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

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.

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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

The Leaping Deer Sings Like a Howling Dog

author’s note:

“I praise what is truly alive,
 what longs to be burned to death.”
               – Goethe


THE LEAPING DEER SINGS LIKE A HOWLING DOG

When I was young I ran
hoping to lose that menacing shadow
nipping at my heels.

But one day a wise man told me:
you can only save yourself
by taking a long look
at what you’re running from.

So I took a long thoughtful look
and saw:
what a waste to try to escape myself.

Nonetheless
I kept on running
because

the blur of movement
felt so exhilarating
and my fire burned hotter the harder
I ran
and the heat felt the way I thought
life was supposed to feel.

However, in time
the flame died from exhaustion
and I had to lie down in the soft ashes.

But used the time to take
another long look—

because by then I realized:
once seen
a demon can be flipped
onto its angel side.

But as soon as my fire revived
I began to run again.
I ran I ran I ran
in mind, body, and spirit.

Years later
I’m still running.
Yes, the pace has slowed
but with age
I value each leaping step more

and so my exhilaration
has deepened into joy.

I’ve also learned to lie down
before I’m forced
and in those moments of stillness
I not only look down into that deep shadow
I also listen—
I listen, because I can’t always see.

And when I rise
I do what humans do
after they’ve heard the dark river:
I give words to the melody.

With those words
I sing our song as I run along.
And because the child in me
thrives on delight
I imagine I’m a leaping deer singing—
singing like a moon-eyed howling dog.

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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

When Gods Come Down from the Mountain

author’s note:

Much of what I see tires me.

Fortunately, much of what I see inspires me.


WHEN GODS COME DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

Sometimes a bored god
will put a human into a hypnotic trance
then enter the body and take control
because they want to feel the adrenaline thrill
we feel when we perform a superhuman feat.

Though confined by the small frame
a deity can still lift those without a boat
above the rising waters.
Or stare down a fierce fire at the edge of town.

Then when the rush subsides
at the end of the event
the immortal will return home
to the clouds on the mountain.

The human will then wake in a daze—
feeling hazy about what they’ve just done.

And when praised
they’ll wonder:
How did I do what I did?
Never guessing
a colossal god could ever fit inside them.

They may assume instead
secret potentials lurk within.
And as a result, decide
they should work to realize
their hidden capabilities.

What they accomplish then
will have the effect
of inspiring other ordinary folk
who say to themselves:

if that damn fool can be super
then so can I!

mythsteps · when gods come down from the mountain

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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Silhouette

author’s note:

Who among us is not mysterious?


THE SILHOUETTE

At the new year’s party
the host dimmed the lights
just before midnight
so when my friend turned
he saw only a silhouette
at the other end of the hallway—

a shadow stepping his way.

Then when the lights came back on
he found a plain open face
peering into his plain open face.

That face soon became part of his days.
A good face
because it belongs to a good woman.

But when seen every day
the good can begin to seem ordinary.

So in time my friend lost sight
of what he first saw
when he first saw her that night.

But fortunately for both of them
he soon woke up again—
brought back, I believe
by the god that steers from within:

While mowing the lawn
late one afternoon
that good man turned without thinking
and found her shadow
standing at the window.

In that instant
he remembered that midnight silhouette
and his eyes opened again.

I’m happy to report
he has not forgotten the truth since then.

mythsteps · The Silhouette

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That Wise Woman on Guitar

author’s note:

I don’t have the ability to play music.  But I do have the ability to listen to music.


THAT WISE WOMAN ON GUITAR

On a twilight evening
in a foreign town
the fog crept in so thick
I could not see
where to point my feet
as I walked a deserted bridge.

So when I heard
a deep piercing melody
coming from a guitar
I decided I should follow
its thread through the gray drift—
maybe the player could direct me.

And soon I found
a small clear space
walled all around with cloud—
a sheltering bower
a sanctuary.

In the center, stood
a white-haired woman
in a burlap gown.
Her feet in sandals on cobblestone.

With eyes closed
she made those perfect notes
with fingers both gentle and strong.

Though I hated to interrupt
in my desperation, I said a clumsy:
“Hello, can you help me?”

Without opening her eyes
or pausing her playing
she then answered in a weathered voice:
Close your eyes and listen
and you will find your way.

The watchdog in me suspected a trick.
But I’m also a hopeful fool
and in my need
I ignored the protest of reason:
I shuttered my eyes
I stood still
I listened

and as doubt and impatience
slowly relaxed
I began to feel
all those soft confident sounds
move down into my depths

until they found
the higher spirit
hidden in the shadow.

I remained in that peace
for a timeless time
before the hunter in me said:
now, go forward.

So I opened my eyes.
And in an instant, the music ended.
The woman had vanished.
But hey—so had the fog.

Now whenever I feel lost
I close my eyes and listen
until once again I hear
that wise woman on guitar.

mythsteps · that wise woman on guitar

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Mystery Lurking in Our Lake

author’s note:

I say: if you’ve seen a lake monster, you’ve seen a lake monster.


THE MYSTERY LURKING IN OUR LAKE

Late that night
I parked by the lake
and unwrapped the monster costume
I’d bought to frighten some friends
who’d set up camp nearby.

But when the police cruised by
I tossed the outfit behind my back.
And as soon as it hit the lake
that costume sank.

An incident I decided not to mention
when those reports came in
the following week:

One said
a creature from the deep
had terrorized a fisherman.

Apparently
my suit of rubbery scales
had gotten caught for a moment
on a hook intended for catfish.

The other claim came
from two recreational canoers.

After hearing a tapping
on the bottom of their boat
they looked down to find
a big green reptile face glaring up at them—
just a glimpse before it slipped
back into the depths.

Apparently
their paddles had stirred
the water just enough
to lift the costume up.

So why didn’t I expose
those errors of perception?

Apparently, I’m a small man
who likes to hold secrets
because he then feels superior.

Nonetheless, I’m glad I kept my mouth shut:

Now people who want to believe
in the incredible
can look out over this lake
and imagine mystery lurking
beneath its sleepy surface.

I must admit I envied them at first:
I wanted to feel the same sense of wonder.

But then one night
I glimpsed a peculiar creature
lurking under my reflection.
Now in the evening I sometimes
peer into the mirror
to see what else might emerge
from my sleepy surface.

mythsteps · The Mystery Lurking in Our Lake

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The Quiet Resurrection

author’s note:

Robert Bly didn’t tell men to become wild men.  He told us to feel what we feel.


THE QUIET RESURRECTION

The first time he passed those woods
on the way to school
the sight of their dark depths
caused a sudden thumping in his chest.

As a storm began to roil inside him
that boy of six then remembered
the sci-fi movie he’d seen—
maybe a wild creature within
was trying to take control of him.

So he raced away
and after that day
lowered his head
and crept with hesitant steps
around the forest
so as not to wake the beast.

Unfortunately
he begin to use that same caution
wherever he went—
keep the monster down.
That way of walking
became a way of being.
As a result
by the time he’d reached adulthood
his life felt drained of life.

So he bought a book about
“increasing your vitality”.
But then felt confused when he read:
you must let the life hidden within you live.

Okay, but how?
How could he set free
that unknown unlived life?

He then recalled the dark forest
he’d avoided as a boy.

In his desperation he decided:
maybe a little look would provoke
those ashes in his belly.

So on a quiet afternoon he finally approached
those shadowy woods
and crossed the border
into the shifting twilight shade.

As his heart began to thump
he again became that boy—
afraid some untamed force
would rise up from within
and take control of him—
making him behave in ways
that would wreck his world.

But when the fantasy
didn’t become reality
he actually felt a bit disappointed.
Better the ripping transformation
than the drip drip drip of tedious attrition.

Nonetheless
through his act he did find life.

After his expectations collapsed
he was able to wander through
that ordinary paradise
with thoughtless ease
and soon became entranced
by the sound of soft rain tremoring the leaves.

