Hope for the Fallen

author’s note:

I’ve met two people who were once knocked unconscious.

Both felt they benefited from the experience.


HOPE FOR THE FALLEN

A wise one once said:
the fire that flares up
soon burns out.

Was she talking about my nation?

Maybe she was talking about the two of us.

That wise one also said:
those who don’t stop to look
to see where they’re going
soon fall and hit their heads.

Was she talking about the two of us?

Maybe she was talking about our nation.

Or maybe
she was talking about the other day
when I tripped
and landed hard on the hard ground.

But as I regained my senses
I suddenly remembered
the night I feared I’d freeze

but then found a small ember
in a big pile of ashes
and built a fire that lasted ’til morning.

I may still be a fool
but at least now I know
not to give up hope.

mythsteps · Hope for the Fallen

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

Resurrection War

author’s note:

A “thank you” to M.S. Gutierrez for the spontaneous, energetic portrait above.


RESURRECTION WAR

When young
I tried (for safety’s sake)
to tamp my spirit down.

But by nature, this spirit wants
full experience and expression.
So eventually, it rejected
that death sentence
and began to work against
the smaller one I’d become

that then battled back--
fearing for its life.
Strong for its size.

So though I now fight
for my spirit
the crypt only opens
bit by bit by bit.
After all this time
the struggle continues.

Yes, I often tire of war
but at least I’ve made real
my childhood dream
of being a warrior.

I once believed
this resurrection would end one day
with a glorious triumphant bloom
for all the world to see.

But I realize now
I must adjust my metaphor:
   as I try to create
   moments of peace
   in this endless war,
   bright buds keep popping out--
   begging me to help them break open.

My War for Peace: poetry ebook—new and improved!
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Freedom Feet

author’s note:

As I see it, there’s foolish risk and there's wise risk.


FREEDOM FEET

Hoping to wake myself
from a stupor induced by security
today
I set my feet free:

no socks, no shoes--open again

to many hazards--
such as shards of broken glass
lurking like sharks in the grass

but I could feel

the freshness
of that wet spring grass
and squeeze
luscious cool mud
between my pale toes.

The shock of touch
created bursts of interior fireworks.
My body saw the world once more.

Today
as my eyes felt
the flow of clouds
my soles listened to a river
coursing through the veins
of an underground cave.

Today
I resurrected myself
through a small act of courage.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Your Mining Song

author’s side:

What singer prompted me to write this poem?

Any singer who ever made me say, "Damn, I wish I could do that."


YOUR SONG

When you were a girl
your sweet instrument
poured forth butterflies
and lovely bubbles

but in time
that piccolo became a shovel:

when you sang you became aware
of riches buried below—
up from the depths
came an echo of gold.

With each song
you dug a bit more—
you went a bit deeper
with each held note.

Now, years later
your richer gold seems
just within reach
yet still seems
to escape your grasp.

So you continue to sing
and continue to deepen
and continue bring up feelings
of shocking intensity—
you cut yourself with song
but create resurrection.

Your song cuts me
by waking my buried wounds

but if I then deepen down
to tend to the healing
in my depths, I discover
small pieces of gold.

I thank you for waking us
with your mining song of love.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Maternal Tenacles

author's note:

The fossilized skeleton we call “Lucy”, is known in Ethiopia as “Dinkinesh”, which can be translated as “you are marvelous”.


MATERNAL TENTACLES

A year ago I saw a show
about an ancient ancestor

found under earth and rock
in dry savanna gorge--
they named her “Lucy”.

I immediately fell in love
with the poor innocent
and that night I dreamt
her tiny skeleton slept beneath
a blanket of my own ancient dust.

Yes, dreams tell incredible truths--
apparently the white man I am
carries this humble stone mother spirit
deep in his innards:

we hold more
than we’ll ever know
but
it’s good to know
as much as you can
about what you hold
because

I now feel the loss--
I now grieve the death
of this simple loving nature.
Now I will nurture
that maternal engine
back to life.

As I feel empathy for myself
I feel empathy for the world:
I can see this loss all over the world.
Men lactate in their own way--
a buried reservoir awakens.
I could stop the flow, but dare not--
for too long I’ve known
the pain of being dry.

Nonetheless, I’m tentative
as this milk spills over--spreads--extends
its tentacles
beyond the borders
of my domain‑‑
these feelers want to feel
but remain afraid:
    they’ve encountered
    blunt objects before
    and been blunted.

But with this fledgling spreading
the gray beneath Lucy's fingertips
slowly bleeds back to pink
and pink desert flowers bloom:

the prickly desert slowly transforms
into a desert garden.  Oh so slowly.
But slow change endures.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel

Lesson from a Dead Bird

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: “based on a true story”.


LESSON FROM A DEAD BIRD

Once as a boy…

while walking down a rural road
in morning sunlight
I spied a dead bird in the dirt--
its broken neck
curled back against one wing.

Then with the type of disrespect
common to children who feel powerless
I put my foot on its bloated chest.

And holy wow!--as I lifted my boot
that bird jumped up
and with a fury of fluttering
flew away.

An incredible resurrection--a story
I use, years later, to help myself cope.

The bird tells me:

when we’re dead asleep
often only a lightning bolt
from a shadow tyrant
can pump the air
back into our chest.

Many times, many times
I’ve stepped on myself
with my own shadow

but I’m still waking up.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
40 New Fables: ebook

Story of the Woman Who Grew

author's note:

A poem of resurrection for Easter.


STORY OF THE WOMAN WHO GREW

Allow me to tell you
the story of the woman
who escaped a trap
by chewing off her arm.

For years afterward, she hid the wound—
she didn’t want anyone to pity her

especially those men
who wished to lend a hand.
She gave them all her foot
because instinctively, she knew:

she could never find her power
in the arms of another.
Deep within
she understood:

by dealing with her deficit
she’d become stronger
as she worked her way
through this world.

And so she dealt.
And in the process
learned so much.
She learned:

you must grieve
but not too much—too much
and you’ll be too weak
to deal with the loss.

She learned
you must shrink small things
so you can carry the large.

She learned
how to look into the mirror.

And so, in time, she saw
that she’d grown a new arm!—

as long and as strong
as her other arm
which had grown
longer and stronger
during her education.

She saw:
she could now reach all the way up
and squeeze sweet rainwater
from that dark ripe cloud.

And when she put her hands together
and formed a circle with her arms
what a circumference!—
what a big embrace!

But she’s not done yet, no—
now, she wonders:

could my span grow even more?

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
poet, heal thyself: poetry ebook

Meeting the Wounded Woman

author's note:

Highly recommended: The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, by Robert A. Johnson.


MEETING THE WOUNDED WOMAN

After waking from the sight
of a wounded woman
knee-deep in a dark swamp...

I remembered what I'd read:

the "she" a man meets
in his dream
lives within him.

But though still alive
my receptive side
obviously didn't feel so well--
after all, she'd lost a hand.

But how and when?--
I did not know...

however as I pondered
the blank shock
in her blue eyes
I began to feel
what she must have felt
during whatever crime
caused the loss--
what she still feels
in the long aftermath:

horror at a savagery both rabid
and casual--
stunned confusion
at an injustice unpunished.

I could feel
the frozen fire
of her righteous anger

but also sensed
warm moist ashes of grief
beneath that ice.

I then understood why
a violent dream may follow
a routine mundane day:

if forced to confront
our deep wounds
during the waking hours
how could we complete transactions
or work with movable parts?

But we don’t occasionally confront
and deal with that truth
those wounds may kill us.

So, I need my horrific dreams--
painful though the awakening may be
I need to dream of a woman
missing a hand.

I can shelf that secret
in the back room
while I'm totaling receipts

then afterward
return to learning
how to heal the life
that gives me life.

Progress is slow, of necessity
but when I feel discouraged
I think of the green lizard dream:

how the little fellow sang with joy
because he'd finally managed
to grow his tail back--

he sang of sensitivity regained
he sang of better balance--
such fun, being functional!

That regeneration
must've cost a lot of energy
but what a return--
his song sounded so strong!

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