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
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Deciduous Human Being

author’s note:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold...
           — Shakespeare, from “Sonnet 73”

To that I say: Wait and I'll be back.


THE DECIDUOUS HUMAN BEING

“Behold!  Behold!  Behold!”
The wise one told me:
“Look
 and you will feel

“the loving sacrifice
 made by that dark bed of dead leaves
 beneath the tree.

“Then look again
 and feel
 the little fist of green life
 struggling to break the shell of that acorn.

“Now look once more
 and feel—feel
 the branches straining upward
 as the tree strives to reach the sun.

“Behold!  Behold!  Behold!”

But when I tried to feel the life of the tree
as instructed
I felt my own life instead:

As I looked at those rotting leaves
I grieved for all sacrifices I’d made.
All those necessary deaths.

And as I examined that acorn
I again sensed the new life within me
struggling in labor to be born.

And when I saw
the top branches sighing for more
I felt my own desire
for a higher heaven.

Yes, the wise one wanted me to feel
the tremendous cycle of life
of those friends we call trees.
But I think she also hoped I’d find
that same life force inside
the deciduous human being I call “me”.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

My Olmec Head

author’s note:

The Olmec civilization flourished in Mesoamerica from 1200 to 400 BCE.

From them, I learned:

If you want to be remembered, carve in stone.

To Sal de Mar.


MY OLMEC HEAD

One night, as I turned the page
of a large picture book
I suddenly saw an Olmec head
staring right at me—
its enigmatic eyes both full and empty.

In the shock of that moment I understood
why the ancients carved
those huge stone heads
and hid them here and there
in the depths of the dark jungle:

Imagine an Olmec warrior
striding down the forest trail—
feeling quite confident in himself

until chance turns him toward
a big basalt head in the shadows.
And as those all-knowing eyes
stare through his façade
all his puffery dies in shame.

Now, when I catch myself
telling little lies in service of my ego
that indomitable head will rise again
and then I’ll lower within
and confess my weakness—
ending with this declaration:

I’ll give voice to the best of myself
by accepting the pain of honesty.

The ancients who crafted those stone heads
knew
how to speak to us
by creating an echo
of that wordless voice deep within.

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

To the Cast after a Cancelled Performance

author’s note:

When there’s more people onstage than in the audience, theater becomes an intimate experience.

Don’t ask me how I know.


TO THE CAST AFTER A CANCELLED PERFORMANCE

Tonight only one came to see your play.
Another disappointment
in a career filled with frustration.
Some of you may now be wondering
if you should finally give up the stage.

I can empathize:
After all these years
my songs have yet to fill the seats.

Yet despite the hard labor
I keep giving birth—
another child is another child to love.

Nonetheless, I sometimes imagine another life—
a good life, a life of value—
consider this plain fact:

when the lights go out
people call the electrician not the actor.
I could have brightened the lives
of poor people living in the shadows.

But I know from experience
essential drives do not disappear:

Put a plug in a geyser
and the pressure just builds—
eventually, you’ll explode
in a rush of hot raging water.

A glorious moment
that ends too soon
as the pretty white plume
falls right back to earth
then disappears into steam in mere minutes.
Leaving nothing behind.

Yes, you might feel relieved
but just think
of what you could have given instead—

if you’d kept trying to express
what you feel stirring within
you might’ve eventually stirred many.

Or at least that fellow
sitting alone in the front row.
He wants to know what you’ve found.

Of course, sometimes you want to stay
in a life that gives your life so much life
but the wise one within says:
no—time for you to go.

I say: you must obey
but please find other ways
to express your creative drive.

Five years from now
I don’t want to see you steamed—
I don’t want to hear you say:

“I should have stayed in the theater.”

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