

Why do we tremble so?

Maybe on other worlds
beings need not worry about death
but our Earth is a planet of survival.
And to stay alive in such worlds
you must worry every day about dying.

With that in mind
I decided I would try to soothe
a few of those nervous humans
and in that way, help make
this world a less nervous place.

And so I wrote this poem.
to urge all anxious people
to take a vacation to the Moon—
you can go even if you live in a tunnel.

But please return at the proper time—
otherwise, you may be consumed
by a terrific teat that gives then takes—
we need you back on Earth.

Here, you can help other agitated folk
by introducing them to the benefits
of imbibing moonlight with their hearts.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Elevating the Mole

author’s note:

“I can dig it, he can dig it, she can dig it,
  we can dig it, they can dig it, you can dig it.
  Oh, let’s dig it. Can you dig it, baby?”
      -- from “Grazing in the Grass”, by The Friends of Distinction


ELEVATING THE MOLE

I’m here, in part, to gather information
for a big knowledge bank—
the same metaphysical storehouse all humans use
when they need to deposit what they’ve gleaned.

Though I can’t imagine the ultimate purpose
I still like that idea
because I want to believe
I’m doing more here than just surviving.

But recently I’ve begun to wonder
about another life—
the life of the mole.
like me, he’s constantly gathering.

Yes, his eyes are small
but just think of all the information
he takes in with his tiny pink paws as he digs and crawls.
Information about soil, roots, grubs.
Information about life on this planet.

Because he wants to know more
he keeps on tunneling
and as he learns, he wonders:
Just how much more to this world can there be?
And so he will dig to the end.

Sounds like a great way to live
but I hate to imagine all that knowledge lost
when the body ceases to breathe.

Does the mole exist merely to exist?
Maybe we both contribute
to that big knowledge bank.

Scoff at that idea if you wish
but such thoughts
send my mind staring out the window
and when my eyes go out the window
I sense the truth
of what I like to believe:
All life has a higher purpose.

No, I can’t honestly say what that purpose is.
But I really like the storehouse concept—
I’m glad I’m saving that belief for posterity.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 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
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© 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
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© 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
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Wise One Tells Me How to Become a Wise One

author’s note:

A poem for our dusty, stormy times.


A WISE ONE TELLS ME HOW TO BECOME A WISE ONE

When I decided I’d like to someday be
one of the wise elders of our village
I asked one of the wisest of the wise
what I could do
to get from where I was
to where they were.

How were they able to stay so clear
when those mad winds blinded
the rest of us with dust?
How were they able to stay so buoyant
when that merciless storm flooded
our village homes and farms?

She answered me then
with the watery gray eyes of gentle age:

"Inside your head the dust swirls
 dimming the light of reason.
 Inside your heart a storm rages—
 your love may drown in the deluge."

The wise one then bowed to me
and said no more
because nothing more needed to be said.

I now saw how
those elders could manage so well
during windstorms and thunderstorms.
And knowing myself as I do
I doubted I could ever be as they are.

But I also I knew
I’d keep trying
because

I need to be a lot wiser
if I am to survive the dust and the flood.

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

The Wind Strums My Strings

author’s note:

“Strumming my pain with his fingers”
             — from a poem by Lori Lieberman


THE WIND STRUMS MY STRINGS

One twilight evening
I heard a gust of wind strum
the out of tune strings of a cheap guitar
abandoned in a trash bin.

Then another gust
rang the guitar
then a third banged the strings.

Though discordant
those chords made a spark
in the depths of my heart.
A feeling beyond adjectives.

I then asked myself
how such sounds could create
that feeling within me

and arrived at this answer:

As the wind sweeps over the earth
our excess emotion gets whisked up
and rides the many currents like dust.

We can feel some of that feeling
by listening to the wind strum
such things as wheatfields
and lakes and trees and bridges
and electrical towers and guitars.

After that realization, I decided
to join along—
to open myself up
and let the wind strum
my poorly-tuned strings.
Who knows?—
my notes, though rough
might spark a light in the hearts of others
the way my own heart was sparked
by the raw sound of that cheap guitar.

But I’d failed to anticipate
the amount of pain in the wind—
pain from the wounds
suffered by human minds.
Pain from all the creatures
struggling to survive.
Pain from the wounded land and water.

All that pain awakened
pain dormant within me.
The hurt rose up
and from my mouth
came a crazed cacophony
that included:

the whimpering pleas of a puppy

and long coyote howls

and low ghostly groans

as well as the bellows of a fallen bull.

No, my sound didn’t stir many
but at least I experienced some relief
by giving voice to buried feelings.

Since then
I’ve found much more besides pain in the wind
and so, I’ve been able
to expand my repertory a bit.
But the message remains
basically the same.
And that message is:

I hold more than I know.
Which means:

We’re all hold more
than we can possibly imagine.

And to those who say
No, we hold less!
I suggest:
trying opening yourself to the wind.

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

The Symbolic Tree

author’s note:

Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.


THE SYMBOLIC TREE

The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.

Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.

But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.

With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.

Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.

Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.

Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.

I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.

Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.

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

Net of Memories

author’s note:

Why did I choose the beach?

I wanted to make my hair wavy.


NET OF MEMORIES

Fatigued by certain persistent memories
that afternoon I laid down on the ocean beach
hoping to find some peace.

And as I dozed between two worlds
a wave came up and sloshed my head.
Then receded—
dragging all the bric-a-brac in my brain away—
away into the gently-breathing bay.

Soon another wave
would bring it all back
but for a few moments
my collection of memories spread
through those soothing blue waters—
each one was a living cell
connected to several others
by fibers strong as violin strings.
Taken all together
they formed a complex web.

I realized then:
if my wish was granted
and I could cut away any cells I didn’t want
each extraction would leave
a hole in that net.

Ever since that nap on the beach
I’ve embrace all my memories—
even those that spark powerful pain.
I need the net intact in order to feed this brain.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Metaphor in the Gray Season of Rain

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


METAPHOR IN THE GRAY SEASON OF RAIN

Yes, I’m caught in the flood
of a cold gray season of rain.
But please, don’t worry about me:

Though sad, I’m not drowning—
I now know how to swim in these waters.
I know I can reach the distant shore.

Yes, I sometimes become tired
in the effort
and feel I might sink.
But then I lie all the way back
and spread my arms out wide
and give myself up
to the hard wash of rain.
Painful to open so boldly
but this way, I’m able to stay afloat.

As you can see
I’ve learned from metaphor
how to survive times such as these.
So please
don’t grieve my grieving.

But if you feel you must
say something
I’ll give you this hint:
I become even more buoyant
when somebody praises my buoyancy.

Butterfly Soul: poems of death & grief & joy
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© 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
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© 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
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© 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
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© 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
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© 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
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© 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