Why I Love the Penguin

author’s note:

To all the penguins out there.


WHY I LOVE THE PENGUIN

Why did I respond so strongly
to that penguin video?

Why did I nearly cry
when I saw that little fellow waddle
over the white Antarctic ice?

And why did I sigh
when the bird plonked
into the chop of the sea
then glided
in intelligent undulations
down and down
through deeper shades of blue?
It flew through the water
on wings that before seemed useless.

Maybe in that waddler
I saw how I usually am in the world.
And maybe in that sleek swimmer
I saw my secret desire.

When I go below the surface
I feel the grace within.
A quiet intensity that defies expression
so for the purposes of this poem
I will call it “soul”

knowing that those who read poets
will understand
what I mean when I say:
I feel more grace, more soul
the deeper I go.

But I’ve never been able
to go deep enough
to know pure grace, pure soul.

Like the penguin
I’m only able to stay under a short time
then I must emerge
to waddle around on the ice once more.

I enjoyed the penguin before—
it looked so cute in its tuxedo.
But now I love the penguin
having witnessed
its deep desire for soul.

mythsteps · why I love the penguin

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

That Wise Woman on Guitar

author’s note:

I don’t have the ability to play music.  But I do have the ability to listen to music.


THAT WISE WOMAN ON GUITAR

On a twilight evening
in a foreign town
the fog crept in so thick
I could not see
where to point my feet
as I walked a deserted bridge.

So when I heard
a deep piercing melody
coming from a guitar
I decided I should follow
its thread through the gray drift—
maybe the player could direct me.

And soon I found
a small clear space
walled all around with cloud—
a sheltering bower
a sanctuary.

In the center, stood
a white-haired woman
in a burlap gown.
Her feet in sandals on cobblestone.

With eyes closed
she made those perfect notes
with fingers both gentle and strong.

Though I hated to interrupt
in my desperation, I said a clumsy:
“Hello, can you help me?”

Without opening her eyes
or pausing her playing
she then answered in a weathered voice:
Close your eyes and listen
and you will find your way.

The watchdog in me suspected a trick.
But I’m also a hopeful fool
and in my need
I ignored the protest of reason:
I shuttered my eyes
I stood still
I listened

and as doubt and impatience
slowly relaxed
I began to feel
all those soft confident sounds
move down into my depths

until they found
the higher spirit
hidden in the shadow.

I remained in that peace
for a timeless time
before the hunter in me said:
now, go forward.

So I opened my eyes.
And in an instant, the music ended.
The woman had vanished.
But hey—so had the fog.

Now whenever I feel lost
I close my eyes and listen
until once again I hear
that wise woman on guitar.

mythsteps · that wise woman on guitar

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2025, Michael R. Patton

Our Secret Truth

author’s note:

Alas, I decided to delete my favorite line:

“I stopped squirming like an unearthed earthworm”


OUR SECRET TRUTH

Dreams know where we need to go.

So last night as I slept
an unseen force
lifted me up without a touch
and hung me up
in an open black space.

Though the room had disappeared
I could still see my bed
below in the darkness.
So I tried to wiggle free
knowing I could expect a soft landing.

But whatever held me
would not release me.
And as my anxiety mounted
I begin to fight
and when my struggle proved futile
I fought harder, then harder still

until I feared I might go mad
if I continued
and so

I forced myself to stop
and let my frame sag lamely in the dark.

Then I waited—
enduring the tedious torture
of being pinned—
waited
until the child within
finally surrendered to the situation
and quit whining.

And when the noise cleared
I then sensed
the strength within my soul.
And so my torment ended.
And so I woke from the dream.

So easy to forget what I’ve got
until I’m forced once more
to rediscover that secret truth.

Get the Message: short guide for understanding dreams
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Cliche Tree

author’s note:

I’ve heard we’re in a mental health crisis.

In response, I’m writing mental health poems.


THE CLICHE TREE

Because I felt so weak
I asked the tree at the end of the street:

how can you possibly
grow so green, so strong
in soil so poor
on water so trickly and stale
in sunlight so dingy and pale?

And the tree replied:
close your eyes
and feel your heart
tap down deep into the earth—

and feel your soul open
and rise
in surrender to the sky.

Cliches, I thought.
But in the desperation of need
I did as instructed.

And felt as lifeless as before.

But in the desperation of desire
I waited

and after a long short time
sensed a stirring—
an awakening
amazing to me:

my flat desert slowly grew giddy
with a saturation of rising artesian waters.
I felt as rich as the mole
diving deep in black loam.
My sacrificial kite
burned gleefully
in the fire of the midday sun.

I suppose we say “spirit” and “soul”
because attempts at accurate description
soon sound silly.

So I won’t go on
but finish with this embarrassment:

after a long short time
I began to fear
I might lose myself
so I lifted my lids

to found a street now abundant.

When I then asked “What happened?”
the tree only told me what I needed to know:

As long as you struggle
against weakness
you’ll grow stronger
but
you must stop occasionally
to realize what you truly feel
otherwise you’ll forget
the truth of our bountiful world.

mythsteps · The Cliche Tree

finding Beauty: poetry book
myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Immeasurable

author’s note:

The eyes are the window to your soul.
          -- William Shakespeare


IMMEASURABLE

A group of scientists has shown:
our bodies both smolder and glow.

However
they made clear:
their tests merely measured the effects
of chemical reactions occurring within the subjects.

So are we nothing more
than combustion machines?
I like to think I’m also spirit.

No, I can’t say for certain
that the cars we are have soul--
when I looked into your eyes
hoping they might actually be a window
what I found did little more
than confirm the findings
of those scientists:

you do indeed possess fire and light.

Electrodes could surely have detected
my physical response in that moment
however
what I felt was immeasurable.

So who can honestly say
I lack spirit?

finding Beauty: poetry book
sky rope poetry blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Soul in Corwin's Eye

author’s note:

This poem was indeed “ripped from the headlines”.


THE SOUL IN CORWIN’S EYE

The headline read:
"No Win for Corwin".

and below, a photo showed the pitcher
sitting at the end of a hardwood bench
his head lowered
his shoulders slumped
his tears
hidden in the darkness
of a baseball glove.

The article said
young Corwin had struck out
thirteen batters

but his good work had all been for naught--
spoiled
by one bad pitch
he’d made way back
in the first inning.

Rough, yes
but maybe that loss
will help prepare Corwin
for an adult life
that often contradicts
what so many stories tell us
which is:

if we try for redemption
we’ll be rewarded at the end
with a victory celebration.

Because we accept that belief
early on
life can seem so unjust
later on.

But I don’t want
that sense of defeat
so I’ve adopted a different belief
which is:

our greatest victories
are usually only known
by angels and gods--

they can see the unseen
they can see the soul.

But sometimes
we humans also see the soul--
the soul shows itself in subtle ways.
For instance:

if I focus
I may detect
a clearer light
coming from your eye--
a beam that says
this soul has definitely grown.

Common Courage: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Undercurrent

author’s note:

"Going with the flow" sounds so easy.


THE UNDERCURRENT

When I finally stopped to listen
to what goes on down below the boards...

I began to detect
a powerful undercurrent
moving quietly
beneath my little boat.

Now, after years
of real-life experimentation
I feel I can state with confidence:

though I move the wheel
this way and that
the current’s the one
actually steering this vessel.
I may plan, but that force decides--
it knows how my spirit needs to grow.
And in service to that purpose
it may take me
to the very places
I was warned not to go.

I was warned: avoid the rocks

I was warned: avoid the mud

I was warned: avoid the depths.

Of course, those old instructions
have a deep hold
so when I see where
the current's pulling me
I may start to flail and thrash

hoping to avoid the rapids
hoping to avoid the dead pool
hoping to avoid the deep channel.

Yet at the same time
I’ll fight to stop myself
from fighting the current

not just because I’ve learned
it's useless

and not just because I believe I need
the education that comes from
struggling with the cataracts of hardship.

No, I’ll confess
to an aim less noble than that:
I wish to realize my ego-dreams
of coolly staring into danger
with a glint in my eye that says
I will not fail this test.

Common Courage: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Armadillo Mirror

author’s note:

Another mirror.


ARMADILLO MIRROR

I try so hard to see
but seem to make little progress

except when some sight jolts
my eyes open
to another obvious secret.

As on that night
when I stood
gazing at a half-moon
while lamenting
my lack of accomplishment

until a rustling sound
suddenly pulled me out of the clouds--

down on the lawn
I found an armadillo
rummaging through the leaves.

Fascinated
I watched that little armored grubber
trundling along on its bitty legs:
a dwarf clawing for its life
in the medieval dark.

Such resolve!
An irrepressible spirit!
Thriving despite all the hardships--
an accomplishment, to be sure.

As that creature is, so are you--
I whispered this secret to myself
as if channeling a deep soul.

But before my pride
could rise too high
I was struck again
by another realization:

yes, it’s found a way to survive
but eventually, shells limit us--
as any bird chick will tell you.

Can I ever convince myself
I’m strong enough
to live free from this cell?

Will we ever convince ourselves
we’re strong enough?

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

When I Look Into My Eyes

author’s note:

The eyes don’t lie.


WHEN I LOOK INTO MY EYES

Sometimes
when human life seems so base
I will look into my eyes
hoping to witness an inner spirit
shining up from the dark depths.

But at first I’ll usually only see
a reflection of the sadness
that brought me to the mirror.

So then in desperation
I’ll work hard to penetrate
those two black pools

and in that way
go into a meditation
and if I stay long enough
I’ll achieve
the relative stillness
of a relative peace.

Then I can again believe
that I am more than I seem to be.

But here’s the real secret:
occasionally when I’m in that state
I’ll find in the darkness
a purple jewel covered
with countless pure facets--
each one a window revealing
a light embedded in the core.

Though I just get glimpses
I can see
that stone possesses
an untroubled patience
developed over eons.

Maybe you’ll say
I’m only seeing
what I wish to see
but I swear to you:
to see the best of myself
can be as unsettling
as seeing the worst.

What a responsibility!
No wonder we’re afraid
of our own deep beauty.
No wonder we pretend
to be so base.

Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Therapists in the Natural World

author's note:

The extraordinary patience of things!
            -- Robinson Jeffers


THERAPISTS IN THE NATURAL WORLD

I often return to this path in solitude
but I never feel alone--
I know I’m being watched.

See that monolithic boulder over there?--
see how it stares?

And this old dark oak tree
has all its eyes on me.

I sense they know my secrets.

Maybe I’m imagining
but wise ones have often noted
the intelligence of mountains
and rivers and stones.

How did those beings get so smart?

I believe:
in past lives they lived
as humans.
And through lessons learned
managed to elevate their souls.

That’s why this little stream
can understand my pain.
I find its empathy comforting.
Like the others
it listens without judging.

That’s not to say these friends
always agree with me--
they know when
I’m not being honest
with myself.

Nonetheless not one ever protests:
they know if they wait patiently
I’ll eventually lead myself around
to the truth I’ve avoided--
the soul truth.

This flowing green field
welcomes me down
to a bed of wild grass
so I can find my strength.

finding Beauty: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

How Aunt Maggie Got So Bright

author’s note:

I don’t claim to be bright.  But I’m not as dim as I once was.


HOW AUNT MAGGIE GOT SO BRIGHT

I have a theory about why
Aunt Maggie wasn’t wearing her usual frown
when you saw her late last night:

I believe
a period of forced reflection
follows death
and I know when I stop to reflect
I often find my truth—
like the time I asked myself
this question:

Why I do I groan, why do I grumble
over a little cookie that crumbled?
After all, by now I know
every day, some cookie will surely crumble.

Then
after waiting silently...patiently
for an answer
I begin to feel what I truly felt
deep within
and realized my whining
merely echoed the cry
of an old buried wound

then wept with empathy
for the person I am.

So now, when hear someone grousing
over some small thing
I know
the true depth of their suffering.

In such voices I hear Aunt Maggie—

who I believe does indeed “rest in peace”
because in death
she had to stop to reflect
and feel what she really felt
in the life just lived

and so, she’s finally grieved the grief
hidden beneath her many grievances.

Aware of her own pain now
she’s become aware of yours—
that’s why she gazes down at you
with such bright tenderness
as you try to rest in peace
in the deep darkness of your room.

Butterfly Soul: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Heroine Develops Her Belief System while Waiting for the Next Contraction

author’s note:

Short.


THE HEROINE DEVELOPS HER BELIEF SYSTEM WHILE WAITING FOR THE NEXT CONTRACTION

Kinda cruel
to push a child into
a world so cruel.
I suppose I was only thinking
of what I wanted for myself.

Well, too late now.

