While Waiting in a Distant Province

author's note:

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


WHILE WAITING IN A DISTANT PROVINCE

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

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

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

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

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

Such positive thinking
helped me ignore
my whimpering disappointment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mythsteps · While Waiting in a Distant Province

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Symbiotic

author’s note:

I never lose my empathy.  But sometimes I manage to ignore it.


SYMBIOTIC

When you see me, you see my wounds
then feel my wounds.

then try to soothe my wounds.

I know I’m the only one who can heal those wounds.
I’m not done trying.
But the long tedium of the work tires me.

So I go to see you.

This deep diver needs to breathe
at least once week—needs
the relaxing empathy of our Sundays.

But I’d just stay home and watch the game
if I didn’t know
I soothe your deep wounds too.

mythsteps · Symbiotic

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

How Ego Saved My Tree

author's note:

"Poems are made by fools like me,
 But only God can make a tree."
            -- Joyce Kilmer

Maybe so, but we can damn well help.


HOW EGO SAVED MY TREE

Lost, I was—and tired
of searching for new life.

So when I found
a winter woman of deep roots
sitting cross-legged on the ground
behind a lonely gas station
I begged her for direction.

Without a word, she then pointed me
toward a gray hill covered with a stubble of stumps.

Yes, I said, she knows how much
that wounded land needs me—
needs
my merciful healing.

Now, after much uplifting labor
I have finally realized
the obvious:
I feel small when I feel
I’m not needed.

Maybe not the best way to be
but

apparently the ego
can sometimes serve the spirit:

as I battle to save this hill
I am green spring
and I am gold autumn.

mythsteps · How Ego Saved My Tree

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

How to Sing in Public

author's note:

A pet peeve, but I not a petty peeve, I believe.


HOW TO SING IN PUBLIC

Another loud personality
proudly displays
her stitched wounds in public:
telling us how
life knocked her out

then gave her
many more blows before
she finally woke up

to begin the work of mending.

I truly admire such strength
but

while touting her own courage
the teller of that familiar tale
seems to ignore the bravery
of so many others.

If I’m ever asked publicly
about injuries from early days
I won’t shy away--
no, I’ll sing of my pain--
because someone
might hear her own hurt
in the sounds coming from my wounds.

Yes, I will sing
but not too loud, nor too long--
I don’t wish to diminish
your painful saga
by pretending that I’m
a stitched hero, sublime.

Dancing to Raven's Song: novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Pin

author’s note:

A long poem.  But I tried to be concise.


THE PIN

Early on, I was pushed
to put a pin in my heart
by those who believed
hearts should be pinned

and I obeyed--hoping
they’d then stop pushing.

Well, at first, I was able to ignore the pin.
But as the world continued to push me around
I began to wake and as I woke
I began to feel the pin stabbing my heart--
a stab with every step:

usually just the pin’s point
but

sometimes, that tippy tip tore a sore.

And as I continued to wake
I woke to the people passing--
I saw so many wincing in pain
just as I was:

good to know what people feel
but
I didn’t know how to help them--

I could hardly help myself.

In the distress of this confusion
and the burden of seeing and feeling
so much pain
I grew tired
and sought refuge in a winter’s cave.

But as I kindled myself
in the cold dark
I could feel the pin burn
even more intensely
in my heart.

So I pulled at it
with all my focused might.

And yet
I still couldn’t pry that spike loose

but continued because
to work felt better
than to rest in defeat

and I saw no greater challenge--
to succeed would be
a redeeming accomplishment.

I then realized I’d found
what I’d gone inside to find--
thus
I’d completed my stay in the cave

so I walked out
and around
and once again, saw people wincing--
I saw pain from heart pins
everywhere I went--

I felt that pain
and wanted to tell those folk
what I’d discovered underground
however
I knew I needed heal myself more
before I spoke--
I’d not yet earned the right.

Frustrated I was, but
I did find some comfort in this thought:
by trying to heal myself
(to the highest degree possible)
I would be doing at least a little
to heal the wound that began
at the birth of humankind

and furthermore:
if I opened my chest just a bit more
--a bit more--
some of the wounded in our wounded world
might notice me trembling
in the slow removal of the pin
and see their own struggle in mine
and know again:

despite the frustration of such tedious work
better we fight than lose hope--
what greater occupation
than to balm and bind
the wounds of this world?

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

Meeting the Wounded Woman

author's note:

Highly recommended: The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, by Robert A. Johnson.


MEETING THE WOUNDED WOMAN

After waking from the sight
of a wounded woman
knee-deep in a dark swamp...

I remembered what I'd read:

the "she" a man meets
in his dream
lives within him.

But though still alive
my receptive side
obviously didn't feel so well--
after all, she'd lost a hand.

But how and when?--
I did not know...

however as I pondered
the blank shock
in her blue eyes
I began to feel
what she must have felt
during whatever crime
caused the loss--
what she still feels
in the long aftermath:

horror at a savagery both rabid
and casual--
stunned confusion
at an injustice unpunished.

I could feel
the frozen fire
of her righteous anger

but also sensed
warm moist ashes of grief
beneath that ice.

I then understood why
a violent dream may follow
a routine mundane day:

if forced to confront
our deep wounds
during the waking hours
how could we complete transactions
or work with movable parts?

But we don’t occasionally confront
and deal with that truth
those wounds may kill us.

So, I need my horrific dreams--
painful though the awakening may be
I need to dream of a woman
missing a hand.

I can shelf that secret
in the back room
while I'm totaling receipts

then afterward
return to learning
how to heal the life
that gives me life.

Progress is slow, of necessity
but when I feel discouraged
I think of the green lizard dream:

how the little fellow sang with joy
because he'd finally managed
to grow his tail back--

he sang of sensitivity regained
he sang of better balance--
such fun, being functional!

That regeneration
must've cost a lot of energy
but what a return--
his song sounded so strong!

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

Stopping My Car for a Deer after Hearing the News Report

author's note:

Years ago, I was told: we must lead our leaders.

I'm trying, I'm trying.


STOPPING MY CAR FOR A DEER AFTER HEARING THE NEWS REPORT

The radio tells me:
at the peace summit meeting
old men can't mend old grievances--

but who am I to criticize them?--
I still can't heal old wounds.

Our leaders lead us into fear

but who am I to criticize them
when fear still rules my head?

Angry disappointment
at the news and at myself
nearly has me driving blind

until I'm struck by the sight
of a deer lying beside the highway--
a casualty of crossing--
the rapid huffing of its chest
tells me death is near.

I'm flooded with empathy
but perhaps I put my foot to the brake
because I see a way to redeem myself
--if only slightly:

I will whisper some comfort
into the ear of that terrorized creature:
I'll ease its sad passage--

I'll gaze into its dark round eye
and beg forgiveness

for what?--
for the failures of all humankind.

But as I slam the car door shut
the deer abruptly stands up
on spindly yet stable legs

then in an instant
it bounds off across a brilliant meadow
to disappear into a copse of trees in shadow.

I hesitate for a moment, then follow...

I don't know what I'm doing
and yet I do.


What I Learned while Alone: poetry ebook
© 2017, Michael R. Patton