Buckets & Ladders

author’s note:

I’m so desperate for good news, I’m trying to make a little myself.


BUCKETS & LADDERS

The candidate says he can save us.

But no—
he couldn’t even if he tried.
As the wise one once said:

You are the only one
who can lower your bucket
down into the well.
You are the only one
who can climb your ladder.

When the candidate proclaims:
“I’m so tall, I’m so deep!”
he sounds so short, so shallow.
Yet many believe that snake-oil salesman
because they’re searching for hope.

Well, I’ve found hope in another belief
because I see
it slowly becoming a reality:

Tired of being less than we actually are
we will reclaim our power
by rejecting our idols
and lowering our buckets down
deep into the moon in the well
while climbing up our ladders—
climbing, trying to reach the sun.

mythsteps · buckets and ladders

I’m Responsible: a book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Good Little Boat Grows Brighter

author’s note:

Do I sometimes exaggerate for effect?  Well, yeah.

But not this time.


THE GOOD LITTLE BOAT GROWS BRIGHTER

Psychopathic pirates now rule the seas.
Cutthroats who feel no guilt.

But instead of defending ourselves
against those bloody Blackbeards
we honor them for their gall
and get drunk on their grog
after being blatantly robbed.

I would fight
those big flashy swords
but I fear the inevitable losses
would begin to darken my heart.

So for now
I’ll just keep feeding my little light
and share what I’ve got
as its flame slowly grows brighter.

And keep repeating
a hope I believe to be based in reality

and that is:

despite appearances
the age of Blackbeard has nearly
burnt itself out.
Millions of good boats
now roam the seas—
navigating—
lighting the way
toward a future
that may not be that bright
but at least, won’t be as bleak
as our present dark passage.

mythsteps · good little boat grows brighter

I’m Responsible: a book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Power of Metaphor

author’s note:

But when I do drown, I’m always able to resuscitate myself.


THE POWER OF METAPHOR

Occasionally a submerged memory
will leap up in a sudden wave

and as the breaking crest topples down
onto my head
the undertow
will begin to pull me under.

But I’ve learned
at such times I can save myself

by calmly repeating this instruction:
don’t try to resist—open yourself
open up your arms—open up
the cage of your chest:
surrender
and feel the full force of the feeling.

And if I then do as told
I will rise up
from the deepening darkness
to the sun
spangling golden
on those light blue waters

and a rolling wave of peace
will carry me home to the sandy shore.

Yes, by using metaphor in this way
I can stop myself from drowning.

But so easy to forget
when a sudden wave rises
and my head gets pounded once again.

mythsteps · power of metaphor

Survival: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why I Listen for the Angel

author’s note:

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


WHY I LISTEN FOR THE ANGEL

Once as a child
I thought I heard an angel
singing wordlessly in a gentle upper octave.
A soft silvery sound.

And so, years later
during a turbulent time
I sat down in silence
hoping to detect
at least a trace of that song
and find the same solace.

But no—
I didn’t hear any angel.
However
as I recalled
that moment of pure peace
the love I’d once found within that sound
filled my heart again.

And then I sensed
what that child had sensed
long ago:
I was not alone.  I was known
by loving eyes in a world unseen.

But then I began to wonder:

if the angel felt such empathy
why didn’t it intercede
when it saw me stumbling—
when it saw me about to fall?

Then I realized
each time I land hard
I wake a bit more
and so, my eyes slowly open.

No, I don’t know
if I’m really watched over.  However
I can say for certain:

whenever I slip
I’m able to lift myself back up
by listening
for something I probably won’t hear:
the soft silvery song
of an angel.

mythsteps · why I listen for the angel

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

Living with Ghosts

author’s note:

A long time ago, I learned to make pain my friend.
              -- Kid USA, pro wrestler


LIVING WITH GHOSTS

I’ve learned:
I can’t get rid of a ghost by shouting
Leave me alone!
No—
curses and pleading
will not dislodge a ghost.

Nor can I outrun them.
For years, I sped like a bullet train
but when finally forced to stop
my ghosts shot out of the shadows.

Sometimes a ghost may seem
to disappear completely.
But then something I hear or see
will raise that wraith from the grave.

I’ve wrestled with my specters for years
and lost a million times or more.
So now I’m trying a new strategy:

whenever a ghost resurrects
and an old wound wounds me once more
I’ll try to remain calm
and say quite casually:
Well, hello my old companion—
stay if you want—leave when you wish.
No, I’m not finally at peace with you
but I waste so much energy
when I try to fight or flee.

However
I won’t sit
when your sadness
tries to leaden my heart—
No!
I’ll leap and skip in a golden dance.
Though I can’t deny you, I can defy you.

But maybe I should thank you.
Didn’t I learn through you?—
Didn’t I grow?
Yes, and now I’ll learn even more
by staring deep into your eyes
with all their shades of blue.

But though I say in my head:
You should embrace that ghost
my words I haven’t yet convinced my heart.
So until I grow some more
the best I can do is accept you
and dance dance dance—
dance ‘til the night becomes dawn.

mythsteps · living with ghosts

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Why the Rose Keeps Blooming

author’s note:

The proof of what I say is you.


WHY THE ROSE KEEPS BLOOMING

Some believe
the rose struggles to break free from the bud
because it wants to be lovely
but no—
it’s possessed by a mad desire to live.

However
after opening its eyes
the flower may discover
it resides inside a little cage.

The rose may then sink into self-pity
but soon enough
that willful plant will rise up
to protest the injustice
and as the flower finds its strength
a new bloom will come from the old one.

The bars of the cage
will then surrender to its power
and fall down to the ground
like the dead shards of a husk.

But alas!—
beyond the parameters of fallen cell
the rose will find another cell.
So though our hero enjoys
the extra space it’s earned
it still feels caged.

And so, as before
the rose will rebel
and by struggling, grow some more
and so
the bloom will bloom once more.

But just as before
after the cage breaks open
a new cage will emerge from the shadows.

In this way, that stubborn perennial
will move through a succession of cages.
The irony is:
because it expands with each new blooming
no cell ever feels big enough for that plant.
And so, the rose continues to grow
to the very end.

Maybe like me
you look at your petals
and see brown blotches
and ragged edges—
our blooms reveal our battle wounds—
yes, in this fight for life we’re scarred.

So I will try to solace you now
by telling you what I tell myself:
a flower with a blemished blossom
always speaks lovelier
than one still stuck in a spotless bud.

mythsteps · why the rose keeps blooming

Survival: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Sun in My Future

author’s note:

I believe our greatest accomplishments often go unnoticed.  We don't even see them ourselves.


THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip
and forget
my deep desire
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.

mythsteps · the sun in my future

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Spiral Staircase

author’s note:

A stairway with no end.


THE SPIRAL STAIRWAY

I may seem to be going in circles
over a path worn down to dusty ruts
but I believe:

I’m actually going up
a spiral stairway—
rising higher with every step—
with every step rising higher—
higher:

where the soul wants the heart to go.

To those who insist that’s nonsense
I say
Consider how this belief benefits me:

Because I believe our dizzy life
has a grand purpose
I’m willing to endure the vertigo.

And this belief encourages me
to keep on trying
to lift myself up—
high enough
for me to take
the next big step on this stairway.

And that helps everyone, doesn’t it?

I can see
why someone would think
we are only going in circles.
But whatever the reality may be
shouldn’t we try to find beliefs
that will motivate us
to keep on lifting ourselves up?—
to keep on lifting our world up?

High enough
for us to take
the next big step on this spiral stairway.

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Cure

author’s note:

I don’t finish poems.  I just give up eventually.


THE CURE

She wanted to express
the complex emotion of that moment
in words
or paint
or song.

If only for her own benefit.
Her plan was:

On days when she felt blah and dim
she would return to her creation
and experience once again
that emotional moment
and in that way, cure her malaise.

However
she soon discovered
the work of writing was such drudgery
as was the work of applying paint
as was the work of crafting a song.

So she decided on a different strategy:

on those bleary days
she would instead open her mind and heart
to the complex emotions
conveyed by artists she loved:
poets
and painters
and magicians who made melody.

And because she now realized
how hard they’d worked
her appreciation for their gifts deepened
and so, she opened even more.

Nonetheless
one night she felt so flat
she could not muster the strength
needed to open her door and enter
the rooms created by those master carpenters.

In desperation
she then wrote:
If I feel too dead to open
to the life that gives life to my life
how can I live?

Honest lines
and yet
they sounded rather mundane.

And so she tried to find better words—
and more of them!—
she wanted to create incisive verses
that would fully truly express
the debilitating frustrating blandness
of that moment.

And by laboring long
she managed to transform those lines
into a melodic poem of color.

Not bad, maybe even good
but still
her creation somehow didn’t seem quite right to her.

Nonetheless
she felt she’d gone deeper
than she’d ever gone before.
And so
though she felt disappointed
she also felt rewarded for her efforts.

And that complex mix of emotion
cured her malaise.

For a moment, anyway.

Years later
she remains frustrated in her work
but keeps on because
she knows she deepens and heals
each time she tries and fails.

mythsteps · the cure

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Empathy at the End of Winter

author’s note:

Full disclosure: I have used “sashaying trees” in a poem before.

But if you steal from yourself, is it really stealing?


EMPATHY AT THE END OF WINTER

On that morning
I couldn’t express the heavy feelings I felt.
But when I looked out the window
what I saw expressed how I felt.

I knew that black skeletal tree
felt so weak beneath
the gray sky hovering just overhead.
But its desire for life kept it upright.

And when I saw the brown leaves
still stuck on the pale-yellow grass
I could feel those dead leaves
clinging to my skin
and knew
the grass desperately wanted
a loving spring breeze to rise
and whisk those leaves away—
all of them—away—
so its pale blades could green again.

With such empathy swelling my chest
I could barely tolerate
what I saw outside.
But I did not look away
because I now saw
the power of my desire—
because I now saw
the strength of my endurance.

But then I did step away from the window
because suddenly I knew
how I could express what I felt
at the end of the winter
and knew

I needed to open my chest
and release those winter feelings
and try to resurrect
a bright spring inside

so I could love
when spring resurrected itself outside—
so I could feel the glory
of those towers of white cloud
and feel the abundance
to be found in my own little patch
of sashaying trees and sparkling green grass.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

A Brief Reprieve

author’s note:

And that’s probably more than you want to see.


A BRIEF REPRIEVE

I wanted to feel what the poets feel
when they say:
I am a child of nature.

So I decided to go to the forest alone
and throw off all my clothes.
I wanted to feel at one with
all the trees and rocks and birds and squirrels.

But as I began to disrobe
a stern voice within me said:
“Though your skin be bare
  underneath you’ll still wear
  the suit of your civilized self.”

After a thoughtful pause
I then answered,
“Well, maybe so.
  But I’ll tell you why I’m going to try:

“As children, sometimes we’d dress up
  and pretend to be adults.
  That harmless fantasy
  would give us a brief reprieve
  from the frustrating smallness of childhood.”

“Now, in adulthood
  I often feel frustrated
  by the smallness of this civilized suit.

“But maybe today I can get a brief reprieve
  by throwing off my outer armor
  and pretending to be
  a child of nature
  frolicking naked in a forest garden.”

mythsteps · a brief reprieve

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Grand Temple

author’s note:

Does a comet realize it’s bright?


THE GRAND TEMPLE

Years ago, I visited a temple
prompted by my cat-like curiosity

and the light I found inside dazzled me.

Nonetheless, I did not stay—
I wanted to see what
the next temple might bring.

And to my delight
in the next I also found
the light of many jewels—
the same light just arrayed differently.

But no, I did not stay—
I wanted to know
if I could find more.

I traveled that path for a year—
finding jewels of light in so many temples
and some of what I found
stayed with me
after I moved on.

And so, I gradually grew brighter.

Then one day an old monk
told me of a temple
grander than all the others.

“Where?” I begged to know.
Despite all the light I’d found
I felt a driving need to find more.

“I can not show you,”
  the monk replied.
“But if you keep going
  you’ll eventually discover
  the temple I speak of.”

So of course, I kept going.

But as the days added up to months
and I did not find what I hoped to find
I despaired
of ever finding what I sought.

And so
though I stayed on the road
I felt lost

until the night I stopped
at the small adobe home
of a quiet peasant woman.

When I asked her if she knew
of the grand temple of my search
she did not speak
but led me to the backroom

then blew out the candle.

In the sudden darkness
I found myself surrounded
by a dazzle of diamond light—
so many facets flashing illumination—

moving, swirling around me
like a school of incandescent fish
in water deep black.

Quickly dizzy
from the unexpected spectacle
I nearly swooned.

“Where did you find all this light?”
  I whispered with my heart in my throat.

“I went to the temple within,”
  she said.
“Every day, every night
  I go to the temple within.”

After that evening, I ended my search
and returned home
carrying with me all the jewels
I’d gathered on my harvest trek—
including the fishes gifted to me
by that gifted woman.

All this brilliance helps guide my way
as I try to bring forth
those diamonds of light
hidden in the shadows of that backroom.

mythsteps · grand temple

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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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

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

When I Went for My Waterfall Blessing, I Found a Divine Dog

author’s note:

“What a feeling!”
        — Irene Cara, “Flashdance…What a feeling”


WHEN I WENT FOR MY WATERFALL BLESSING, I FOUND A DIVINE DOG

PART I

Today I went to visit the waterfall

as I do whenever
the mud and dust
of my life in this world
just seems too much.

When I stand beneath
the water rushing down
I imagine a blessing descending
on my bowed head—
cleansing me.
So when I emerge
I feel clear again
and for a moment
again feel the purity of my spirit.

But I believe we’re all
pure in spirit.
I need that belief
in order to accept
all the mud and dust
of our life in this world.

PART II

But when I arrived
at the end of the forest trail
I found a dog playing in the pool
beneath the waterfall.

Possessed by a dance, it was—
leaping up
trailing beads of spray
then landing down
in a winged splash—
a joyful rebellion against gravity—
a joyful acceptance of defeat—
spray
and splash
spray
and splash—
ecstasy.

But I’d come there for a blessing

so I waded around the canine
and stepped into the curtain
and let the full force of the fall
pound my head relentlessly.
The water cold but hot in its intensity.

Soon overwhelmed by sensation
I lost every dull thought in my head.

But when I stepped back out I saw
the dog had stopped its revelry.
Standing still, it stared at me—
head tilted to the side. Puzzled
by my trembling solemnity.

I didn’t want to ruin the dog’s frolic
by causing it concern
so I then began my own splash dance.
Which broke the spell—
in an instant the creature joined me.
We jumped up and down
and barked and laughed
and my feeling of purity
meshed with a feeling of joy.

Again I was the child I once was—
the one who’d rebel
against the mud and dust of his world
by going into a ritual
with just one rule:
dance—dance—dance
dance like a divine dog.

mythsteps · when I went for my waterfall blessing I found a divine dog

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

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
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Stop & Go

author’s note:

We’re all explorers.


STOP & GO

We’ve seen this story before:

A seeker runs
here and there and everywhere
hoping to find what might satisfy
a nameless need vaguely sensed.

But exhaustion
finally forces the searcher to stop.

They then try to appease
their desire to explore
by turning their eyes around
and looking inside themselves.

A story much like my own:

The search lifted my spirit
but because I didn’t know
I needed to rest
I eventually felt drained of spirit—
empty.

So then I had to sit
and try to recover what I’d lost.

But luckily I remembered
what I’d once read in a book:
you will find a secret well
down in your dark depths.

Curious what I might discover
but also desperate for a cure
I then delved within.

And yes—
as I descended, I began to sense
a subtle strength rising up—
filling me up
lifting me up

and so I stood again
and began to walk again
and began to run again
and search again
then examine what I found.

I’ve continued that routine
to this day:
I scurry about
filling myself with experience
until I begin
to feel exhausted
in body and mind.

Then I again sit down
and shut up
and begin to delve—
knowing
the well waters will rise
in steady response.

But these days
I linger a while
before I go
so I can explore
those fathomless waters.

mythsteps · stop and go

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Real Boat

author’s note:

I’ve learned the hard way: you don’t tell the river what to do, the river tells you.


A REAL BOAT

When I found a rowboat by the bank
the wise one within gave me this whim:
why not step
into that little wooden boat
and shove off down the river?

Yes, I use metaphor
but I really am in a rowboat.
Oh yeah—
when rough waters
began to pummel the hull
I could barely walk down the street
as I rocked and reeled
from the turbulence I felt.

But I didn’t consider jumping
until I reached the shoals
because then I was forced
to go slow, so very slow.

In frustration
I pulled harder on the oars—
I pulled…I pulled…I pulled—
oh how I struggled!

To little effect, yes, but
as a result
I did not fall asleep
but instead
built strength.

Then by handling the madness
of all those twisted turns
I found I could handle more
than I ever believed possible.

Yes, I could’ve educated myself
with a long walk along the bank.
And if I’d taken a steamer
I would’ve traveled much farther
down this river.
But I would not have learned
how to push and how to pull
how to steer and how to follow.

I will now use a pun:
I keep enrolling in this river class
because the course continues to change
and so I continue to learn
how to pilot this boat
I once chose on a whim
guided by the wisdom within.

mythsteps · a real boat

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Plume from a Whale

author’s note:

I’m a menagerie.  But who isn’t?


A PLUME FROM A WHALE

Today’s dark rain reminds me
of the day I almost drown.

And with the memory
I struggle once more
not to drown in the dark.

At such times I sometimes
get a lift
by telling myself I’m a whale.

And like any other whale
I have great capacity
nonetheless
I must rise to surface occasionally

to shoot my geyser of steam
up at the sun—
a glittering white plume.
But a painful release, that offering.

Some say my fountain
is just a bit of spit.
Maybe so
but that brief blow allows this whale
to take another breath
before returning
to the dark blue life
that feeds us so well.

Today, I offer these lines
to all you other leviathans
because we need to remember:

even the strongest creature
must sometimes surrender
and rise to spout the deep water out
so we won’t drown in the dark.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

New River

author’s note:

“Well, I love that dirty water”
        — from “Dirty Water”, by The Standells


NEW RIVER

“Today I surveyed
 the new river that recently
 cut through our desert town

“and realized the obvious:
 it’s just that old river I once swam in
 making a sharp turn now
 after slamming into a mountain.

“I’m disturbed by its abrupt change—
 now, the mix seems even muddier.
 Wilder too.
 But I know better than to try to talk sense
 to river water—
 I’ve learned you can never win.

“Nonetheless
 I can still protest
 refusing to jump back in.”

So I wrote by candlelight last night.
But then as I lay down my pen
I heard the wise one say:

you know that mud bath
will force you to struggle
to find your truth within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but just look at all that turbulence—
such anger in those waters!

The wise one told me then:
you know how that chaos
will force you to create better balance
as you spin within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but
I can still find my truth
I can still create balance
if I stay on the bank—
as long I dance
as I move through my day
and meditate at sunset.
And read lots of books
during these long quiet nights—
especially those
that are smarter than I am.

The wise one remained silent then
because now I suddenly felt the truth:

When I first arrived
at this slow dry town
I needed a rest
in order to survive.
But now to live
I must dive
back into that mad river water.

mythsteps · New River

Survival: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Ouch!

author's note:

If laughter is the best medicine, maybe it’s good for me to joke about my pain.


OUCH!

When slogging through
a dark morass of agony
some of us will only say
"ouch".

By that I mean:
we'll answer your sincere concern
with a little joke--
understating our pain
in the manner of a cartoon character
toasted to a crisp by a bomb.

Maybe I'm not being honest about
the state of my heart
but to share my burden
would only burden me more
because then I'd worry
you'd worry
much too much
about the state of my soul.

Please, believe me:
I can endure what I must--
if I couldn't I wouldn't
be able to limit my cry
to this silly-sad
mouse-like
"ouch".

mythsteps · Ouch

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton