The Symbolic Tree

author’s note:

Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.


THE SYMBOLIC TREE

The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.

Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.

But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.

With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.

Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.

Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.

Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.

I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.

Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.

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

The Crystal Goddess

author’s note:

Another flawed vessel.


THE CRYSTAL GODDESS

I wanted to create a crystal goddess.
I would

transform a glob of molten glass
into a vessel so glorious
a mere glance would cast a spell
over the innocent pilgrim
and awaken deep aspirational desires
in their psyche.

Then maybe they would again sense
the divine flame
held within their meat and bones.

But my labor
though intense and loving
produced instead
the abomination of a blob body
with a knob for a head
and little round pegs
for breasts and legs.

Those tiny air bubbles
permanently trapped
in the bloated belly
reminded me of gas.

No goddess would have gas!

But though embarrassed
I could not discard my failure
because it had been born
from a wish to give more.

So I put the inflated figurine
on my backroom windowsill
for only me to see.

Then forgot about it
until the power outage in December.

As I sat in the dark
I thought I heard a mousetrap snap shut
so I fumbled my way to the back
by the light of a Christmas candle.

Then stopped still—

what I saw was so real
it seemed unreal:

the black oil of midnight
had filled the vessel of the crystal woman
and there, within her bosom
the reflection of my candle flame shone—
a suspended drop of liquid gold.

Enchanted I was—entranced

until the overhead bulb
abruptly brightened the room
a few minutes later

or maybe I’d stood there an hour.

Now, whenever my night becomes dim
I visit the goddess by candlelight
to remind myself of the divine flame
held within the crystal glass
of our meat and bones.

mythsteps · crystal goddess

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2025, 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
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Dream of the Drop

author’s note:

The theory stated by the train traveler in this poem is a truncated version of an idea first proposed by Dr. Allan Hobson.


THE DREAM OF THE DROP

Before I woke this morning I saw
a drop of rain fall down through
a strange starless night
and land
with tiny silvery ripples
in a river glistening black—a river
without beginning or end.

In the dream, I then
peered through a microscope lens
and found in that dark-blue drop
a luminous web of complexity.
The sensory nerves of a spirit.

Thus
an event that first seemed
of little importance
suddenly felt momentous.

Later I told a man on the train:
“That drop is me, my life
 and the river symbolizes
 this metaphysical truth:

“what is here now
 has always been
 and will always be.”

With a yawn, the man replied
“You’re so desperate for meaning
 you’ll invent meaning
 where meaning
 doesn’t actually exist.

“Don’t you know?—
 dreams are merely the product
 of random neural firings
 in the brain as we sleep.”

Having heard that argument before
I then ended our little engagement
with this countermove I’d practiced:

“If an event feels significant
 then isn’t it significant?
 Yeah, maybe I am desperate
 but life loses life when life loses meaning.

“The fact is:
 neither one of us can prove our ideas.
 So now the question is:
 of the two, which belief serves us best?”

mythsteps · the dream of the drop

Get the Message: short guide for understanding dreams
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Working in the Desert Garden

author’s note:

As a boy, I liked that guy Moses.

I still like Moses.  But not the guy—the symbol.


WORKING IN THE DESERT GARDEN

As a child I felt encouraged
when I heard how Moses
managed to exit Egypt.

Like him, I waited patiently
and when those waters finally parted
I split.

But then
as I explored the desert
I discovered
a part of the story
not mentioned in Exodus:
how the chains remain within us
long after our brave escape.

To those struggling
to find their way free
I’ll share what I know for sure:
you must loosen those chains slowly—
link by link by link by link.

When such tedious progress
burdens me down
I’ll lift myself by remembering
those victorious Moseses I’ve met—
they told me:

keep going
and you will eventually reach
the promise land of peace

but along the way
don’t forget to appreciate
the countless blessings
of this desert garden.

mythsteps · Working in the Desert Garden

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Light of December at Midnight

author's note:

Posting this poem each year has become Christmas tradition with me.


THE LIGHT OF DECEMBER AT MIDNIGHT

Night feels darker in December

and as I open to
the strange deep quiet
of Solstice
I stop my walk

to re-examine
the outdoor nativity scene
that before seemed so kitsch.
But now
I suddenly see

the pink plastic baby
lying in tinsel straw
is the new life
hidden in my heart--

a slow gestation,
the birth, not guaranteed.

Then I see
that glittery styrofoam star
is the wise one within--
the one who often sighs with sadness
at the sight of my rough antics.

Then--alas!--I see
that plywood cow beside the manger
is the domestic animal I usually am--
the unenlightened me.

Yes, this bovine is quite dim
but I can see my vision has improved--
consider this:
I’m seeing light I missed last year.

So this hope remains:
to eventually grow
into a wise old child
who can gaze into the mundane
and realize
the glory of its light.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Bird Watching

author's note:

Bird bird bird b-bird’s the word.
          -- from “Surfin’ Bird” by The Trashmen


BIRD WATCHING

Years ago when I was told
I should choose a totem animal
to express who I was
my aspiration said: “wings”.

Don’t we all wish for wings?

Since then
my desire hasn’t changed:
I still want to be the high-flying eagle.

Yes, I do soar sometimes
but in truth, I spend more time
on the ground
as a Bantam

and often show off
like the inflated Peacock

but even then
most people still see me as “Wren”.

Or perhaps as a Dodo--
unable to adapt
to these batty times.

I share their view sometimes
but I can also see
I’m the nimble sandpiper
racing down the beach--
finding delight in that seam
where two worlds meet.

Yes, I know
my Crow caw sounds raw
but I feel compelled
to shout alarm

and anyway
I do try to soften my tone
by adding the simple beauty
of the Meadowlark’s song.

Unfortunately, I often
I muffle that voice
by being an Ostrich.

However
I keep trying to take my head out

if only to discover
what other birds I might be.

But who among us
doesn’t possess
many species of bird?

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Miniature Golf Education

author’s note:

I have some perspective.

Unfortunately, I keep losing it.


MINIATURE GOLF EDUCATION

Though at first I didn’t want to play
I became hooked
before the end of the first round--
after I saw the metaphor.

Before
the game had always seemed so silly.

But I though I laughed
at my first failed attempt
to putt the ball past the windmill
I didn’t laugh
after my second try
nor after my third.

Then, at the fifth hole
I really started to burn
as I struggled to navigate
that ninety-degree turn.

Finally at the seventh
I began to curse the course
in frustration

then stopped when I suddenly saw
how I’d shrunk myself down.

So began an education.

In the many rounds played since that day
I’ve learned a number of lessons--
including this paradox:

Sometimes
in order to get past the alligator
you must roll right into
those snapping jaws.

My War for Peace: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

While Working in the Sock Department of a Major Chain Store

author's note:

In memory of a friend who often said: "it's an outer manifestation of an inner reality".


WHILE WORKING IN THE SOCK DEPARTMENT OF A MAJOR CHAIN STORE

Recently, I’ve noticed
many people passing over
those socks with the polka dots
and choosing the ones
with that plaid design
instead.

I view this trend
not as a mere fad
but as a message
from the human psyche:

I believe
that plaid represents
work those folk are doing
on an inner level--

bringing opposing forces together--
    joining left with right
    and up with down--
to create a stable structure.

Seeing the strength that results
from their labor
more will then dedicate themselves
to this job of creating a union within.
They too
will realize their inner plaidness.

And when they do
their actions will reveal
a deeper human truth.

Maybe you’ll scoff at my belief
but consider how it helps me:

now when I see
someone choosing
a plaid pair of socks
my hope for the human race lifts

and I become
even more determined
to unify all my parts
and rid myself
of this weak feeling--
this feeling of being
just odd assortment of dots.

When I’m more together
I can join with those others--
I want to be part
of that grand plaid design.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Armadillo Mirror

author’s note:

Another mirror.


ARMADILLO MIRROR

I try so hard to see
but seem to make little progress

except when some sight jolts
my eyes open
to another obvious secret.

As on that night
when I stood
gazing at a half-moon
while lamenting
my lack of accomplishment

until a rustling sound
suddenly pulled me out of the clouds--

down on the lawn
I found an armadillo
rummaging through the leaves.

Fascinated
I watched that little armored grubber
trundling along on its bitty legs:
a dwarf clawing for its life
in the medieval dark.

Such resolve!
An irrepressible spirit!
Thriving despite all the hardships--
an accomplishment, to be sure.

As that creature is, so are you--
I whispered this secret to myself
as if channeling a deep soul.

But before my pride
could rise too high
I was struck again
by another realization:

yes, it’s found a way to survive
but eventually, shells limit us--
as any bird chick will tell you.

Can I ever convince myself
I’m strong enough
to live free from this cell?

Will we ever convince ourselves
we’re strong enough?

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Storm Ritual

author’s note:

“Splish splash!”
           –- Bobby Darin


STORM RITUAL

Why didn't I run
from those stallions of storm clouds
rushing toward me
over the grassland of the valley?

Obviously I felt compelled
to wake my sleepy head
but maybe I was also held
by this secret wish:

to stand naked
and let the god of lightning
blast apart the stubborn fist
that binds my heart—
a block resistant to my persistent pleas
for freedom.

And maybe I opened my arms
to the cold merciless rain
because my dreams keep telling me:
wash yourself clean.

Whatever the deeper reasons may be
I can say for certain
the silly child I still am
found joy in the splashing dance

and as sunlight followed storm
I instantly instinctively felt hope—
for a moment, quiet ecstasy freed my heart
as the rainbow arc
joined one mountain to the other mountain
across the valley.

Finally, a ritual has elicited
the heightened sense of reality I seek.
But I must find a safer way
to reconnect with my truth.

If I don’t
deep need may drive me
to again stand and say
come on
next time I see stallions of storm clouds
rushing to wash me down.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Opening the Chest

author’s note:

Still pulling.


OPENING THE CHEST

At first, the wooden chest
seemed to be just another
lifeless museum piece--

antique, but cheapened by wear:
a big chip out of one stout leg;
a crack in the pediment;
the wood finish faded.

But those closed doors
piqued my curiosity…

So when the room cleared
the little boy in me
stepped over the cord
and tried to swing open
those two doors--

feeling the tightness
of the creaking hinges
in my own chest.

But despite the tension building within
I kept opening:
obeying my spirit
by fighting that resistance.

I pulled, I pulled
until
a sudden piercing pain
brought the relief of release:

a welling glow spread
out from my center
as I stood, transfixed--
witnessing
that goblet on the top shelf--

its silver plating tarnished
and diminished with dust--

so plain!
but also so open
as if to say:
here I am--
ready to be filled
so I can give
what I’ve received.

I felt the humility
of naked exposure--
I felt the tears
and bold strength
of willing sacrifice
(the victorious surrender).

But at that point
I stopped myself
because
I dared not go too deep
in such a proper public place.

Ironic:
I rarely find meaning
in those spaces and things
that’re supposed to be meaningful.
More often I find meaning
by glorious accident.

I can’t seem to manufacture
such experience
but I can return
to that greater response
by remembering
the blessed chance event.

Return again and again.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
What I Learned While Alone: poetry ebook

Blessed Suffocation

author's note:

Some claim dreams are meaningless...

Maybe their dreams are.  Mine aren't.


BLESSED SUFFOCATION

In the dream I could not breathe

for one full year!--

as I held to a stiff chair
at the bottom of a murky lake.

To survive this test of endurance
I needed to claw down deep
into my lungs
just to dredge up
a few molecules of oxygen
hidden in storage.

Years later, when I think of this dream
I again experience
the frightening sense
of suffocation--
the tightness in my chest--
the feeling of imprisonment.

Good to remember my strength.

I believe
the wise one within
leads us into trials of adversity
so that we will expand
our capacity.

I believe
that interior puppeteer
gave me the dream
so that I might realize
the benefit of my hardship
then fight for life
instead of crying.

Some will scoff at these ideas--
they'll state flatly:
no "deep self" enacts a grand plan.

Nonetheless, I'd guess
we'd at least share this one belief:

through such painful tests
people grow.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
the truth of the dream: poetry ebook