Finding What's Never Lost

author’s note:

Alas, I decided I needed to change my favorite line:

“I struggled to free myself / from whatever invisible clothesline held me.”


FINDING WHAT’S NEVER LOST

Dreams know where we need to go.

So last night I found myself suspended
in an empty black space.
How high or how low
I did not know.
I only knew
I could not move.

And because I felt so helpless
and because my predicament made no sense
I struggled to free myself
from whatever unseen force
held my flight in check.

But the futility of this fight
only increased my anxiety—
tension built inside my chest.

I feared I might soon explode
or else implode
if I continued to battle
and so
I stopped squirming like an unearthed earthworm
and let my frame be flimsy and empty
and sag haplessly in that unknown space.

Then I waited—
enduring the tedious torture
of being pinned—
waited
until the child within
finally trusted the situation enough
to stop whining

Then in the quiet
my torment ended
as I began to sense a solid reality
beneath my dangling feet.
Again I felt
the strength within my soul.

So easy to forget that secret truth.
Fortunately I’m reminded
ever so often
when a frightening dream
asks me to find
the gain that can never be lost.

mythsteps · finding whats never lost

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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

A Plume from a Whale

author’s note:

I’m a menagerie.  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
lift myself
by imagining I’m a whale.

And so, despite my great capacity
I must rise to surface occasionally

to explode in the sun
with a geyser of steam—
a white plume—
a painful release—
an offering.

Some say that sunlit 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
hoping you may remember:
even the strongest creature
must sometimes surrender
and rise to spout the deep water out
so that it won’t drown in the dark.

mythsteps · A Plume from a Whale

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
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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

New River

author’s note:

“Well, I love that dirty water”
        — from “Dirty Water”, by The Standells


NEW RIVER

“Today I surveyed
 the new river that recently
 cut through our desert town

“and realized the obvious:
 it’s just that old river I once swam in
 making a sharp turn now
 after slamming into a mountain.

“I’m disturbed by its abrupt change—
 now, the mix seems even muddier.
 Wilder too.
 But I know better than to try to talk sense
 to river water—
 I’ve learned you can never win.

“Nonetheless
 I can still protest
 refusing to jump back in.”

So I wrote by candlelight last night.
But then as I lay down my pen
I heard the wise one say:

you know that mud bath
will force you to struggle
to find your truth within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but just look at all that turbulence—
such anger in those waters!

The wise one told me then:
you know how that chaos
will force you to create better balance
as you spin within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but
I can still find my truth
I can still create balance
if I stay on the bank—
as long I dance
as I move through my day
and meditate at sunset.
And read lots of books
during these long quiet nights—
especially those
that are smarter than I am.

The wise one remained silent then
because now I suddenly felt the truth:

When I first arrived
at this slow dry town
I needed a rest
in order to survive.
But now to live
I must dive
back into that mad river water.

mythsteps · New River

Survival: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton