Beauty Below the Surface

author’s note:

“All the carnal beauty of my wife
  Is but skin deep…”
         -- Sir Thomas Overbury


BEAUTY BELOW THE SURFACE

As a boy, I heard:
Beauty is only skin deep.

So I decided I should try
to see beneath the surface.

And so when I met her
I could see the stitching of her deep scars
and knew she’d healed her wounds.

I saw her beauty
because I was willing
to look down deep
and see her strength.

Road to Somewhere: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Deciduous Human Being

author’s note:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold...
           — Shakespeare, from “Sonnet 73”

To that I say: Wait and I'll be back.


THE DECIDUOUS HUMAN BEING

“Behold!  Behold!  Behold!”
The wise one told me:
“Look
 and you will feel

“the loving sacrifice
 made by that dark bed of dead leaves
 beneath the tree.

“Then look again
 and feel
 the little fist of green life
 struggling to break the shell of that acorn.

“Now look once more
 and feel—feel
 the branches straining upward
 as the tree strives to reach the sun.

“Behold!  Behold!  Behold!”

But when I tried to feel the life of the tree
as instructed
I felt my own life instead:

As I looked at those rotting leaves
I grieved for all sacrifices I’d made.
All those necessary deaths.

And as I examined that acorn
I again sensed the new life within me
struggling in labor to be born.

And when I saw
the top branches sighing for more
I felt my own desire
for a higher heaven.

Yes, the wise one wanted me to feel
the tremendous cycle of life
of those friends we call trees.
But I think she also hoped I’d find
that same life force inside
the deciduous human being I call “me”.

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

How the Family Found Their Grief

author’s note:

Maybe my family should’ve sung together.  We might have learned harmony.


HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF

In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.

But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.

Their music lightened many hearts.

But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.

Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.

By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.

They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—

their indifference now seemed monstrous.

A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center
of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.

Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.

Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.

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

A Wise One Tells Me How to Become a Wise One

author’s note:

A poem for our dusty, stormy times.


A WISE ONE TELLS ME HOW TO BECOME A WISE ONE

When I decided I’d like to someday be
one of the wise elders of our village
I asked one of the wisest of the wise
what I could do
to get from where I was
to where they were.

How were they able to stay so clear
when those mad winds blinded
the rest of us with dust?
How were they able to stay so buoyant
when that merciless storm flooded
our village homes and farms?

She answered me then
with the watery gray eyes of gentle age:

"Inside your head the dust swirls
 dimming the light of reason.
 Inside your heart a storm rages—
 your love may drown in the deluge."

The wise one then bowed to me
and said no more
because nothing more needed to be said.

I now saw how
those elders could manage so well
during windstorms and thunderstorms.
And knowing myself as I do
I doubted I could ever be as they are.

But I also I knew
I’d keep trying
because

I need to be a lot wiser
if I am to survive the dust and the flood.

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

My Festive Song and Dance

author’s note:

My dancing feet refuse to learn dance steps.  I think they just want to be free.


MY FESTIVE SONG AND DANCE

I told the wise one:

“The love I feel in my heart
  seems inadequate for the task of life—
  I’ve tried but can not lose
  that quietly persistent sense of lack.”

And in reply the wise one said:

“Yes, you love the rain
  but you hate
  when rainwater floods your lot.
  And yes, you love the sun
  but you hate
  when those fiery rays scorch your crops.”

Aided by her insight I then saw the obvious:

If I saved my love for those parts of life I liked
my love would never fully develop—
I also needed to love the hardships I dreaded.

So I tried to love the times of pain:
I danced when merciless storms came
and sang a song of love
when the sun seemed so uncaring.

But despite my festive efforts
I still could not quite love
the fire and the flood.
However
since I loved to dance and sing
I did feel some love in my heart
during weather that seemed unfair.

But still not enough, not enough.

So I continue to try
to learn to love the deluge that ruins
as well as the sun’s cruel nonchalance.
Not easy work to be sure, but made easier
by my stubborn song and dance of love.

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

Metaphor in the Gray Season of Rain

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


METAPHOR IN THE GRAY SEASON OF RAIN

Yes, I’m caught in the flood
of a cold gray season of rain.
But please, don’t worry about me:

Though sad, I’m not drowning—
I now know how to swim in these waters.
I know I can reach the distant shore.

Yes, I sometimes become tired
in the effort
and feel I might sink.
But then I lie all the way back
and spread my arms out wide
and give myself up
to the hard wash of rain.
Painful to open so boldly
but this way, I’m able to stay afloat.

As you can see
I’ve learned from metaphor
how to survive times such as these.
So please
don’t grieve my grieving.

But if you feel you must
say something
I’ll give you this hint:
I become even more buoyant
when somebody praises my buoyancy.

Butterfly Soul: poems of death & grief & joy
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Common Adventure

author’s note:

We’re all on the same team.  But right now, it looks like we're losing.


COMMON ADVENTURE

I wanted adventure
and though my resume
may seem rather tame
adventure I have had—
I’ve endured many rocky seas
while walking on dry land.

Every day I work hard
to calm my waters down—
a challenge compounded
by the turbulence
I see and hear and feel
all around—

everywhere
I see people struggling
to stay on their feet
as the waves grow wilder.
And the waves grow wilder
because we shake with fear
as the waves grow wilder.

Our dragon breathes beneath the surface.

Yes, quite an adventure!

But what could be the purpose of this trip?

Based my own experience
I now believe:
We come into this world to build our strength.

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

Two Nervous People Comfort Each Other

author’s note:

I was trying to come up with something for Valentine’s Day.


TWO NERVOUS PEOPLE COMFORT EACH OTHER

As gray clouds gather
we find ourselves without shelter
in a bare open field.

And so, desperate for comfort
I embrace you and you embrace me.

And as we hold each other I discover
you tremble just as I tremble.

So I try to ease you down
with calming words—
the same words you use
as you try to calm me.

But
my words can’t convince you
and your words can’t convince me
not to worry about our safety.

And so, we continue to tremble.

But at least now
we don’t shake quite as much.

Ironic, I guess:
despite our nervousness
we’re still able to comfort each other a bit.

No, we can’t convince our bodies
not to fear for their survival
as we stand beneath this threatening sky.

But as I hold your body next to mine
I can feel your spirit
just as you can feel my spirit
as you hold my body next to yours.

And so in this moment
we both realize:
even if our bodies fall
you and I, we will survive.

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

When Gods Come Down from the Mountain

author’s note:

Much of what I see tires me.

Fortunately, much of what I see inspires me.


WHEN GODS COME DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

Sometimes a bored god
will put a human into a hypnotic trance
then enter the body and take control
because they want to feel the adrenaline thrill
we feel when we perform a superhuman feat.

Though confined by the small frame
a deity can still lift those without a boat
above the rising waters.
Or stare down a fierce fire at the edge of town.

Then when the rush subsides
at the end of the event
the immortal will return home
to the clouds on the mountain.

The human will then wake in a daze—
feeling hazy about what they’ve just done.

And when praised
they’ll wonder:
How did I do what I did?
Never guessing
a colossal god could ever fit inside them.

They may assume instead
secret potentials lurk within.
And as a result, decide
they should work to realize
their hidden capabilities.

What they accomplish then
will have the effect
of inspiring other ordinary folk
who say to themselves:

if that damn fool can be super
then so can I!

mythsteps · when gods come down from the mountain

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

How to Make Death Smile

author’s note:

Is Death a “he”?

Yes—if Birth is a “she”.


HOW TO MAKE DEATH SMILE

As is typical of youth
when I was young I ignored
the possibility I could die young.

Even as I watched
so many with the same blindness
stumble into graves.

Only later
as I looked back
did I see how lucky I’d been.

I then began to step more carefully.

But now as I watch
so many my age
retire to their graves
I worry I’m becoming
just a little too cautious.

The life I’m afraid to lose
won’t have much life
if I don’t follow
the true desire of my spirit

which was and still is:

to go forth and know the world.

So though my legs tremble
I will stretch my stride.
No, the width won’t match that of my youth.
But the stubborn fool I am now
shows more courage
than the obtuse fool I once was

because now I can feel Death
watching me and waiting
as I struggle on these steps.

But my reaper is not so grim.
No, beneath that black hood
he smiles wide in appreciation.

Death sees I am doing
what he wants us to do:
to grow in strength
by confronting
the deep fear that keeps us alive.

mythsteps · how to make Death smile

Survival: poetry book
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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

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
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Blessed Affliction

author’s note:

When I found the above cartoon recently, I wondered why I’d made that drawing years ago.

So I wrote a poem and discovered why.


BLESSED AFFLICTION

She didn’t see the cause
of her problems
until she dreamt that dream

in which she tried to rise
but fell over sideways
and then watched her long blue wing
flap helplessly against the ground
in puffs of dust.

When she awoke
our heroine could then see
her invisible reality:

on one side
she had a wing instead of an arm.
And on the other, no wing, just the arm.

No wonder she kept falling
when she tried to ascend.
No wonder the boxes
she tried to lift
often fell to the ground.

Now she knew why
some people fall into the dust
time after time after time
and struggle so much
when they try to carry boxes.

With such folk she’s now found a home.

Under that roof
they gather to grieve their plight.
But also encourage themselves
by sharing stories
of afflicted individuals
who never stopped trying to fly—
who never stopped trying
to lift boxes.
And so they continued to grow
until they grew
not only another wing
but another arm too.

Those stories have shown our heroine
the blessing inherent in her affliction:

if she didn’t have that one wing
she wouldn’t feel such a strong desire to fly
and if she had two arms, instead of just one
she wouldn’t want to lift boxes so badly.

Driven to lift
and driven to fly
she may eventually earn
another wing and another arm
and then carry boxes while in flight.

mythsteps · blessed affliction

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

Fable of the Woman Who Collided with Herself

author’s note:

Who’s holding this world together?

You are.


FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO COLLIDED WITH HERSELF

Needing to rest
she went to visit her middle-aged friend
who’d recently retired
to his porch swing.

But soon felt disturbed
because that tired man kept telling her:
do what you want, but I say:
why try to stop this world
from colliding with itself?—
after all, collision seems to be just what people want.

Though she disagreed
our heroine did not challenge him—
she felt too weak to defend
her choice to do what she could to keep
this world from colliding with itself.

Yes, that work had given her life
so much life
for so many years
but recently
the life she lived had left her
feeling drained of life.

So now she could actually imagine
retiring to the swing with him
but at the same time
the thought of succumbing
to that temptation
rang an alarm in her heart.

And so she ended her stay early
and returned to the task
of rolling that stone up a hill.

And whenever her energy lagged
she imagined the man
just sitting here
going back and forth
without moving
day after day
year after year.
Oh how she pitied him!

But perhaps that strong woman should’ve felt
the same empathy for herself:

in time, the work that gave life to her life
again began to drain the life from her.
Yet she ignored her fatigue
out of a sense of responsibility.
And as a result
collided with herself
once again
and had no choice but to rest.

So our heroine returned
to the man in the swing—
but now without fear of temptation
because she expected to find him
in slow steady decline—
she believed seeing him
in such a pathetic state
would encourage her
to continue her work.

But no—
she found him looking happy and pink.
Oh how demoralized she felt then—
how could he just sit there
day after day
year after year
and still be so buoyant?

Then she got another shock
when he said:
I’m so happy to see you so happy.

Clearly
he couldn’t see her—
apparently
his satisfying sedentary life
had dimmed his mind—
his eyes.

She felt so sad for him then--
her decision to reject the swing
now seemed so wise.
A sigh of relief then released her fatigue.
And a fresh breath of energy
lifted her wings.

So once again she bid the man adieu.
Once again, she flew.

Now, whenever she feels
the life that gives her life life
begin to drain away her life
she again returns to man in the swing
because she knows that happy fellow
will always tell her:

I am so happy to see you so happy.

mythsteps · fable of the woman who collided with herself

Survival: poetry book
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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

Our Secret Truth

author’s note:

Alas, I decided to delete my favorite line:

“I stopped squirming like an unearthed earthworm”


OUR SECRET TRUTH

Dreams know where we need to go.

So last night as I slept
an unseen force
lifted me up without a touch
and hung me up
in an open black space.

Though the room had disappeared
I could still see my bed
below in the darkness.
So I tried to wiggle free
knowing I could expect a soft landing.

But whatever held me
would not release me.
And as my anxiety mounted
I begin to fight
and when my struggle proved futile
I fought harder, then harder still

until I feared I might go mad
if I continued
and so

I forced myself to stop
and let my frame sag lamely in the dark.

Then I waited—
enduring the tedious torture
of being pinned—
waited
until the child within
finally surrendered to the situation
and quit whining.

And when the noise cleared
I then sensed
the strength within my soul.
And so my torment ended.
And so I woke from the dream.

So easy to forget what I’ve got
until I’m forced once more
to rediscover that secret truth.

Get the Message: short guide for understanding dreams
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© 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".

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

Fortunate Descent

author’s note:

I think all human beings are courageous.  To some degree.


FORTUNATE DESCENT

When the overseers scanned our group
they saw my legs shaking and realized
I needed this trip—this ordeal—
more than any of the others.

Now as they turn the crank
my little basket slowly lowers
into the deep ravine.  Slowly

the rock walls disappear
behind gray cloud
and I begin to hear
a strange bass murmur
echoing up from below.

Down there, I will explore for all
and with luck, return to give a report
on what terrors and delights
one can find in the dark depths.

I am filled with cold dread
as the light continues to dim.
Yet at the same time
my heart thrills in anticipation:

on this trip of discovery
I’ll be forced to find my strength—
maybe afterwards I’ll finally accept
I’m not nearly as weak as I think.

mythsteps · Fortunate Descent

Common Courage: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Pebble

author’s note:

A poem for our stormy times.


THE PEBBLE

On the ocean horizon I saw
a bouffant pile of mad black clouds
rushing toward my shore.

So I thanked my stars I'd found
that boulder on the beach—
a cleft on its leeward side
opened to a secret chamber:
a womb
where I could sit in safety
during the chaos of lightning and rain.


And indeed I did feel secure
as I hunkered down inside—
felt secure
even as the winds rose
even as the waves swelled high
even as bullets of rain
began to rattle down
on the roof of my rock.

But then the waves began to break
on the boulder’s backside—
with every four beats, an explosion:
One…two…three…boom!  One…two…three…boom!
Threat followed threat.
I could shelter my body but not my mind and heart
against those angry blasts.

In desperation
I dove into my depths
hoping to find
a solid stone foundation of being
somewhere down there in the dark

but no—
all I could locate
was a pebble.

But since I had nothing else to hold
I held it
and though the little rock didn’t elicit
a sense of security in me
I made myself believe:
as long as I kept a firm grip
on that strong stone
I would endure.

In that way
I was able to maintain myself
—yes, indeed!—
until
after a long short time
the endless storm decided
to wait and return some other day.

So once again I stood on the sunny beach
as modest waves retreated to the sea.

I wanted to unfurl glorious lines
to celebrate my triumph.
But honesty prevailed as I wrote:

Rock walls will not protect us
from the anxiety provoked by storms
but we can survive our fear
if we’ll find that little bit of strength
hidden down within

then hold it to our heart
as we tell ourselves:

pebbles grow into bigger stones
through challenges like this one.

mythsteps · The Pebble

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

Truths I Tell Myself to Lighten the Load

author’s note:

I’ve learned to enjoy the daily grind.


TRUTHS I TELL MYSELF TO LIGHTEN THE LOAD

If indeed
the path we’re on is the path we need
then apparently, I need
a path that’s hard to see—
apparently, I need
to continually struggle
to find my way—

to search all around
with my back bent down
by a big burden bequeathed to me at birth.

Okay, but why do I need what I need?

Well, after some consideration
I do see these benefits for the soul:

Because I was given a gnarly maze
instead of a clear straight line
I have worked hard to find
the truth hidden deep within the center.

And because I was given
such a shoulder load
I have worked hard to find
the strength hidden deep within me.

Yeah, that stone grinds me down
but as I lose I uncover
the me beneath the surface—
I discover more of who I am.

Good to remind myself of these truths
because when I do the weight seems to ease a bit.
And if I then feel the need
for a little extra lift
I’ll dream this possibility:

someone lost could someday learn
from the lessons I’ll leave in my wake—
they’ll be able to see how
I eventually arrived
at the deep core of my being.

Maybe they’ll get a lift
when they read
how strong I felt then—so strong
my millstone
seemed light as a pebble.

mythsteps · Truths I Tell Myself to Lighten the Load

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton