Living with Ghosts

author’s note:

A long time ago, I learned to make pain my friend.
              -- Kid USA, pro wrestler


LIVING WITH GHOSTS

I’ve learned:
I can’t get rid of a ghost by shouting
Leave me alone!
No—
curses and pleading
will not dislodge a ghost.

Nor can I outrun them.
For years, I sped like a bullet train
but when finally forced to stop
my ghosts shot out of the shadows.

Sometimes a ghost may seem
to disappear completely.
But then something I hear or see
will raise that wraith from the grave.

I’ve wrestled with my specters for years
and lost a million times or more.
So now I’m trying a new strategy:

whenever a ghost resurrects
and an old wound wounds me once more
I’ll try to remain calm
and say quite casually:
Well, hello my old companion—
stay if you want—leave when you wish.
No, I’m not finally at peace with you
but I waste so much energy
when I try to fight or flee.

However
I won’t sit
when your sadness
tries to leaden my heart—
No!
I’ll leap and skip in a golden dance.
Though I can’t deny you, I can defy you.

But maybe I should thank you.
Didn’t I learn through you?—
Didn’t I grow?
Yes, and now I’ll learn even more
by staring deep into your eyes
with all their shades of blue.

But though I say in my head:
You should embrace that ghost
my words I haven’t yet convinced my heart.
So until I grow some more
the best I can do is accept you
and dance dance dance—
dance ‘til the night becomes dawn.

mythsteps · living with ghosts

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Nightly News

author’s note:

A short poem…

…that took me sixty-eight years to write.


NIGHTLY NEWS

I am wounded.  And so is this world:

I hear my pain repeated on the nightly news.

Whether those at the horn use cool reason
or scold and threaten
beneath their words I hear them plead:
How can we end all this wounding?
How can we heal all these wounds?

I believe we all mourn our failure:
even those who celebrate
the wounding they do—
they bellow and sing
to bury the cry of grief within.

Sometimes I tire of trying
to heal this wound—
I ask myself:
Why not sleep until death wakes you?

But then I hear the wounds of the world again
weeping on the nightly news.

mythsteps · Nightly News

My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Original Wound

author’s note:

Though Eden is lost
its loveliness
remains in the heart
and the imagination
         -- Mary Oliver


THE ORIGINAL WOUND

According to this myth:
our problems first began
when the first human being
felt confused because
it sensed it was more than one.

Unable to resolve that tension
the human then split in half
and one half went East
while the other half went West.

Perhaps you’ve already guessed
the happy ending:

eventually
both halves will meet
halfway around the globe
and recognize their missing part
then join together again.

But no—
the resolution won’t be so simple
because

as it walked, the East half felt
the same inner tension
felt by its parent
and so
soon tore apart
and one half headed North
while the other half headed South.

The West half also felt that tension
and so
quickly broke in half
and one half walked North
while the other half walked South.

Following that pattern
those four halves soon became eight
and then those eight became sixteen
and then…well, you get the idea.

Because we can’t accept all we are
we keep breaking apart

and because those losses feel so painful
we keep searching
for something that might heal us:

at first, a thing might seem to be
the exact right thing
but in time, we discover
it’s not the thing
that can make us whole again
and then the wound weeps even louder.

I believe this myth explains why
you seemed so perfect
when I first met you:

in you I saw the thing
I felt to be missing—
the thing could make my life whole.

And you saw the same thing in me—
I seemed to fill a void
and for a moment at least
you didn’t feel that sense of loss.

But our mistake was blessed one:
it brought the two of us together

and as we’ve struggled to return
to that garden we first knew
we’ve looked deeper into ourselves
and in the process
discovered many parts we’d missed.

I don’t know if our union will hold

but by working to repair the break
we’ve both become more whole
and in that way help to heal the wound—

a cut that first began
when the first human being
couldn’t resolve the first conflict.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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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
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

God in a Breath

author’s note:

In a recent dream, my car had a flat tire.

Apparently, I need more air.


GOD IN A BREATH

At first, the child believed
God lived in the clouds

then she heard that God lived within

but that idea didn’t make sense--
how could God possibly fit?

But she’d often sensed
something hovering near--
something she couldn’t see or hear.
Must be God, she thought.

But if God was right there
why didn’t he protect her
from stings and falls and mean dogs
and people who acted like mean dogs?

He just stood and watched
while the world tormented her.

She burned with frustration
and humiliation
at the indifference of God.

But the hot tears on her cheek
soon cooled into grief
and she breathed a deep sigh
then sighed deeply again

and in that moment
she suddenly began to feel
a quiet warmth
kindling within her chest.
So she took another breath
and felt that glow grow.
She told herself:
This must be what Mother means
when she praises
“the peace of God’s love”.

Slowly then
our young heroine
began to see her mistake:

God really did care
but did not help her in her struggles
because
(as her father often said)
she needed to learn
how to deal with such things
as falls and mean dogs and mean people--
she needed to learn
how to deal with the stings.

And because God
had not interfered
she’d now learned
at least one good way
to deal with such things
and that was
by letting God in:
   if she took a deep breath
   then another deep breath
   and another and another
   whatever it is that is God
   would come in—she’d feel it.

That’s why we sigh so often,
she thought:
We’re trying to breathe in God.

Many times, many times
that silly belief helped soothe
the wounds of childhood

and also the wounds
of adulthood.

But to be honest
the woman usually forgot about God

except in those moments
when doubt darkened
into despair--
then she’d finally remember
to close her eyes
and take a deep breath
and another deep breath
and another deep breath
and concentrate
until she again felt
that healing soul
fill her heart
with the warmth of love.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

On the Continent of Love Lost

author’s note:

Someone once asked if I ever wrote love poems...

They’re all love poems!

Happy Thanksgiving.


ON THE CONTINENT OF LOVE LOST

She said
her heart had exiled her writing
to the island of love lost.

But I told her
that island can be a continent.
Here’s the difference:

on the island
when we write of love lost
we write of the garden lost

but on the continent
we realize
we must leave our gardens
in order to grow.

On the island, we write of how
we long for the return
of the one lost

but on the continent
we write of delving down
to find ourselves again.

On the island
we write of wounds still open

but on the continent
we write of mending those wounds
and in the process
healing old deep wounds.

On the island
we're afraid of losing--
of losing again

and on the continent
we're afraid of the same--
afraid of a love
we can not escape
at its beginning--

a love we can not hold
at its end.

But on the continent
we don’t try to escape
when we know we can’t
and don’t try to hold
when we know we can’t.

All this I wrote to her
but then admitted:

I don't always live
the “continent way”

but when I do, I'm able to lay
a wreath of gratitude
on gardens lost
while I celebrate
a present-time blessed
by the education gained
through the losses
of my past.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

How Aunt Maggie Got So Bright

author’s note:

I don’t claim to be bright.  But I’m not as dim as I once was.


HOW AUNT MAGGIE GOT SO BRIGHT

I have a theory about why
Aunt Maggie wasn’t wearing her usual frown
when you saw her late last night:

I believe
a period of forced reflection
follows death
and I know when I stop to reflect
I often find my truth—
like the time I asked myself
this question:

Why I do I groan, why do I grumble
over a little cookie that crumbled?
After all, by now I know
every day, some cookie will surely crumble.

Then
after waiting silently...patiently
for an answer
I begin to feel what I truly felt
deep within
and realized my whining
merely echoed the cry
of an old buried wound

then wept with empathy
for the person I am.

So now, when hear someone grousing
over some small thing
I know
the true depth of their suffering.

In such voices I hear Aunt Maggie—

who I believe does indeed “rest in peace”
because in death
she had to stop to reflect
and feel what she really felt
in the life just lived

and so, she’s finally grieved the grief
hidden beneath her many grievances.

Aware of her own pain now
she’s become aware of yours—
that’s why she gazes down at you
with such bright tenderness
as you try to rest in peace
in the deep darkness of your room.

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Listening to the Stormy Beast

author’s note:

Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.
               -- Samuel Beckett


LISTENING TO THE STORMY BEAST

Though I don’t
strike out at the world
sometimes in frustration
I do strike at myself

especially when
I try again and fail again
to resolve
some grievance I’ve carried too long.
Then I’ll wonder if
I can ever become
the better me I wish to be.

But at such times, sometimes
I will sit and listen down deep
and beneath my growling I will hear
the grief of a wounded beast

then in empathy
I will surrender
the lightning bolt
I’ve aimed at myself.

Painful listening, yes
but the lightning strike
would feel worse.

I say:
if someone in such conflict
can manage to pacify
their rumbling beastly storm
we’ve good reason to feel hope
for our squalling human world.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Surrender to the Ice Cube

author’s note:

“Be cool, baby”
          -- anonymous


SURRENDER TO THE ICE CUBE

When the heat of conflict builds within…

I can prevent explosion
by rubbing an ice cube
across my forehead--
moving it in slow circles
right to left
then left to right.

Yes, an ordinary cube can soothe me
mentally and emotionally.

Yet I often forget
to apply this medicine
when it's most needed.

Why is that?

Maybe as a baby
I became aggrieved
at our unjust world
and that angry baby
still cries in pain
and occasionally tries
to seize control
and make its deep wound known.

But after I flare
the adult I am
feels remorse--
embarrassed.
Small.
Even when I win, I lose.

So I’m determined to become
the type of person who always
stops to apply
the tonic of the ice cube
before the moment combusts.

That’s why I keep
listening down deep--
I need to hear
so I can heal
the old newborn wailing
somewhere under all those ashes.

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
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33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

A Degree of Peace

author’s note:

A full-time job, this life.


A DEGREE OF PEACE

Tired of seeing the constant conflict
of our world
I sought peace
in the quiet of the shadows.

Only then did I hear
the conflict raging inside me.

Only then did I realize
the true origins of war.

But only then did I see
this great opportunity:

if I could find a way to end my war
I could then show others
how to end theirs.

Yet after decades of struggle
I’m still battling conflict within.
I have finally conceded the obvious:
I’ll be fighting this war to the hour I die.

However
I can honestly say
I've earned a degree of peace--

not enough for me to teach anyone else
the way free
but enough for me to comfort some
trying to ease their conflicts
by healing old wounds.

I listen
not just for their sake
but for mine as well:

I’ve learned I can learn
from all of them

and find catharsis
when I again witness
how we struggle to be free
in this constant war for peace.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Message to a Rocket Launcher

author's note:

Some say dreams are meaningless.

I say: maybe theirs are.  Not mine.


MESSAGE TO A ROCKET LAUNCHER

When I heard the man claim
he had slept quite well
after launching that long-range attack
I remembered a dream
I can’t forget:

in the scene
I squatted on a desert plain
and from my big bazooka
shot a ball of barb-wire
at an unknown enemy
somewhere over there

and felt quite pleased
a moment later, when
I spied a poof of dust
rising on the horizon.

But then I looked down
and found a wire strung
all the way from my trigger finger
to the distant point of impact.

In frantic desperation
I tried to untie the wire
but those barbs stung my hand--
without thinking, I ran

with that wire trailing after me--
delivering hot jolts of pain
to my finger, arm, body, brain.

Waking in a cold fever
I knew I needed
to understand that nightmare
and though I often miss the obvious
I soon realized its message:

when you try to get rid of the hurt you feel
by putting the hurt on somebody else
you’re connected to the pain
you’ve created for the other.
Thus
you actually hurt worse.

From this dream, we can see
I am still an angry child

but adult enough
to be honest with you now--
hoping

this dream message will awaken
at least one other rocket launcher
to a truth so obvious
it often goes unnoticed:
  when you choose the wrong way
  to deal with your pain
  you only worsen the wound.

Maybe then
having lost his blind innocence
that launcher may stop trying
to punish the other
and instead fight to heal
his wounded self
and in that way help heal
a world filled
with bazookas and barb-wire.

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

Those Blessed Incognitos

author’s note:

I think if we want to see the light at the end of the tunnel, we've got to be that light.


THOSE BLESSED INCOGNITOS

I’ve grown aware
of a powerful positive conspiracy
involving an obscure confederation
of priests and priestesses

usually unknown to the casual observer because
they don’t wear uniforms
or carry placards—

for that matter, often even members
don’t realize they belong to a club—
don’t realize
they’re connected by an invisible web
to souls all over the globe
who share their divine obsession—
noble servants content to work in the shadows:

apparently driven by higher instinct
they dig new wells
and map interior towers
that spiral endlessly upward.

My dreams have shown me
how their hearts swell
in depth of night
to overflow riverbanks
and soothe the wounds suffered
by eight billion human battlefields.

Yet despite their strength
at times, our heroes and heroines feel exhausted
by these birthing labors
and must escape
to the forest that mothers.
There, they surrender once more
to the black earth

to decay and resurrect
in three days—
sometimes less

and though these warriors may hesitate
before returning
they return, nonetheless:

as priests and priestesses
they understand:
despite appearances
no effort ever goes for naught—
every step is another step
up the stairway—
they understand:
as they rise they help
the rest of us step up.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Digging Up Her Arms

author’s note:

As stated in the poem, I did indeed dig by a stump as a boy...

During one of these excavations, I found a small diamond.  Naturally, that clear stone slipped from my hands.  Though I searched and searched, I could not find it.  But because I could not find it, that diamond has remained a diamond.


DIGGING UP HER ARMS

As a boy when I saw
that naked statute in the book
I wished to be a hero
and return those arms to her--

I dreamt she’d repay me
by stroking my hair
with the hands I’d found.
She’d touch my lips.

How I wanted
her nurturing arms!

What I sought then
I still seek now
but I no longer dig in the dirt
by the stump with a stick.

No--
after digging many
people, places, things
I finally found ways
to mine my own self--

ways to recover what I’d lost.

I no longer look for
one big bonanza strike--
as an archaeologist, I must uncover
the hands, the arms
piece by small piece.

A tedious excavation.
However, I grow stronger
with the labor required

and I wouldn’t want
the child to lose hope
that one day
the wounded woman
will again be whole.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Human Who Sometimes Regresses

author's note:

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
                    -- Dr. Johnson


FABLE OF THE HUMAN WHO SOMETIMES REGRESSES

When I lived
as a wild hirsute beast
I moved toward pleasure
and moved away from pain

until the night I could not move
after an injury from a falling stone.

As I felt the life within began to ebb
I suddenly desired to see the world
I’d ignored--the world I was losing

and found, to my surprise
a living mystery
of moonlight and shadow
captured by this jungle
in its cage
of barbs and tangles.

But I awoke the next morning, alive--
yes, alive and beginning to heal--
given strength by the desire
to again witness beauty--
to experience
the grand inexpressible feelings
such witnessing brings.

But inexpressible feelings
demand expression
and so, in desperation
I discovered the faulty machine
known as “language”--

a tool some believe makes us human.

Maybe so, but maybe
we begin the process
when we first witness beauty.
In any case, I sometimes regress:
some animal in me still wants
to move away from the pain
of being human
and seek only numbing pleasure.

But oh--
so many stones
and even boulders
fall into my life (as with any life)--
sometimes, I can not escape
the pain of injury--

pain that may remind me
of the pain of that night.

But if it does, I then remember
how to soothe the wound
by opening to
this beautiful mystery.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Relentless Bullfrog Song

author's note:

“I have sounded the very bass-line of humility.”
         -- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I


RELENTLESS BULLFROG SONG

Recently a nature show on TV
tried to explain why
the bullfrog thrums all night

but I already knew
how steeping yourself
in the cold dark water
can resurrect deep feelings:

though he has no sweet notes
the frog still feels compelled to sing.

As I listen to the pain
in that plodding repetitive croakingv I also hear a relentless drive
to heal the wound down inside.

Can bluebirds sing
with such gravitas?

I don’t know.  Maybe some.
But at night I listen
to the bullfrog.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Your Mining Song

author’s side:

What singer prompted me to write this poem?

Any singer who ever made me say, "Damn, I wish I could do that."


YOUR SONG

When you were a girl
your sweet instrument
poured forth butterflies
and lovely bubbles

but in time
that piccolo became a shovel:

when you sang you became aware
of riches buried below—
up from the depths
came an echo of gold.

With each song
you dug a bit more—
you went a bit deeper
with each held note.

Now, years later
your richer gold seems
just within reach
yet still seems
to escape your grasp.

So you continue to sing
and continue to deepen
and continue bring up feelings
of shocking intensity—
you cut yourself with song
but create resurrection.

Your song cuts me
by waking my buried wounds

but if I then deepen down
to tend to the healing
in my depths, I discover
small pieces of gold.

I thank you for waking us
with your mining song of love.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Thoughts from a Crawler

author's note:

“Kids, be concerned when they call you America’s most valuable natural resource.  Have you seen what they’ve done to the other natural resources?”
           -- Utah Phillips


THOUGHTS FROM A CRAWLER

Children must often play strong defense
in order to survive

but I believe
the battle we face as adults
may require even more courage

because as kids we work in our sleep
but to thrive as adults, we must awake
and work hard to break
the bindings of the cocoons we’ve built--
we must convince the child
still struggling to survive
the break will allow the child to live.

As I crawl along, I leave
a trail of shells behind me--
yes, I’ve must shed more
before I’m free
but what I’m leaving behind
shows this way can lead to success.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

On the Other Side of Numb

author's note:

I think we're going to have to fight to keep our nerve endings in this new world we've created.


ON THE OTHER SIDE OF NUMB

I couldn’t escape the vague sense
of something wrong inside

but when I asked the doctor
what the problem was
he asked me:
how do you feel?

and when I couldn’t clearly answer
I feared I might be numb

but then thought:
maybe I’ve found the problem!--

maybe by discovering
my true feelings
I’d open--
the real me would finally be
set free

and my strange malaise would end.

So with determined courage, I began
to poke about
and slowly penetrate down
to what lay beneath
that vague sense

and bit by bit, uncovered…

a storm of confused pain!
Many wounds
connected to
one big wound.

Yes, I also found love and joy inside
but feeling what I felt had not healed me
as hoped.

But at least now I could see
the source of my trouble.
I applied balms and bandages.
And when I realized I needed to do more
I learned to stitch.

Yet after years of work
I still can’t give you a happy ending:
I laugh at my old dream
of being a wise man in peace.

Tempting sometimes to stop trying
but I’m aware: to stop would be
even more frustrating--

I can say so because
I now know how I feel--

how I feel
when I doze in the dust
in the small dark corner
and how I feel
when I again
take up needle and thread.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook

The Wounded Beast

author's note:

My small contribution to world peace.


THE WOUNDED BEAST

While fumbling blindly in the cloud
of another storm I’d stirred up…

my hand touched the tough hide
of a growling beast.

Fortunately, I’d already read:
if you run from the wild unknown
you’ll be bitten.
So instead I stayed
and tried to calm the creature
with empathic fingertips

(----)

then
as the rumbling quieted
I began to detect
a sob of loss buried beneath
the thick epidermis

so, my caring deepened--

below the grief, I could feel
the groans of many wounds.

I then realized the obvious:
my healing would require
more effort than I’d hoped--

the light simple process
described in that happy book
would not suffice.

Fortunately
I already understood:
to surrender would be
to surrender my life.

Now, years later, I can see
my work as doctor and nurse
will never be complete.

Such slow tedious progress!
But I do feel better
and besides
I find meaning in this job.
So why stop?

But ah!--
knowing the pain
of dealing with pain
I can’t really blame
those who shirk the chore.

Nonetheless, I may still become upset
when I hear some of them mock
those who do choose to do
exploratory surgery
on the inner self--

their obtuse arrogance echoes
the bullhorn that long ago
blasted me to silence

and so, by reflex
I may begin to rage within--
rage until
I’ve dimmed myself
in another storm cloud.

But then
as I try to find my light
sometimes I remember
to reach down with
empathic fingertips
and work to heal
the wounded beast.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

Beautiful Cup

author's note:

I was reading the dictionary.  I thought it was a poem about everything.
                -- Steven Wright


BEAUTIFUL CUP

As I lift the porcelain cup
I hardly notice
the delicate pattern
of flowing green vines
dotted
with little pink roses

no--
my eye goes straight to the place on the lip
where I glued back the chip
after the accident:

despite the solid patch
I can still see a thin nervous line
a downward arc.

A lovely cup ruined
but no--

before the break
it was pretty, yes
but also: pretty mundane...
boring.

Now the cup wears a distinctive mark--
beautiful to me because
I'm reminded of the beauty of all those
who work so hard to heal the wound.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
common courage: poetry ebook