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
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

While Waiting in a Distant Province

author's note:

Written after reading the anthology The Clouds Should Know Me By Now: Buddhist Poet Monks of China, edited by Red Cloud and Mike O'Connor.  Excellent.


WHILE WAITING IN A DISTANT PROVINCE

Despite the good reviews
I’ve received for my song and dance
the Imperial Palace has yet to respond
to my request for an audience.

I’ve been stuck at this outpost for months now.

Initially I managed
to ease my impatience
by appreciating the gifts
of my rustic surroundings.
For instance:

How the morning sun painted
the round stones in the creek rose-pink—
each one the cheek of a lady-in-waiting.

And how the sunset shone golden
on the rusty gate of my humble abode—
as brilliant as the gold palace doors.

Such positive thinking
helped me ignore
my whimpering disappointment

until the night
I heard someone faraway in the dark
scream
then scream again—
ripping cries
aimed up at the moon—
burning cries
coming up from a deep wound.

I wanted to cover my ears
but I did not want to cover my ears
because in that pain I heard mine
and suddenly felt that old wound again.
And because I remained open then
I felt the pain of the scream deep down—
I felt the pain of our life deep down.

A day later I was told:
for therapy villagers sometimes go
into the dark woods
and scream
and scream
up at the moon.

More of them lately;
nonetheless
I never close my ears—
I need the release.

And during the day
I occasionally stop
and listen to my own pain
because I’m trying to discover
a dance, a song
that can help with the healing of wounds.

If I do find some mix
that seems effective
I hope to perform that medicine
at the Imperial Palace.
I believe:

when those at head heal,
those at the feet
will be royally relieved.

mythsteps · While Waiting in a Distant Province

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Any Wise Snail Will Tell You

author’s note:

Oh snail
climb Mount Fuji,
but slowly, slowly!
          — Issa (trans. R. H. Blyth)


ANY WISE SNAIL WILL TELL YOU

Years ago, I was told:
if I could get past
certain obstacles in my path
I would arrive at a place of peace.

So of course I tried to hurry
but by rushing, often stumbled—
and sometimes tumbled
and fell on my knees.

Finally I realized
what any wise snail will tell you:

real progress occurs at a crawl.

But oh—
this slow pace can fatigue the spirit!

Fortunately, I’ve learned
the dangers of frustration.
So before I start to act out
I’ll force myself to stop and sit
down under a tree—
sit

until I again sense
the mysterious music hidden within
the menagerie
of creature, place, and thing
which is this planet

and then
if I can deepen my listening
I'll find my own strange harmony within.

But I can’t keep
what I haven’t yet earned—

at present
I can only stay in that heaven
for a few moments.

However afterwards
I don’t slump with the loss
no
I feel energized—ready
to continue this incredible crawl—

hoping one day to finally clear
all the trash, all the walls
that keep me from rooting down
in that glorious place of peace—

maybe then I can become
one of those human trees
that provide sheltering shade
for tired snails who need
to pause the crawl
and once again feel that harmony
they hold deep within their shells.

mythsteps · Any Wise Snail Will Tell You

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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Rediscovery

author's note:

At a time of many disasters, I'm working not to become a disaster myself.


REDISCOVERY

Though I don't pray
sometimes I do
lower to my knees
then lower my head
and join right palm to left

because this pause
and position
somehow quiets thought
and allows me to deepen down
and find that place of peace
where I can hear
the wordless wisdom
of what seems to be
my own god within.

In the humility of lowering
I realize again
the promise of a potential
and so
once more feel hope.

mythsteps · Rediscovery

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Woman Who Saved a Wounded Bird

author’s note:

Physician, heal thyself.
        -- Luke 4:23


FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO SAVED A WOUNDED BIRD

Years ago, a young girl
tried and failed
to save a dying bird chick.

A sincere effort.
But what she didn’t know was:
she saw herself in that bird.

Later
she decided to help save human beings
by becoming a nurse.

A sincere aspiration.
But what she didn’t know was:
in so many faces
she saw that dying bird chick.

Later
after witnessing so much death
she decided to help save human beings
by ascending to the pulpit.

A sincere aspiration.
But what she didn’t know was:
she now hoped to save
that dying bird chick
by saving its soul.

Over the years, she received much praise
for her work as a preacher and nurse.
Nonetheless
she still felt a vague malaise.

Finally, in desperation
she asked her mirror
what the problem was

and then
in the reflection looking back
she saw that dying bird chick.

From that point on
she became her own patient.
From that point on
she became her own flock.

Later, she returned
to the twin tasks of tending
to the bodies and spirits
of wounded human beings.

But now her aspirational efforts
produce even better results

and though she doesn’t say
she knows the reason why:

People who want to open
but don’t trust
may open
when they experience
a server who lives in peace—

someone who has saved
her own bird chick.

mythsteps · Fable of the Woman Who Saved a Wounded Bird

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Clown Skeleton

author’s note:

What if every day was Halloween?


CLOWN SKELETON

While sneaking around backstage
after class one afternoon
I pulled a curtain in a dingy dusty storeroom
and found a skeleton standing at a blackboard.
No lower jaw, so no death grin.

To calm my sudden shock
I clapped a silly baseball cap on that bone head.

I would mock the specter that mocks us.

But then another idea came to me:
I should confront my fear.
I would confront the unknown
by peering into those dark eye sockets.

Maybe I’d sense the unseen
the great mystery—
the invisible realm.

But no—
though I stared into those empty pools
until my eyes burned
I felt only a dull negative:
the absence of life.

However
my neck hairs did rise
when I posed this question:

might I likewise end up
abandoned in a backroom?—
a clown set of bones—
just another blank line?

Stunned by the thought
I walked away from that encounter
with the clock ticking in my head again
but louder, louder this time—
stirring a sense of urgency in me.

I needed to fill that line
with something…something
that might last after my last breath.

mythsteps · Clown Skeleton

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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The Weight

author’s note:

Not to be confused with the song of the same name.

The weight in the poem is a different type of burden than the one described in the song.  Heavier.


THE WEIGHT

In the dream
I carried the world on my shoulders

and felt unfairly burdened

until I looked around the crowd
and saw how everyone else also struggled
to remain upright.

The weight just might break the human race.

Some say
the weight comes from the knowledge
death always watches
and may suddenly become impatient.

Some say the same in another way—
they say
the weight comes from
our distrust of the world—
the instinct that keeps us alive.

Yes—
I feel myself wrapped inside
that state of mind

except in those moments
when the stronger me breaks free.

In the openness of release
I may again experience
the unknown enormity
of a sky and planet so grand.

At such times
life seems much too much—
even in peace the weight stays with me.

So
since I can’t get rid of the weight
I’ve decided to embrace the burden—

I tell myself:
if you didn’t feel the weight
you wouldn’t struggle so hard to be strong.

mythsteps · The Weight

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Egg Surrenders to the Inevitable

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


THE EGG SURRENDERS TO THE INEVITABLE

All that day I wondered
if we would ever change

so that night my deeper mind
gave me this dream:

I’m egg
trapped inside its shell

so I want to break out
but no—I feel safe
but no, I don’t really feel safe
because this shell could break.
I should leave such a fragile place
but no—
this space has kept me safe.

So I try to go but I try to stay

and remain locked in place
until I finally realize the obvious:
I can not live, unless
I accept this death.
So I surrender to the inevitable:

I let my shell break open.

But then
I can no longer live
as an egg

so I live as an open well—
humbly offering water to all
because I know
I don’t actually own that water.

The dream told me:
one morning we will finally
surrender to the inevitable
and then yell:
to hell with this shell!

mythsteps · The Egg Surrenders to the Inevitable

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The High-Pitched Voice

author’s note:

“Life is woof.”
         -- anonymous dog


THE HIGH-PITCHED VOICE

As I travel this convoluted path
I’m accompanied by a strong dog
that growls when it senses danger.

But if a voice inside then says “go forward”
I’ll force myself to ignore the dog
and accept unreasonable risk

while enduring people
who see my way as haphazard.

Yes, I worry
when the dog begins to whimper in fear
but
a dream once promised me
if I went where I needed to go
no matter where that might be
I’d eventually arrive at a garden.

When I awoke I felt a deep desire
to find that paradise.
But how I could know where I needed to go?
I would not go until I knew.

A voice I did not recognize
then said:
“stand and walk and do as instructed.”

That sudden turn spun my head.
Hooked by mystery and myth--
I decided to trust.
I stood up and began to walk.

Obviously
I haven’t yet found the garden
but now I can see
this twisted path
spirals up a mountain.

So today I still feel
a grand sense of purpose.

Nonetheless
sometimes when I’m led into trouble
I will join with the dog
and bark back at
that maddening high-pitched voice.

mythsteps · The High-Pitched Voice

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

My Best Guess

author’s note:

My ideas will evolve, I'm sure.  But I don't think I'll find a better best guess.


MY BEST GUESS

As a child I tied myself up

in order to survive.

Now as a captive adult
I work to undo the tangle

because I realize
for my spirit to survive
I must go against
old survival tactics.

What could be the benefit
of a design that creates
so much inner conflict?
My best guess is based
on what seems most apparent:
we are learning to be strong.

First, by fighting for life
as all other beasts do.
Then by fighting for our soul
within the lines of this human zoo.

mythsteps · My Best Guess

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
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That Relentless Fire of Life

author’s note:

I’ve never been cool.


THAT RELENTLESS FEROCITY OF LIFE

I believed I could find my peaceful waters
if I sat down
and forgot the world outside.

But when I closed my eyes
I discovered a fire flickering inside.
My breath seemed to stir the beast.
The heat intensified--flames began to leap.

What had I done? What could I do
with that growing fire of life?

I witnessed potential hazards:
I saw people flash up
and crash down.
I saw others turn their fire inside out
and devour the tinders of this world.

To try drown my flames would drown my life.
To try to run away
would blow the blaze into wildness.

I had to learn to live with
the gift that possesses.

To help with acceptance
I again sat down
and concentrated down
but this time allowed myself to fully feel
what can still seem unbearable--
that relentless ferocity of life:
what we all hold
what we all bear.

Years later
and my education continues:
I’m still trying
to burn strong without raging.
I’m still trying
to love being a sacrificial offering.

Any success is partial at best.
But I’m at peace with the thought
that I may never be at peace.

mythsteps · That Relentless Ferocity of Life

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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Singing the Words of Little Heavens

author’s note:

“He words me, girls, he words me!”
         -- Shakespeare, from Antony & Cleopatra


SINGING THE WORDS OF LITTLE HEAVENS

I once went to heaven in a dream

then labored to write of the experience
hoping to create an incantation
that would transport
all those trying to rise to the sky.

But I could not find words so divine--
any description seemed at best
a pale imitation of bliss.

Yet I continue
to attempt the impossible
and each time
I again feel what I lost
and as desire reawakens
I reach up

and again suffer
that old frustration and strain.

But I’ll go numb
if I just sit around--
occasionally I need to stretch
and besides

though I never touch
the heaven of my dreams
by trying, I lift myself
(at least a bit)
and while I’m up
I sing the words of little heavens.

mythsteps · Singing the Words of Little Heavens

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

The Cliche Tree

author’s note:

I’ve heard we’re in a mental health crisis.

In response, I’m writing mental health poems.


THE CLICHE TREE

Because I felt so weak
I asked the tree at the end of the street:

how can you possibly
grow so green, so strong
in soil so poor
on water so trickly and stale
in sunlight so dingy and pale?

And the tree replied:
close your eyes
and feel your heart
tap down deep into the earth—

and feel your soul open
and rise
in surrender to the sky.

Cliches, I thought.
But in the desperation of need
I did as instructed.

And felt as lifeless as before.

But in the desperation of desire
I waited

and after a long short time
sensed a stirring—
an awakening
amazing to me:

my flat desert slowly grew giddy
with a saturation of rising artesian waters.
I felt as rich as the mole
diving deep in black loam.
My sacrificial kite
burned gleefully
in the fire of the midday sun.

I suppose we say “spirit” and “soul”
because attempts at accurate description
soon sound silly.

So I won’t go on
but finish with this embarrassment:

after a long short time
I began to fear
I might lose myself
so I lifted my lids

to found a street now abundant.

When I then asked “What happened?”
the tree only told me what I needed to know:

As long as you struggle
against weakness
you’ll grow stronger
but
you must stop occasionally
to realize what you truly feel
otherwise you’ll forget
the truth of our bountiful world.

mythsteps · The Cliche Tree

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

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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The Walking Metaphor

author’s note:

Based on an actual event.


THE WALKING METAPHOR

Sometimes a metaphor stuns me.

Like the one I saw this morning:

a woman walking
backwards
on the sidewalk by the park.

Soon
the trees hid her from view
and I recovered enough
to decipher my response:

I can see the past--
I can see I’m on a path
but
I can’t see for certain
where I’m stepping.

With that realization
I remembered
a dream from the night before:
I saw the tracks I’d made
as well as the tracks
I would make
shining on a dirt track.

That dream told me:
you must learn to trust your deep luminous eye.

That woman in the park
steps with confidence
--why?--
because she trusts
her deep luminous eye.

I can see her now
and feel inspired.
However
when someone walks backwards
you naturally worry they’ll fall.

I suppose I could pray
for her safe passage
but wouldn’t that show a lack of faith
in her inner strength--
in her spirit?

But I can still pray--
I will pray a way that honors her:

every day
in my heart I will thank her
for being
a walking metaphor
for all to witness.

mythsteps · The Walking Metaphor

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

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

Revival

author’s note:

Communing with nature.


REVIVAL

A half moon lows
over this forest

as a dripping tree
hangs tiny pearls
on a web above me.

The spider with its spindly legs
plays those strings
like an angelic harpist
or maybe an old bluesman

while I wait...I wait
--mouth open and hoping

until finally
a starbright drop
of holy water
shakes loose, falls down--
down onto my tongue.

I savor this sacred gift
an infinite moment.
Then swallow down
eyes closed--
feeling the blessing
descend.

Once again, I’ve revived
a life I must sacrifice
to work in day’s dry light.

mythsteps · Revival

finding Beauty: poetry book
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When They Analyze Our Funerary Practices

author’s note:

I’ve finally decided on an inscription for my tombstone.  A line from Shakespeare:

“Exit, pursued by a bear.”


WHEN THEY ANALYZE OUR FUNERARY PRACTICES

Millennia from now
archaeologists may deduce
we believed we could
drive our way to heaven

when they uncover that Cadillac casket.

Or when they excavate
the burial mound
of a forgotten ancestor
who apparently thought
that half-ton truck
would transport him
to another realm.

To those prospectors I would say
the assumption you’ve made
is valid in this way:

some of us did indeed try to find paradise
behind the wheel of a vehicle.

Yes, they chose the wrong mode.
But if you are human
I’m sure you’ll understand
the drive that drove them:

that persistent desire
to ascend to bliss.

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Pole

author's note:

To be clear: that’s not stack of pineapples in the picture above.


THE POLE

When I found the pole
lying on the ground
at once I sensed its strength.

So I put the pole in the center
of my humble dwelling--

not to hold the ceiling up
but to hold me up:

whenever uncertainty
possessed my mind and body
I would grab onto the pole
and find security as I embraced
its smooth solid natural wood.

Sometimes during a storm
the roof would shake
and then the pole would slip.

But I’d simply pick it back up
and again feel safe.

Alas, when I was forced
out of my house
I had to leave the pole behind.
However, now as a nomad
I sit down by the campfire at night
and stick a twig in the ground
then tell myself: here is the pole.
By focusing
I regain that feeling of stability.

If they catch me--
if they beat me--
if they stand me
in front of a firing squad
I’ll take hold of the pole in my heart
and feel the fortitude to face all.

Some will surely say:
the pole I’ve found
is really just my own inner strength.

Maybe so, however
I never found that strength
until I found
the pole.

mythsteps · The Pole

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

Prometheus, Revisited

author’s note:

Maybe the Greek gods were real after all.  That would explain the capriciousness of life.


PROMETHEUS, REVISITED

The myth of Prometheus
would seem to be a warning
to those who’d try to bring fire
down from the mountaintop.

As they did with him
the gods might wrap you in chains
and send an eagle down to devour
your liver every damn day.

Nonetheless I accepted the risk—
hoping to satisfy my creative impulse
(and my ego as well, of course).

But with that choice
I put myself in the chains
of ambition

then later refused
to set myself loose
when my sparks only made
small flames
that dwindled and died.

Though my ego died a bit
with each pathetic death
I actually pulled the chains tighter
because

those flickering promises
kept my aspiration burning

and by then I’d realized:
if I let that mad dream die
life would lack meaning
and so
my life would lack life.

Maybe I stoke my inner fire
with delusion
but hey—
sometimes in that way
fools make blazes
bright enough
to rouse the jealousy
of those who try to play god.

40 New Fables
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