When the Men First Tried to Talk

author’s note:

I guess I could have used women instead of men in the poem below.

But men are more believable.


WHEN THE MEN FIRST TRIED TO TALK

Word had gone out
across the land:
   Men need to gather together
   to express what they think and feel.
   That type of deep cleansing release
   will benefit the world’s mental health.

In response to the call
nine men in our small town
sat down in a circle
at the community center
to share what they felt.

But the first one to speak
began by stammering
then fell into mumbling
then started to cough and sputter

then suddenly
he clutched his chest
and fell over to the floor.

As the others leapt to his aid
a cry issued from the man’s flaccid lips—
a big bellow of pain that froze everyone in their place.

In the next instant, they all collapsed onto the floor—
hit with a blow to the heart.

The men lay blank for a moment
then rose slowly, still stunned.

Apparently the painful lament
of first man’s unseen wound
had triggered a response
from the unseen wounds of the other men.

The nine then realized:
talking about feelings is dangerous.
You don’t know what you might be holding
down there in the dark.
Better to keep the pain in a box.

So only a few minutes into the first meeting
the group decided to disband.

And then tried to shut down
the desire they’d roused:
the desire—the drive—to express
what they thought and felt.
This conflict led those men into
all sorts of destructive behavior.

Of course we know about substance abuse
but there are many other activities
you can use to drown yourself:
one man simply sank

lower and lower
into his TV sofa chair
while resisting orders to resurface.

But like the rest
in time, he sought a prescription for his excesses.
And like the rest, he was then told:

You need to give voice to your deep wounds.

Yes, talking about feelings
can knock you down
but not talking about them
will not only knock you down
but keep you down.

So a few months later
the nine men sat down in a circle again.
Again, they’d work
to raise those shadowy feelings—
but now they’d go slowly, gently.
And pause for coffee and donuts.

Nonetheless
someone still passes out occasionally.
But once revived
they merely shake out their head

then straighten their shoulders
and continue talking about the wound.

Yes, we still dread the deep sting of truth
but these days
we bare our chests
and proclaim:
In order to feel better
I must first feel worse.
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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
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Magic of Imagination

author’s note:

Written after watching the 2019 documentary The Seer and The Unseen.


THE MAGIC OF IMAGINATION

One long-time resident
can actually see the legendary elves
who inhabit our island.

This woman especially enjoys
a quaint village she recently found
in a shadowy stand of oak
between two little knolls.

Yes, I believe her stories
because I can see the shine in her eyes
when she tells how she frolics with them
in a secret forest clearing.
They like to play fifes
and ring tiny tinny bells
as they skip about
in red shoes that curl at the tip of the toe.

I want to see as she sees.
Yes, I find beauty all over the forest
nonetheless
I’d still like to see an elf do its dance.

But until I’m able to defog my eyes
I’ll try to satisfy my wish
vicariously
by imagining her loving descriptions as fact.
No, I haven’t quite eliminated doubt yet, but
the response in my heart says:
if you can feel the magic, the magic must be real.

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