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
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Opening for a Morning

author’s note:

The recording may sound a little rough, but I refuse to use auto-tune.


OPEN FOR A MORNING

This morning, a shock of grief

when the news showed that jet
shattered and smoldering in a field.

But every day I see a disaster report.
Why did this latest elicit
such a strong response?

Perhaps I used that crash
to mourn my own losses—
I needed to open—
to open that well—

the well I usually keep lidded
because if I didn’t
I could be overwhelmed
by sudden upswells of emotion
at random times throughout the day.
How could I possibly function?

The problem is:
after a day of functioning efficiently
I can feel so dully dry.

But when I break down
like I did this morning
I often feel fully alive.

So I guess I wept
in order to save my life.

But I know
from past experience
this release could also
help one or two others live today:

following a swell of grief
like the one I felt this morning
I’m often able to sense the losses
of crash survivors I meet

and some of them seem to respond
to my unspoken empathy—
they share feelings
usually kept under the lid.

And as they open

I’m overwhelmed by my well
once again.

I guess the truth is:
on days like today
I’m actually functioning
at a higher level.

mythsteps · Open for a Morning

Survival: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Opulence

author’s note:

It’s all true.  Except for the line about lips ravishing a pig.


OPULENCE

The haphazard search
of my youth
led me to many educational places
including
that verdant rolling campus
I came to on a Sunday afternoon.

There, atop a hill
a band played on an electric stage
while young folk sprawled all over the lawn
in carefully-ripped designer jeans.
Bottles passed from hand to hand.
Lips ravished a pig roasted on a spit.

I responded to the scene with this one word:

“Opulence”

and maybe because I’d walked all day
or maybe because highs
are indeed contagious
I soon became thick dizzy sluggish
and slumped to the ground.

But despite my dimness
as I lay there, I could sense
a tired malaise
pervading the festivities.
What could be the cause?

Why didn’t we shimmy with the breezy trees?
Or flow with the glowing clouds?
The big beat did not move us.

As children, we’d loved
the winking wings of butterflies.
But now we only liked.

Perhaps we’d let our life of abundance
numb us.
In just a short time we’d taken in so much.
Too much.  Much too much.

Shocked awake by the thought
I feared for my life.
Fighting fatigue, I stood
and wobbled back down the hill.

Yes, I learned a lesson that day.
Nonetheless
in this land of excess
I usually forget
to savor life in small sips.

But when I stop
and actually feel what I touch
hear what I hear
see what I see
and taste what I taste—

when I become aware
of what I’m taking in
and in so doing, deepen
my experience of life…

I feel a little scared

because then this world
and myself in it
seem so strange.

At such moments
I feel alive in body and spirit.
And know true opulence.

mythsteps · Opulence

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Shopping in the Labyrinth

author’s note:

"Time is money."
        -- Anonymous


SHOPPING IN THE LABYRINTH

According to a recurrent dream
I'm traveling through a labyrinth

but unlike those described
in myths and legends
this passageway leads me
through the halls
of an average shopping mall

with countless bright stores
offering every sort of thing
except what I seek.

Not that I know
what that is--I only know
I haven't found it yet.

But I don't feel defeated--
I'm still eager to explore--to see
what waits next door down.

Maybe these dreams show how
I’m gathering information.
Even when I don’t buy what I see
I can find another piece of the puzzle
just by stopping to look

and if I collect enough pieces
I may be able to fill in the spaces--
I may see “the big picture”:
the grand design of this life.

A woman I met on a bus
told me she also shops
in her dreams...maybe
everyone does--maybe
we’re all trying to discover
the beautiful design in
what appears to be chaos.

In any case
this much is obvious:
we were made to shop.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

What the Tree Told Me

author’s note:

Recent books have told us that trees talk to each other.

I can imagine what they’re saying: you got to watch those people.


WHAT THE TREE TOLD ME

My top limbs keep reaching up
into that nurturing sky:

with this growth
I feel the excitement of joy
but with the increased height
also the excitement of fright--
good for me, actually
because

in search of security
my roots keep deepening down
into this nurturing earth.

mythsteps blog: trying to put it all together
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Golden Growth

GOLDEN GROWTH

When the Inquisitor appeared
in a dream years ago...

I realized I was trying
to speed my growth
by stretching myself
on a torture rack

so I then began to use gentler tactics

and accepted the tedium
of gradual change.

A wise way, yes--but
by the time I'd finally
washed off enough dross
to shine a bit...

my youth was gone--
its golden possibilities lost:

in a dream, I saw
gold dust fall down
to disappear into the cracks
between worn floorboards.

I woke in grief
and remained in grief

until an old crone
(impatient with my self-pity)
turned my mind by asking:
does anything ever really die?

then opened the door
to a subterranean cache--
a garden flourishing
with spires of golden grain
and yellow orchids
dripping honey from the lip.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
searching for my best beliefs: poetry ebook