A Man with a Plan & a Prayer

author’s note:

No, I’m not the man of this poem. For that matter, I don’t pray.

And yet sometimes when I reach the end of the poem, I get a little choked up.


A MAN WITH A PLAN & A PRAYER

A little man in a small room
prayed late at night every night
asking his god to heal
the community

but when he seemed to receive no response
our man realized his heavenly benefactor
might not bother to intercede
unless he himself showed good faith
by coming up with a few ideas
about what he could do to help.

Then after hitting on
what seemed a good idea
the man asked himself:
how can I make that idea a reality?

So next
he took on the onerous task
of developing a strategy
which then led him tov a job of true courage--v he acted on his plan:

he worked with earnest diligence
for forty days and forty nights
(which could be forty months
 or even forty long years).

And each night
after his hard labor
our pilgrim paused
for a few moments of prayer
at the table
in his small room

but during this ritual
he didn’t ask his god
to help speed progress--
to remove any of the many barriers
he encountered
on the path of his plan:

a path of so much frustration--
so much doubt.
A miracle, it seems
that man managed to keep going
until he realized his dream
(at least to some degree).

Afterwards
our crusader never claimed
his victory was a blessing from God--
the fool he’d been had been lost
in the school of his long journey--
what a bruising battle he’d fought!--
so many tough opponents.

Looking back, he again felt
the hurt he’d endured--
the disappointment.

Some days his only solace
was that quiet midnight prayer
when he went within
asking for strength
and emerged just minutes later
feeling strong again.

As that memory lifted him
our man said:
what would I have done
without my god?

What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Pedro

author’s note:

I’m a pessimistic optimist.  But maybe that's obvious.


PEDRO

Yes, Pedro and I
still find ways to beam joy
during these spinning days
of confusion and blood.

While I sing
that child grins his cracked teeth, rings
his tambourine--
I pan for gold
with my banjo.

Yesterday, I took him to Congress
so we could sit in the balcony
and laugh at the show
but

I kept on seeing us
down below.
So

I brought Pedro back out
to bask in the sun’s rays
and witness the smiles
of the many wounded. &nbps;I say:
no one ever loses his soul‑‑
it only gets misplaced.

Many claim
that many children now
grow up
with their souls
outside their bodies.
But Pedro and I, we both agree:
it's always been that way.

Still, we’re hopeful fools.
Pedro says

if enough get mended
the balance might tip
then keep on tipping.

To that end
we spindle personal projects--
turning cranks inside our own mines,
hoisting up buckets of ash--
all the while searching for
the occasional
jitterbug diamond.

Satisfying yet also frustrating:
our hands seem so small.

Yes, reports from a thousand battlefronts
tell us we’re not working alone.
But losses seem to outpace gains--
a monster
on the opposite side of the wall
jacks the odds against us.

But maybe the wall is illusion.
So maybe we can bargain.

In any case, Pedro and I remain
determined
to task happy:
my banjo is banjoy
and Pedro’s tambourine
sings with ringing--sparkles
like the bright folk
who hold this world aloft.

Maybe no one hears us
but at least this way
our eyes don’t bruise
when the tears begin to sting.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

She Said

author's note:

Someone once asked if I ever wrote love poems.

They're all love poems.


SHE SAID

When I offered
to cross a hundred rivers
just to win a pink ribbon for her

she said

you want to break your heart out
by worshipping a dream cloud.

Well, you can also free
your heart
by trying to lift up
the children in the mud
(which is: everyone--
  including you).

She said

both ways of love allow one
to bow in humility

both ways of love allow one
to expand with the upsurge
of too much feeling

but the dream love
pulls you up
only for the moment
of its gust

whereas the other love
can lead to many great steps
on your long steady climb.

She said

you believe
swimming a hundred rivers
will raise you to the mythic.

Well, you can still live a myth
by pretending
your penknife is a sword
and your flashlight: a guiding torch
struck by a lightning bolt.

And so I did, and so
I now blaze
with sword and torch
on this climb

except when I forget
what she said
as the door closed:

stop, ever so often
and pretend
your sword is a penknife
and your torch, a flashlight--
otherwise

you will trip
over your own myth.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
myth steps: poetry ebook