Deep Autumn Pond

author’s note:

Meditation isn’t an escape; it's a return.


DEEP AUTUMN POND

Years ago
while lolling in the afternoon sun
angling down through the leaves
I suddenly felt so quiet—

I was a still pond.

But only for a moment.
Soon, a falling leaf rippled my waters
and I rose to my feet.

In the years since then
I’ve tried many times
to return to that perfect moment.

And indeed—
if I delve down deep enough
sometimes the eye of the sun
will float up from the muck
at the bottom of this old pond.

And then I can see in the dark.

For a moment, at least.

Until another falling leaf
ripples the surface
and tells me:
time to rise to your feet.

Road to Somewhere: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Beauty Below the Surface

author’s note:

“All the carnal beauty of my wife
  Is but skin deep…”
         -- Sir Thomas Overbury


BEAUTY BELOW THE SURFACE

As a boy, I heard:
Beauty is only skin deep.

So I decided I should try
to see beneath the surface.

And so when I met her
I could see the stitching of her deep scars
and knew she’d healed her wounds.

I saw her beauty
because I was willing
to look down deep
and see her strength.

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

Pep Talk

author’s note:

“Good to the last drop”
           -- Maxwell House coffee slogan


PEP TALK

Have you ever felt the saggy feeling
of playing for a team
that loses game after game?

You may enter each match
with hope
with determination
but after so many losses
you can’t quite shake the feeling
your efforts will end in defeat
no matter how hard you fight.

You may then try
to soothe your wounds
by saying:
At least, we made them earn their win.
But deep into the season
the harsh gray sound of cynicism
can be heard beneath that positive statement.

At that point
you merely wish to hang in
’til the last minute of the last game—
you want to show courage
you want to show strength
as you sit in the locker room
with blood sweating down your face.

At such low times
I force myself to stand
then force my legs to dance—
then force my voice to sing
a song that says:

“I build power in my heart
  as I stare into the abyss
  of another painful loss.
  In this way, I could one day become
  a saint who eases suffering—
  the patron saint of perpetual losers.

“So I must keep playing.
  No time to retire.
  I’ll retire when I die.
  And maybe not even then.”

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

Monkey in a Bag

author’s note:

Another rewrite on this poem.  Maybe this time I’ve finally gotten it right.

But that’s what I thought last time.


MONKEY IN A BAG

At birth, I was given a monkey.

I loved his energy
but soon found I had to keep him in a bag—
at least while in public.

But in private, I feel free
to let him out so he can dance.

With that release, I’ll soon be at ease
and may even dare
to open the front door
and let that simian join the parade.

Ah, but in short time
the mad noise of human society
will start to agitate the monkey.

Fearing he’ll begin to throw feces
I’ll then put him back into the bag.

But never for too long—
when he begins to suffocate
so do I.
My life depends on his.

So for medicinal purposes
we continue to dance—
but with the blinds drawn.

How can I be both proper and free
in our world of social norms?
Can the monkey learn to dance
within the margins dictated to me?

I must find ways to answer “yes”
to those questions
because
as a human being
I’m stuck with this monkey.
And I’m thinking I now need
to rejoin the loud parade.

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