But at least I’m giving a soul
an opportunity to grow.

Yes, we will grow
as I help this visitor find ways
to deal with the madness of our planet.

mythsteps · The Heroine Develops Her Belief System while Waiting for the Next Contraction

myth steps blog
dream steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

A Prayer after Death

author's note:

I want to die with my boots on.

But I’m not buying any boots right now.


A PRAYER AFTER DEATH

I didn’t believe any prayer of mine
would help him
in his last hours
of suffering.

But I could give him
my empathy:
I could sit by his bed
and try to gain some sense
of his innner struggle.

So I matched my breath
to his ragged breath
and winced
whenever his eyelids crinkled in pain.

Nonetheless
he still seemed so distant.

To entertain my impatience
I counted time as his blind hand
ticked against the bedsheet

In that way, I fell into a timeless trance

until with a startle
I felt my heart clunk clumsily
once...twice

then my chest slumped
with a release of tension
and as I sighed, I saw him
collapse inside
with a silent heave of exhaustion.

Suddenly a subtle brightness seemed
to intensify the room--
or maybe I just imagined
the faint glittery mist
that hovered for a moment, midair
then vanished with a quick fade.

I can only say for certain what I felt:
the reality seemed so unreal.  Elevated.

But in the next moment
I nearly laughed:
a process so crushingly tedious
had ended with nothing more
than a quick simple breath.

I felt relieved

but only for a minute

then the grieving began.

Yet even as the sadness rose
I felt the impulse to compose a prayer--
I wanted to give humble thanks
to whatever force might have placed
that blessed event in my path.

you tube channel
Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Wise Words of the Butterfly Soul

author’s note:

I’m trying to tell myself the truth.


THE WISE WORDS OF THE BUTTERFLY SOUL

According to legend...

when lost in battle
warriors sometimes come back
as phantom butterflies
to deliver wise messages of guidance.

So when I sensed
those wings fluttering
around my ears
I knew you’d returned to me

and I waited, hoping to hear
magical wise words
that would unlock my heart.
And then
in a sudden burst of freedom
I’d know true peace.

But you just whispered
this short flat instruction
then flew away:

before you can see the stars
you must first lower your eyes.

Dreaded action!--
but as the legend says:
the dead can see better than we do
because they have nothing left to lose.

And so I looked down to address
that mud heap of grief on my plate

while telling myself this second legend:

after the prison pauper ate and digested
his slop-mess dinner
lo and behold!--
the ceiling lifted
and his plate reflected
a fulsome night of stars.

Wise words can’t do the work for us
or give us strength
but without those wise words
I wouldn’t struggle so hard
to find the strength
to work for the peace of freedom.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton

The Bee Machine Responds to the Demands of its Spirit

author's note:

Buzz!  Buzz!
          -- Shakespeare, Taming of the Shrew


THE BEE MACHINE RESPONDS TO THE DEMANDS OF ITS SPIRIT

In deep quiet I find
someone much more peaceful
than the one I usually am

and yet
I don’t linger down too long--
though I sometimes try
I can’t ignore the desire to rise

but maybe erupt is the better word--

to go a thousand different ways
until overladen with all I’ve taken in
like the bee weighted with pollen.

then I’ll feel the need
to cleanse myself again

in a deep solitary pool of quiet:

striving for a supreme silence
I can never completely reach
because in short time I’ll feel compelled
to leap back up once more.

Some would judge this pattern of behavior
as programmed mechanical action.
In other words:
I’m not just like a bee, I am a bee.

To that idea
I say what my silence has told me:
I’m a bee responding to the demands
of an energy beyond my understanding.

you tube channel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

The Flame in My Silence

author’s note:

Up from the bottom
    of an old pond,
    that duckling
has seen something strange.
      -- Joso (Beilenson/Behn trans.)


THE FLAME IN MY SILENCE

I found silence

while casually exploring
a deep water cave
dating back to the stone age.

In that silence, I felt at peace
despite the depth
and in the clarity of my calm
I saw a single flame
faraway in the dark--

not extinguished by the water, but fed.

I did not understand
why I wanted that flame
but I did understand
I could draw that steady fire to me
by remaining silent

but impatient desire
soon ended my silence
and the flame vanished.

At that point, I realized
the fire might be unattainable.
So, of course, I vowed to make it mine.

In that way
I began a quest of years
and though I still can’t stay
in silent calm for long
I seem to bring the fire flame
just a little bit closer
with every descent.

If “seem” seems to be
a soft ambiguous word
consider this sentence:

Whenever I go to that depth
I seem to travel back
to the age of stone
when humans first dove
into the deep waters
and there, in silence
discovered their fire.

floating leaf video
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Singing in the Sun

author's note:

People once believed our souls went into birds after we died.

But why would they need our souls?  They have souls of their own.


SINGING IN THE SUN

Despite the danger
the bird built its nest
so high and open to the storm--
obviously it wants the sun.

That bird knows me:
its fretful notes sing of my worry.

Yet even in fear the bird sounds so strong.

The bird tells me:
yes, the cold wind
that shakes these limbs
also makes me shake
but I’ll be damn if I let
those blows stop me
from singing in the sun.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Your Mining Song

author’s side:

What singer prompted me to write this poem?

Any singer who ever made me say, "Damn, I wish I could do that."


YOUR SONG

When you were a girl
your sweet instrument
poured forth butterflies
and lovely bubbles

but in time
that piccolo became a shovel:

when you sang you became aware
of riches buried below—
up from the depths
came an echo of gold.

With each song
you dug a bit more—
you went a bit deeper
with each held note.

Now, years later
your richer gold seems
just within reach
yet still seems
to escape your grasp.

So you continue to sing
and continue to deepen
and continue bring up feelings
of shocking intensity—
you cut yourself with song
but create resurrection.

Your song cuts me
by waking my buried wounds

but if I then deepen down
to tend to the healing
in my depths, I discover
small pieces of gold.

I thank you for waking us
with your mining song of love.

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Pedro

author’s note:

I’m a pessimistic optimist.  But maybe that's obvious.


PEDRO

Yes, Pedro and I
still find ways to beam joy
during these spinning days
of confusion and blood.

While I sing
that child grins his cracked teeth, rings
his tambourine--
I pan for gold
with my banjo.

Yesterday, I took him to Congress
so we could sit in the balcony
and laugh at the show
but

I kept on seeing us
down below.
So

I brought Pedro back out
to bask in the sun’s rays
and witness the smiles
of the many wounded. &nbps;I say:
no one ever loses his soul‑‑
it only gets misplaced.

Many claim
that many children now
grow up
with their souls
outside their bodies.
But Pedro and I, we both agree:
it's always been that way.

Still, we’re hopeful fools.
Pedro says

if enough get mended
the balance might tip
then keep on tipping.

To that end
we spindle personal projects--
turning cranks inside our own mines,
hoisting up buckets of ash--
all the while searching for
the occasional
jitterbug diamond.

Satisfying yet also frustrating:
our hands seem so small.

Yes, reports from a thousand battlefronts
tell us we’re not working alone.
But losses seem to outpace gains--
a monster
on the opposite side of the wall
jacks the odds against us.

But maybe the wall is illusion.
So maybe we can bargain.

In any case, Pedro and I remain
determined
to task happy:
my banjo is banjoy
and Pedro’s tambourine
sings with ringing--sparkles
like the bright folk
who hold this world aloft.

Maybe no one hears us
but at least this way
our eyes don’t bruise
when the tears begin to sting.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

author's note:

Skylark
have you anythng to say to me?
          -- Skylark, by Hoagy Carmichael


Listening to a Meadowlark (or maybe a Starling)

Our ancient ancestors believed
the souls of the departed
inhabited the bodies of birds

but maybe they got it backwards:

long ago on a quiet evening
I detected down in my heart
a restless rustling
of ghostly feathers and wings--

a meadowlark, I hoped
(but I could accept a starling).
In any case,
I then understood

why
I lift my arms to the open sky--
I want that union again.
I want the paradox
of being free while obeying
currents above the mundane.

Aren’t we all birds?

Maybe some will say: not me.
But if you feel those rustlings too
I’ll tell you what I do:

knowing I must wait before
I can return to my lark life
I ease the pain of desire
by quieting myself down
occasionally
so I can hear that bird sing
and then remember:
a bird on the ground
is still a bird.

Though I realize
I can’t recreate such song
I still try
because sometimes then
I meet the sky

at least, for a short time.

© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Dancing to Raven's Song: a novel