Only later at home
did he notice that gently buzzing thrill
running through him, body and spirit:

the first sign
he’d begun to resurrect
the life he had buried
down in his dusky dusty depths.

mythsteps · The Quiet Resurrection

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Welcome, Monstrosity

author’s note:

Courage…a daily requirement.


WELCOME, MONSTROSITY

While walking in the moonlight
through a snowy field
in a dream one night
I suddenly saw

the monolithic silhouette of a giant
standing in my path.

A star sparkled on the tip
of a spear aimed straight at my heart.

So I turned to run

and awoke in my soft bed.

Though relieved
I felt limp with loss—
I’d been told
we can only defeat
the shadowy threats of our dreams
by facing them head-on.

Hoping for solace
I confessed my failure
to the wise one

who then said:

as long as you remember
the shame you now feel
you’ll fight to overcome your weakness.

And so
after struggling many days
with the disgrace of my retreat
I felt such a lift
when the giant stood before me again—
I opened my arms and yelled:
welcome, monstrosity!

And actually felt disappointed
when the shadow vanished the next instant.

The field of snow shone in moonlight
but instead of continuing on the path
I followed the trail of a little chipmunk
into the dark woods nearby.

The next day I returned to the wise one
to crow of my success.

Yes, she said
better to face the shadows within
before we take on
the giant shadows of our world—

hard to win
when you’re waging war on two fronts.

mythsteps · Welcome Monstrosity

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Into the Looking Glass Pool

author’s note:

‘Cause you can never tell
What goes on down below!
This pool might be bigger
Than you or I know!
       -- Dr. Seuss


INTO THE LOOKING GLASS POOL

They said: that’s you.

Me? That tater head was me?
I stared hard—then harder
but that face still seemed so strange.

Finally, I lost patience
and crawled away from the glass--
I would explore the outer world instead.

However
the faces I saw now seemed
just as peculiar
as that one in the mirror.

And my efforts to understand them
soon ended
with the admonition:
don’t stare at people.

So I returned to my own face.

Some will surely say
You’re like that fellow in the story--
Narcissus.

No—
he only gazes at the surface
whereas I try to see beneath

and often
I don’t love what I discover.
However
I refuse to look away
because an explorer must be brave.

But sometimes I need encouragement
so I tell myself:
don’t let the pain you find blind you
to the complex wonder
which is the human being

and whenever you encounter
a ferocious sea serpent
in the shadowy depths...

try to see his good side.

mythsteps · Into the Looking Glass Pool

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
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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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Story from a NIght Stranger

author’s note:

Based on a true story?

Kinda.


STORY FROM A NIGHT STRANGER

Consider this humble tale
told to me by a stranger:

while living alone in the country
she opened her door one night
to a silent explosion of light.

By instinctive response
she kicked the door shut
then in an instant realized:
she’d lost her chance.

At what?--she wasn’t sure--
but something more
than she’d ever known before.

So she flung the door back open

but of course
saw only darkness
deepening into the trees.

Though she knows
the opportunity will probably never return
she’s also seen
what can happen
when you give up hope
so

every day
she works to be ready--
she works to build strength
by constantly trying to find
the truth hidden within
the cloud of noise in her brain.
She works to build strength
by delving deeper
and deeper
into the well of her mirror.

She shares with others
the light she finds
in her foggy head
in her dark depths.

But I wanted my own light
so I asked her
how can I delve down?
Teach me how to work.

But she turned then
and returned to the shadows.

Her soft smile of parting
said:
I’ve learned the blessing of loss.
The sharp gleam in her eye told me:
I know
you will find your own way.

Yes--
I now know how to build strength.
So maybe I’ll be ready
should I ever open my door
to a silent explosion of light.

mythsteps · Story from a Night Stranger

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

Declaration of Independence

author's note:

This poem has become my Fourth of July tradition.

Happy birthday, America!--I love your mad beauty, despite the flaws.


DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

I'll be damn if I'll be terrorized
by anyone

including the beast in my mirror.

If I can face that monster
why should I cower
before those who lack
the courage to look
into their own reflections?

When they bombard me
my legs may tremble
but I won't sit--
no, I'll pirouette
in a defiant dance of joy!

And if they curse me
with cutting words
I’ll answer with a song designed
to soothe the wounds
that are theirs and mine.

But my empathy still has limits:
I must heal myself more before
I have heart enough to love them.

So though I declare with sincerity
I can not yet say
I’m completely free.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Original Wound

author’s note:

Though Eden is lost
its loveliness
remains in the heart
and the imagination
         -- Mary Oliver


THE ORIGINAL WOUND

According to this myth:
our problems first began
when the first human being
felt confused because
it sensed it was more than one.

Unable to resolve that tension
the human then split in half
and one half went East
while the other half went West.

Perhaps you’ve already guessed
the happy ending:

eventually
both halves will meet
halfway around the globe
and recognize their missing part
then join together again.

But no—
the resolution won’t be so simple
because

as it walked, the East half felt
the same inner tension
felt by its parent
and so
soon tore apart
and one half headed North
while the other half headed South.

The West half also felt that tension
and so
quickly broke in half
and one half walked North
while the other half walked South.

Following that pattern
those four halves soon became eight
and then those eight became sixteen
and then…well, you get the idea.

Because we can’t accept all we are
we keep breaking apart

and because those losses feel so painful
we keep searching
for something that might heal us:

at first, a thing might seem to be
the exact right thing
but in time, we discover
it’s not the thing
that can make us whole again
and then the wound weeps even louder.

I believe this myth explains why
you seemed so perfect
when I first met you:

in you I saw the thing
I felt to be missing—
the thing could make my life whole.

And you saw the same thing in me—
I seemed to fill a void
and for a moment at least
you didn’t feel that sense of loss.

But our mistake was blessed one:
it brought the two of us together

and as we’ve struggled to return
to that garden we first knew
we’ve looked deeper into ourselves
and in the process
discovered many parts we’d missed.

I don’t know if our union will hold

but by working to repair the break
we’ve both become more whole
and in that way help to heal the wound—

a cut that first began
when the first human being
couldn’t resolve the first conflict.

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

Crypt & Crib

author’s note:

Soil music.


CRYPT & CRIB

Sensing I might’ve lost
something valuable
in the dusty shadows below
I decided to descend.

So began years of tedious searching—
of gathering back together
the many parts I’d discarded.

Knowing the difficulty
I now want to help others
who also struggle in the dark.
But the little I’ve learned for certain
they probably already understand

which is:

today, we have no suitable rituals
to help us navigate the passageways
of our subterranean life:

we must be our own undertaker
we must be our own light
we must be our own midwife.

A dream showed me a baby
in the tunnel of a crypt:

a glowing grub-bug it was—
shifting through the dust
as it crawled along—
finding lots of odd bits:
chips of flint stone
and skeleton bone
as well as a few jewels.

All of it provided nourishment
for the infant

so the child kept expanding—
filling the tomb

until finally, up above
the earth of a fallow farm field broke open
and my dazed head sprouted from the womb.

But the next morning
I awoke to the same barred crib.

Yes
this old baby must gestate a while longer.
Must grow more.
Must devour those jewels
and the better side
of everything else I discover
in my dark depths.

At least I know I’m not alone:
witness the many perennials at labor—
determined to be reborn.

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

Drumbeat Down in the Well

author’s note:

“We experience a dream as real because it is real.”
             -- William Dement


DRUMBEAT DOWN IN THE WELL

When the mower suddenly died that day
I said: “Must be a sign from above!”
and lay myself down on the lawn.

Then as I eased into a half-doze
I detected a pulsing murmur--
perhaps a distant drumbeat

for a ritual dance
of men, women, children--

a tribal circle reaching up
to the circle of the moon:
a celebration I might find
by going where my shadow pointed
as the sun sank in the west.

So I stood up and began to walk
or maybe I only dreamt I did--
in any case
I traced that quiet seductive summons
across a broad savanna
through the starless dark

until I arrived at a well
round as a drum--
its waters reflected a full moon.

I knew I’d reached the source
yet the sound had died down
so I listened down
down into that glowing whole
and as a result
I began to feel the beat
softly echoing up
from a deeper chamber of my heart.

I knew then
I was the ritual circle dancing--
reaching up
even as I listened down.

I understood:
I celebrate this life
every day with every beat--
even when I feel dull gray--even then
I’m still amazed
by this mystery we’re in.

Then
having finally realized the obvious
I returned--
finding my way back
with natural ease
because I was no longer lost.

But though we go back
we never really lose
what we’ve gained, do we?

I can still hear that deep drum--
even now as I mow
this sunny lawn.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Good Couple

author’s note:

Narcissus looked into a mirror…

But he never really saw himself.


THE FABLE OF THE GOOD COUPLE

He saw the light in her
and she saw the light in him
and so
they fell in love

then suddenly became monsters
to one another.
Why?

Why did they snarl and snap
when alone together?

The spirits standing behind them knew--
they knew

how that guy always prided himself
on his goodness.
How he loved hearing his goodness praised!

They knew
that gal prided herself
on her goodness too.
How she loved hearing her light praised!

They knew
she now worried
he might outshine her
just as he worried
she might outshine him.

He fell into some dreadful thoughts--
saying to himself:
Just look at her--
she thinks she’s so good.
If people could only see
how she growls at me!

And alas
she raged within
with the same harsh thoughts
about him!

Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear
the spirits had actually put those two together.
You see, they know
the best among us can always be better
and sometimes need catalysts
to help them improve.
They know
a mirror can serve this purpose--
someone who reflects your faults.

But even the best
often don’t not want to see
their faults reflected in a mirror
and may protect themselves from clarity
by stirring up
all sorts of commotion.

Fortunately
exhaustion has a way
of helping us accept the truth:

finally they lacked the energy
to argue more
and slumped to floor

and in that moment of stillness
he looked at her
and she looked at him
and both suddenly realized
how alike they were.

At this point
I can reward your patience
with a happy ending--
but perhaps not the happy ending
you expected.

After achieving that insight
the couple soon understood
their life together
had reached its conclusion:
he no longer needed her
and she no longer needed him.

To this day, she praises him
for how he helped her
become a better person
and in the same glowing way
he lauds her.

Nonetheless, I sometimes detect
of hint of competition
when they check each other
from a distance.

Ah, but maybe that’s for the best:

he needs a bit of motivation
when he feels fatigued in his good fight
just as she does when she
tires in hers.

However
neither ever forgets
what they saw
on the brighter side of that mirror--
he saw as she saw
they share the same light.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

When I Look Into My Eyes

author’s note:

The eyes don’t lie.


WHEN I LOOK INTO MY EYES

Sometimes
when human life seems so base
I will look into my eyes
hoping to witness an inner spirit
shining up from the dark depths.

But at first I’ll usually only see
a reflection of the sadness
that brought me to the mirror.

So then in desperation
I’ll work hard to penetrate
those two black pools

and in that way
go into a meditation
and if I stay long enough
I’ll achieve
the relative stillness
of a relative peace.

Then I can again believe
that I am more than I seem to be.

But here’s the real secret:
occasionally when I’m in that state
I’ll find in the darkness
a purple jewel covered
with countless pure facets--
each one a window revealing
a light embedded in the core.

Though I just get glimpses
I can see
that stone possesses
an untroubled patience
developed over eons.

Maybe you’ll say
I’m only seeing
what I wish to see
but I swear to you:
to see the best of myself
can be as unsettling
as seeing the worst.

What a responsibility!
No wonder we’re afraid
of our own deep beauty.
No wonder we pretend
to be so base.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

You Never Know What You'll Find

author’s note:

Happy Halloween!


YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU’LL FIND

When a stranger
takes one quick scan
and believes he knows
who I am...

I feel the impulse
to shock him awake
by pulling something up
from my dark depths
--but stop

not only because I fear
how he might react
but because I realize
I might also scare myself.

I’ve delved and dredged
for many years
yet continue to be surprised
by the spirits I discover inside.

Soultime: a novel
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton