Crow Cry Moonrise

author’s note:

One night as a child, I saw the moon following our pickup truck.

Then I decided: probably follows everyone around.


CROW CRY MOONRISE

Here’s a fable I wrote recently
for you to enjoy and ponder:

The cry of a crow came
at the moment the tip
of a gold moon appeared
across the desert on the eastern horizon.

So the moon believed
it’d caused the bird to cry.
And the bird was sure
it’d caused the moon to rise.

Obviously in the poem
the crow and the moon are both fools.
But maybe the bigger fool
is the one who wrote them both into being—

reading those verses again, I suddenly saw:

I did not understand
the motivations of my own characters—
why did that bird cry?
And why does the moon
still want to rise
when to rise means
you’ll hear all the cries?

After careful analysis, I realized:
the crow had called out because
I’d squelched that cry in my heart.

And the Harvest Moon rose
because one day I hope to rise
and shine a bit of light
to help those who travel through
long nights of grievous confusion.

Okay
but what about the writer?—
maybe he was trying to impress you—
using humor to state a universal truth.

Well yes, but
after careful analysis, I now realize:
I hid my pain and my hope
under that joke.

But though I feel embarrassed now
I’ve decided to publish those lines anyway
because:

Maybe when they hear that crow
some will begin to feel
the cry they’ve stifled in their depths.
And maybe some will imagine
that moon in full bloom
and then begin to feel
their own gold moon struggling to rise.

And if they don’t
perhaps they’ll at least enjoy the jest.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
dream steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

King Kong Dances on the Winter Grass

author’s note:

I write prescriptions for myself.


KING KONG DANCES ON THE WINTER GRASS

As I walk over this expanse of stubby brown grass
I’m inspired by the morning sound
of ice crystals crackling under my boot heels
and for a few moments I become
King Kong—

I dance with my big hairy feet—
pulverizing the cruel ice.
Crunch crunch crunch.

King Kong lets his inner child play
and in so doing, frees the winter grass.

But after only a few minutes
Kong has started to huff and puff
and when I sit down on the ground, I know
I’m just as mad
and just as sad
as I was before my big ape dance.

Yet cleared by increasing my heartrate.
And satisfied aesthetically now:
Yes, I live in a brutal world
but I can still breathe deep
the cool watery smell of this melting ice
and the sharp mineral scent of the awakened soil.

I am a child.  I am King Kong.
I am a lover of the natural elegance of this planet.
And when I release those aspects
I may become a dancing fool

which helps to clear my head
and also helps clear a patch
of yellow-brown winter grass.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

That House

author’s note:

The house in the photo above is that house.  We never thought to take pictures of our own house, I regret to say.


THAT HOUSE

In a recent dream
I returned to my childhood home.

The belly of the whale—
the cacophonous womb
where I danced and wailed.

For years I’ve looked back
so that I might know that house
so that I could move on.

I’ve gone through those rooms so many times.
I’ve shifted through their closets and drawers.
I’ve searched deep, then deeper still.
I’ve catalogued and studied even the smallest finds.
I should be done with that mad house by now, shouldn’t I?

But no, I’m not.  Nor will I ever be.

Because that house keeps changing.
In this recent dream, I opened a new door
and discovered a hallway
that connects the sunny front
with the shadowy back.
That house continues to evolve with each new visit.
That house continues to evolve as I do.
I evolve as I work to change my perspective.

As part of the process
I try to find more sun now
when I look back at that house.
Here’s my idea, my hope:

My present reflects my past.  So
if I can find more sun in my early years
then today will be sunnier too.

The dream tells me:
Our education is never complete.
Always more to be known.
Walk down those dark hallways.
Even a little house is a mansion of doors.

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

A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

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