A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, 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

Child in a Box

author’s note:

I can see myself everywhere.  If I’m willing to look.


CHILD IN A BOX

While finding my way in an unknown town
I spied a child
sitting in a big cardboard box
in the back of an abandoned lot.

I wanted to pity him—

his scratch of land seemed so desolate:

Cold sun rays glinted hard
off broken bottles.
A ragged wind stuck paper scraps
on the barbs of a barb-wire fence.

But despite that scene
the child wouldn't stop laughing.

At what? Perhaps he enjoyed watching
those two crows pick at a scatter of fries.

But when he spotted me, he continued to laugh.

What?  Was I such a joke?
Couldn’t he see how I grieved his plight?
How could I empathize
with him cackling in the wind that way?

With that last question
I suddenly realized
I held this secret wish:

I wanted to see a sad sight
so I could release my sad sighs.
I felt sorry for him, yes
but I also felt sorry for myself.

I was a child abandoned in an empty lot.

But that barbed broken-bottle lot
really wasn’t so empty, was it?
And who had abandoned my child
if not me?

I then began to laugh along with that child—

at the fool who would not let himself play
in this wild sunny world of abundance.

mythsteps · Child In A Box

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

Message to a Rocket Launcher

author's note:

Some say dreams are meaningless.

I say: maybe theirs are.  Not mine.


MESSAGE TO A ROCKET LAUNCHER

When I heard the man claim
he had slept quite well
after launching that long-range attack
I remembered a dream
I can’t forget:

in the scene
I squatted on a desert plain
and from my big bazooka
shot a ball of barb-wire
at an unknown enemy
somewhere over there

and felt quite pleased
a moment later, when
I spied a poof of dust
rising on the horizon.

But then I looked down
and found a wire strung
all the way from my trigger finger
to the distant point of impact.

In frantic desperation
I tried to untie the wire
but those barbs stung my hand--
without thinking, I ran

with that wire trailing after me--
delivering hot jolts of pain
to my finger, arm, body, brain.

Waking in a cold fever
I knew I needed
to understand that nightmare
and though I often miss the obvious
I soon realized its message:

when you try to get rid of the hurt you feel
by putting the hurt on somebody else
you’re connected to the pain
you’ve created for the other.
Thus
you actually hurt worse.

From this dream, we can see
I am still an angry child

but adult enough
to be honest with you now--
hoping

this dream message will awaken
at least one other rocket launcher
to a truth so obvious
it often goes unnoticed:
  when you choose the wrong way
  to deal with your pain
  you only worsen the wound.

Maybe then
having lost his blind innocence
that launcher may stop trying
to punish the other
and instead fight to heal
his wounded self
and in that way help heal
a world filled
with bazookas and barb-wire.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton