Crow Cry Moonrise

author’s note:

One night as a child, I saw the moon following our pickup truck.

Then I decided: probably follows everyone around.


CROW CRY MOONRISE

Here’s a fable I wrote recently
for you to enjoy and ponder:

The cry of a crow came
at the moment the tip
of a gold moon appeared
across the desert on the eastern horizon.

So the moon believed
it’d caused the bird to cry.
And the bird was sure
it’d caused the moon to rise.

Obviously in the poem
the crow and the moon are both fools.
But maybe the bigger fool
is the one who wrote them both into being—

reading those verses again, I suddenly saw:

I did not understand
the motivations of my own characters—
why did that bird cry?
And why does the moon
still want to rise
when to rise means
you’ll hear all the cries?

After careful analysis, I realized:
the crow had called out because
I’d squelched that cry in my heart.

And the Harvest Moon rose
because one day I hope to rise
and shine a bit of light
to help those who travel through
long nights of grievous confusion.

Okay
but what about the writer?—
maybe he was trying to impress you—
using humor to state a universal truth.

Well yes, but
after careful analysis, I now realize:
I hid my pain and my hope
under that joke.

But though I feel embarrassed now
I’ve decided to publish those lines anyway
because:

Maybe when they hear that crow
some will begin to feel
the cry they’ve stifled in their depths.
And maybe some will imagine
that moon in full bloom
and then begin to feel
their own gold moon struggling to rise.

And if they don’t
perhaps they’ll at least enjoy the jest.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Invisible Bridge

author’s note:

Realism.


THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

A wise one once told me
I’d eventually find a magical world
by walking down this path.

So I set off with great hope, vowing never to give up.

But after many years
filled with many thrilling trials
today, I encountered an obstacle
seemingly insurmountable:

I found myself at the edge of a steep cliff
with a deep dark chasm below.

I could see the path continued
on the far side of the gap—
the trail spiraled up a mountainside.
But how could I possibly cross?
I’d been told
not to deviate, but to stay on this track
and meet its challenges.
Had I been tricked?

Then a low voice unknown to me
echoed up from the depths of the canyon:

“The higher the cost, the greater the gift,”
  the voice murmured.
"Try and you will find
  a foot bridge before you—
  its invisible ropes
  and invisible boards
  will support your weight.
  To reach your magical place
  you must cross this magical bridge.”

Though I demanded more information
my words fell into
a silent void.

The epitaphs of those who test reality
often tell us:
“He died a foolish death.”
But after walking this path for so long
I preferred to die like a fool rather than go back, feeling defeated.

So I stuck out my foot
and searched around with my toes
until I felt something solid—
something like a board—
then I extended my hand
until I touched an unseen rope.

I’m not sure how much time has passed
since I took that first step.
I think now I must be at least halfway across.
But maybe not.
Unfortunately, curdles of fog came in
and hid everything—including the mountain.
Cloud has crept all the way up to my armpits—
maybe it’ll swallow me whole.
How long must this test go on!
I can’t stop my sensible knees from shaking—
they say to me:

Any moment you could slip.
Any moment you could trip.
Any moment you could fall and be lost forever.

But though I can’t make peace with my knees
I can still make peace in my head.
I’ve now decided
to love my decision—
I will, even if I fall—
all the way down
I will praise myself
for being willing to risk everything
on a magical trek of discovery.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
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© 2026, 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
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Catching Fog

author's note:

As they say in the movies: based on a true story.


CATCHING FOG

While walking to school
one childhood morning
I thought I could lose myself
in a fog cloud hovering
on the other side of the field.

But though I ran hard
I arrived to find
that thick cloud had fled
and when I turned, I saw
the mysterious vapor waiting
over there where I’d started.

So I raced back
but again that fog tricked me.
Hooked by my fantasy
I ran again—I ran

until
I finally had to stop
to get
my wind
back.

Only then did I feel
the burn of those wet wisps
deep inside my chest.

Satisfied that I’d caught some fog
I lifted my head and walked on
as the sun began to clear the cloud.

That childhood folly
later became a useful metaphor
when I needed to accept
what appeared to be the folly
of my adult life.
Consider the story:

for years
I raced here and there
and back again.
But no matter where I went
the imaginary heaven I sought
was never where I was.

Finally forced to stop
I felt I’d lost
until
I discovered I burned hot
with all that I had taken in.

After that realization
I lifted my head again
and saw that the fog had begun to thin
cleared by insight—
or
in the words of this metaphor-maker:
sharp rays of the morning’s sunlight.

mythsteps · Catching Fog

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Clam Who Opened

author’s note:

Planning a vacation?


FABLE OF THE CLAM WHO OPENED

She left a note
for the old woman upstairs
saying:
don’t worry—
just wanted to realize the dream
of escaping to
a tropical island.

But as often happens to human clams
as she lay on the beach
the tide crept up and pulled her down—
down through the shallows
until she fell from the shelf
into that roiling murky bay bottom.

Frightened by the depth
she closed even more
which only increased the pressure—
the pressure that comes
when a clam clamps down on itself
and tries not to feel what it’s feeling.

No longer able to ignore the pressure
she realized she’d soon explode
if she didn’t let go.
And so she finally opened:

an action that brought her back to the beach—
she awoke shaken but stronger.

Many have shared their own version of this fable:
when we try to escape change
the better one within
may pull us down into an ordeal
that will only end when we end
our resistance.

Good to remember that moral.
But let’s also inscribe on our minds
the second part of the story:

In the following years
many in distress
crossed the path of our heroine
and when they sensed her openness
often responded
by opening to her

and as they gave themselves up
they released the pressure building within
and so, did not explode
but defused with a peaceful song:

wave upon wave of notes—
high and low, low and high.

mythsteps · Fable of the Clam Who Opened

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

An Education in the Cave

author’s note:

Though I’m still pretty dim, recent dreams show me attending college.

So, at least I've graduated from high school.


AN EDUCATION IN THE CAVE

The wise one told me:

when the first gods found the first humans
fumbling around in fog
they decided to brighten the sun.

But to see the truth so suddenly
shocked the humans—
they ran into a cave to hide

then got lost deep inside that dark maze.

A hard life—
stumbling around without light.
But in time, people adjusted.
Incredible as it may seem
eventually, humans forgot they couldn’t see.

But oh—
sometimes we remember
when we collide with a stalactite
or get bitten by a bat

or worse yet
fall into a pit.

Oh yeah, I told the wise one
I’ve known the pain
of the collision—
the toothy sting—
the hard landing.
After so many severe reminders
I’ve devoted my life
to the struggle to see.

Ah yes, the wise one replied:
calamity can awaken
our desire for clarity.

But wise one, I asked
if you’re so bright
why can’t you guide me
out of this dim cavern?

My teacher then gave me
this last insight:

Before I found my light
I felt the same doubt you feel now
so I do what I can to help.
But alas, that’s limited.
The final irony is:

the only one who can lead you
to your light
is that wise one within.

Get the Message: a short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2024, 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

The Dragon Frog

author’s note:

Our dreams show us the many creatures we are.


THE DRAGON FROG

As a child I heard a story
about a diamond honed by fire
in the belly of a dragon
living in a lake underground.

But when I asked my teacher
How can I get down there?
She smiled wisely and explained:
the tale was symbolic--

the dragon actually slept within me

and when I became a adult
that glorious golden creature
would rise to the surface.

Yes, I thought, it’ll roar
And the world will witness
a diamond blazing
on the flame of its tongue.

So with great hope, I waited
and when I thought the time had come
I proudly strode out
and opened my mouth
believing my oration would dazzle.
Yes--like a fiery diamond.

Well, I wasn’t a total fizzle--
occasionally I thought I saw
some crystalline sparks drifting up

but even then
the world did not respond
and in depression I doubted
I would ever be the fire-dragon
of my imagination.

What I experienced instead
was my inner bullfrog
mired down in the muck.

But as any wise swamp-guide will tell you:
deep frogs feel compelled to sing about
this muddy life of ours

and I swear
when I listen closely I can detect
promising glints of diamond light
in my belching eruptions.

And from what I’ve seen I’ve learned
dragons must often live
as subterranean amphibians
before they can birth gems.

But I’m honest enough to admit
I might remain as I am: a lump
stuck in the mud of a swamp.

In any case
I won’t ignore the impulse to croak--
I tried before and died.
Each year, the clocks ticks louder
and the desire to live shouts louder.

Who knows?--
under such pressure this dragon frog
could finally cough up a few jewels.

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

The Devil Frog

author’s note:

"My life needs editing."
               -- Mort Sahl

THE DEVIL FROG

One night
as I walked through the park
reflecting again on events of the past
I suddenly heard
a little raspy voice whisper:

“I can answer your wish--
 I’ll erase from your memory
 whatever you’d like to forget!”

Turning quickly, I spied
a tree frog perched on a low limb.
Without thinking, I replied:

“Frog, if you’re not playing a trick
 I’ll gladly accept!--
 as long as I can keep
 what I’ve learned
 from looking back.”

“What you’ve already learned
 you’ve earned,”
 the frog croaked back.

What a relief! I sighed.
I’ve tried so hard to understand.
Now I can finally rest--
I’ll no longer feel pressed
to resolve those old conflicted feelings.

With that thought, a bubble popped
and I began to run

fleeing from that devil frog--
afraid that I might succumb
to a temptation
that would deliver me
to a sweet Eden
if I gave up this bigger wish:

to one day finally graduate--
having achieved
the higher degree of peace I seek.

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

We Are The Sun and The Moon

author’s note:

I’ve never been cool.

But I have learned how to simmer.


WE ARE THE SUN AND THE MOON

As a child, The Sun God
played with burning coal
and in his gleeful carelessness
set his long hair ablaze.

Every day since that day
he’s run across the sky in ecstasy--
a gold flame illuminating his brain.

But though his light grows our crops
sometimes in his excitement
he allows his fire to rage too hot
and in the thrill of the moment
he’s able to ignore the pain in his skull

nor does he see
the swaths of black ash he then leaves
all across the Earth.

At the end of those over-heated days
he sinks down in exhaustion
and at rest in his ashes
he finally feels the wound in his head.

Then when his sister (The Moon)
sees him suffering
she feels her love again

and as her tears fall
to soothe his pain
her reservoir goes
from full to lean.
But then fills back up again

because she draws from a river
of endless goddess empathy.

The Sun God and The Moon God
show us who we are--
just as all gods do.
But unlike them
we have free will--
our tracks need not be ruts:

we can see our mistakes in their mad actions
then choose to change the way we roll.

Bear witness:
the story above helped me see
this obvious fact:
   though the fire in my mind
   sometimes gives light,
   I can burn myself (and others)
   when I rage too hot.

But if I can keep my blaze at even flame
I’ll no longer need
to bathe my wounded head at night.

Perhaps then I can use
the river of my empathy
to help soothe other heads
burned by their own rage.

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

The Golden Palace

author’s note:

December 6 is St. Nicholas Day.

I recently discovered: St. Nicholas is the patron saint not only of children, but also of sailors, prostitutes, brewers, wolves, and unmarried people.  As an unmarried person, I'd like to say, “Thank you, St. Nicholas, for looking out for us.”


THE GOLDEN PALACE

Her life as a poor peasant girl ended
the afternoon she stumbled and fell
while gathering wood

and awoke
to see the black forest blazing
with the light of a golden palace--
each stone in its edifice glowed.

This vision lasted an infinite moment

and then she woke again
into a darkness deepened
by the absence of that light--
she awoke knowing
she wouldn’t return to her old life--
she’d heard the claim of ancient stories:
    when you find the hidden entrance
    to the golden palace
    you will live as royalty!

Of course, a long journey is always required.
Nonetheless our woman did not hesitate
before she took the first step:

now the vague desire
that had irritated her for years
made sense--
she could finally rid herself
of that feeling of being out of place.

But like many other searchers
this woman gradually lost contact
with the heat of her desire.

The boredom she then felt
would frequently break
into storms of frustration.
But though these rages
left her heart exhausted
our heroine never thought
of quitting the hunt--
she knew enough stories to know
that any path that leads to splendor
requires enduring painful hardship.

No, she was not deterred
by briars, boars, or blistered feet.
Nor by angry winds that stripped trees
down to their skeletal limbs.
Nor by swarms of mosquitoes
that freckled her skin with their feasting.

She often felt shadows and ghosts
following her
and wanted to run
but instead
spoke to them as a friend.

Many times
a distant light turned out to be
only a mirage.
But she accepted these disappointments
as a natural part of finding home.

However
she did not fare so well
with the worst malady of all:
Doubt!

After many fevered days
and freezing nights
she began to wonder:
Shouldn't I be there by now?

At first she’d felt strong enough
to shut such questions down.
But famished and frazzled
she lost control of her worried mind:
Haven’t I earned admittance?
Is my dream a mere fantasy?

Finally she no longer bear
that burden of fear.

But this time when she tripped
Fortune landed her
on the bank of a stream.

The fall knocked those frantic thoughts
out of her head
and in that moment of clarity
she saw her reflection on the water
and for the first time in her life
perceived the golden blaze
deep down in her dark eyes.

The rippling water told her:
now you know where
the golden castle lives.

Perhaps you’ll ask:
did the woman really need to struggle
through all that mess
just to realize the obvious?

To that I would answer: yes.

And I’d also say: lucky her.

She’s learned what many others
who search the forest
have not yet learned.

And so she’s able to help them now--
help them to see
what it is they truly seek

and then help them realize
their misguided efforts
were not wasted--
that with each trial on this long trek
we add to our gold castle.

40 New Fables: it’s a book
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© 2022, 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
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Woman who Rises and Falls and Rises

author’s note:

Dedicated with fond appreciation to Aesop (c. 620-564 BCE).


THE FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO RISES AND FALLS AND RISES

For a long while
she’d walked and fought this desert
and in doing so, felt proud
because she’d proved
she was tough enough
to endure the sun and dust and wind
and keep marching.

But here’s what
that motivational book doesn’t tell you:
we all live with limitations.
In her head she told herself she was winning
but the fatigue in her heart said
you are definitely losing.

However old beliefs
don’t die that easily
--she marched on.

But even camels must bow down
occasionally--
eventually
she lost her argument with gravity
and fell to her knees.

But then she won again--won
because down in the rock and sand
she admitted defeat.
Not a popular word: “humility”--
we keep trying to forget that truth
even as the wise ones
keep trying to remind us.

In that state, she grieved
for her poor weak foolish self
until she finally tired of grieving

then
as she folded back out
she realized how fertile
a barren land could be
when you allow yourself
the honesty of feeling.

But in short time
that old urge rose again--
she felt the need to march on.

But as she stood she told herself:
this time I must remember
what I keep forgetting:
I need to lower myself down
now and then--
’cause if I don’t
I’m doomed to fall.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Phoenix Relaxes Before Rising from the Ashes

author’s note:

I feel I’m living in a phoenix country...but maybe I’m living in a phoenix world.


THE PHOENIX RELAXES BEFORE RISING FROM THE ASHES

I am the phoenix bird
and I’m here to tell you a secret:
after each crash
I enjoy a short break
before rising from the ashes:

a part of me just wants to relax--
why fight
if no victory can ever be final?

But though I find comfort
in the soft gray nest at first
soon, I start to feel dull and dim

and so, begin to work
to rekindle my fire--
by now I know how.

And when I’m able to fly away
I’ll tell myself what I tell myself
every time I rise up:
be careful not to burn too hot.

Maybe someday I’ll obey
that wisdom within me--
though I may not feel
the same fiery thrill
at least I won’t crash.

But I wonder--
do I secretly desire
that archetypal drama?

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Fool who Kicked

author’s note:

I’m embarrassed to say: based on a true story.


FABLE OF THE FOOL WHO KICKED

Considering
all the obstinate obtuse obstacles
I’ve encountered on this path...

I naturally felt frustrated
at that librarian kneeling in the aisle
between the bookshelves--
he must have known
I stood behind him, waiting to pass.

So I felt justified in giving him
a little kick on the heel of his shoe--
after all, I’d been told:
you must assert your rights as an individual!

Only later did I see:
I’d wanted to ease the pain
of so many losses
by scoring a small win
in the history section.

But as soon as my toe hit his heel
the violence of the act, though slight
awoke my higher self.
As if by instinct, I felt ashamed.
Again, I saw:
causing hurt does not cure your hurt.

So even though that humble man said
"oh excuse me"
I rushed to declare
"I'm terribly sorry—please forgive me!"

Later at home
I tried to relieve my guilt
by making right foot strike left foot--

once...twice...
then I realized:
instead of kicking just one person
I’d now kicked two.

As I relate this story
I’m embarrassed
but not discouraged

if we grow through humility
maybe by retelling this tale

I’ve grown just a little closer
to becoming
a fool who never aims his toe--
or better yet:
one who doesn’t even want to kick.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths: ebook
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Woman Who Couldn't Stop Caring

author's note:

As I get to know myself better, I get to know everyone else better as well.


THE FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO COULDN’T STOP CARING

Hoping to make her life easier
she decided to stop caring--stop
lying in bed late at night
asking, “What is the answer?”

Thus, our heroine embarked
on a life of leisure
and limited her mental pursuits
while repeating this mantra
to herself and others:
I just don’t care anymore.

And to the eye
she did indeed seem more relaxed
in the new somnolence of her days.

However...

in her dreams
she continued to search--

continued
to drive in darkness through heavy fog.

She still strained
to climb those stairs.

She still stared
into that tall shadow
looming on the wall.

In her dreams
she continued
to argue with him
even as his face
slowly became her face.

Knowing dreams don’t lie
she eventually stopped
pretending she didn’t care.

However
she no longer felt defeated--
after comparing her dreams with ours
she knew hope again:

she saw
though many don’t seem to care
the truth is
we’re all struggling to climb the stairs
through shadows and fog
sharing the way
with a menagerie of mirrors.

The Truth of the Dream: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Confession of a Plant

author’s note:

Flower power.


CONFESSION OF A PLANT

I wanted to tell of my fight
without telling of my fight
so instead I spoke of a plant
I’d found rooted down in dark rich loam
in junk behind a shed.

With the airs of an aesthete
I described
how the plant’s little green shoot
had fought its way up and out--
with glee I wrote
of how the stalk had turned and twisted
between the pitchfork tines
as the plant sought
the dangerous but life-giving sun.

In delicate detail
I told of how the leaves

had slowly anxiously unfurled
to provide sustenance
to a flower opening--despite its fear--
offering itself up
to guarantee the future
of the species.

Through this metaphor
I found relief in public confession
while sparing myself the embarrassment
of displaying my pain in plain view.

But as I bowed in respect
to that beautiful weed

I saw in its openness a challenge
and became embarrassed about
my fear of embarrassment:

a shame I now hope to ease
with this confession of my struggle.

Common Courage: poetry ebook
you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Feeling Better: a quest

author's note:

So easy to lose touch these days.


FEELING BETTER: a quest

A plague of malaise had crept in
and as a result
our senses had dimmed.
Thus, we could not see

the obvious:
our senses had dimmed.

I myself did not realize
until I stepped on that rake:

the bop between my eyes
cleared my dimness just a bit--enough
for me to see how dim I was

and how frustrated my people were:

dimly aware of the problem
we tried all sorts of ways to reawaken.
But in our blindness
often only dimmed ourselves more.

I wanted to help
but knew I couldn’t go around
bopping folk between the eyes
with a rake.
However, I could undertake
a quest for a cure.
Why a quest?  I suppose
I wanted adventure

or maybe
I just wished to get away from our mess.

In any case
I did not dawdle but set out
across the dark unknown plain to the north.
And oh--
the darkness only deepened
the deeper I traveled
into that alien land.

By the time I’d gone too far to turn back
the black fog had grown so dense
I couldn’t see my feet or even my hands.
I bumbled and stumbled

until finally, in frustration
I sat down on the bare ground--
hoping to gather together
what remained of my wits.

To prop my weary self up, I put
my blind fingertips to the earth

and in so doing, touched a little bump--
some rough object—I wasn’t sure what--
maybe a rock but maybe not--
I couldn’t recall the last time
I’d held a rock.

Then in curiosity
I got down on my hands and knees

and began to feel around.
In that way, I slowly found
many peculiar textures
belonging to many mysterious things:

some were crinkly
some were smooth
some were razor sharp.

A few were furry to the touch.

Occasionally I'd encounter
something slimy and slithering
and feel the impulse to retreat.

But courage feels better than cowardice
so to still myself, I declared:
I won't allow my fear to rule me!

Nonetheless, I see wisdom in being careful
and besides--
cautiousness increases attentiveness
and attentiveness heightens sense of touch.

And the more I feel, the better I see--
my vision clears…so do my ears
albeit slowly, oh-so-slowly--but
as I proceed, I find I’m losing
this malaise.

However
I still can’t see my way home.

So perhaps you'll arrive before I do--
even so, I won’t follow you--
I must find my own path back--
after all, I’m on a quest.
In any case
could you please tell the people:
in time, I will return
I will when I can see us all
in a light much brighter.

Then I’ll speak
to tell them what I truly feel
and what I truly see.

Soultime: a novel
you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Great Silent Mystery

author's note:

“Exploring the silence gives poetic thought birth.”
         -- Pao Hsien (trans. Paul Hansen)


GREAT SILENT MYSTERY

As the story goes...

when our ancestors felt the mystery
of a tree or river
or mountain
or creature
they wanted to talk to it
and learn what it was

and so began to drum.

Whatever sound echoed back
then became the name
of that bounder, beast, or shrub.

But after all the many things
had been named

the people sensed the presence
of one final mystery--

a mystery unseen--

a mystery everywhere all the time.

However
this mystery would not
answer our ancestors
no matter how hard
they banged their drums

so finally they stopped
to listen
to determine the nature
of an essence so strange.

The people then heard
the silent mystery resounding
throughout the stillness
--dominating earth and sky--
all the named things suddenly
lost their names
because everything became part
of that great mystery.

Those folks even began to feel
the unnamed mystery within themselves
and then, anxious to preserve their identity
they returned to drumming
and felt comforted by the noisy distraction.

But whenever
they felt dull in their days
they’d stop

to listen to the silent mystery

until they became overwhelmed
once more.

At this point in my walk
I feel the need to stop
because I sense something missing--
I’m tired of all these things around me--
tired of all the words, the names.

So I’m trying to regress--
I’m trying to shut up long enough
to feel the power
of the great silent mystery

not to escape life, but to know
the life within everything

and know the life--feel the life--
within me, once more.

cutting artichoke stalks – slow TV
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Delusional Bird

author’s note:

While doing research for this poem, I discovered that use of the word “delusional” has sharply increased in recent years.

Just thought I’d throw that out there.


THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD

Why was the bird so madly ambitious?

We don’t know we only know
from a young age, the bird
wanted to create a song
that would endure after its death:

a song to be sung
down through the generations--
the beat would become part
of the heartbeat of this planet.

Though at first its tune
sounded quite puny
the little bird sang on

believing its sincerity

would one day transform the ditty
into a symphony worthy
of sophisticated orchestras.

A silly notion, yes
but one that encouraged the bird
to keep singing

through all those years
when its song of life
only had enough life
to shake the leaves.

The bird kept singing
even as its frustration
grew from a mild irritation
into a torment
and then a torture.

The bird continued then because
it could hear how that heartrending pain
actually helped to strengthen the song

and could feel how
its voice now sounded all the way down
through the trunk to the roots of the tree.

This development continues to develop
and so, the bird still believes
its song will eventually
deliver listeners into ecstasy.

If no wandering composer
offers to score the notes
the bird plans to fly from its tree
when the song finally feels
ripe to the point of bursting

then that avian will sow the seeds
of its complex melodies
all over the world
so that choirs everywhere can chorus
the wondrous composition.

A grand ambition, but
that bird is obviously suffering
from a delusion.
I shudder to imagine
what might happen
to the poor creature
if it ever wakes up to reality.

But to be honest,
behind my pity
there lurks a bit of envy.

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton