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author’s note:
A decades of life reduced to a few lines.
THE QUIET DARK
As a fledgling adult, I preferred the cacophony:
I thrilled to feel the energy
of the loud proud mishmash of noise
roiling in the public square.
But soon the commotion infested my head
and I wasn’t able to hear
my thoughts and feelings clearly—
a problem indeed
when choices must be made.
I was struggling to decide
which way was the best way for me.
I was told:
listen to your intuition.
But when I tried
I soon discovered
just how obtuse I’d become
from being in the blare so long.
In search of what I’d lost
I then delved down into the quiet dark.
Deep within
I could feel what I truly felt
and see the trouble in my thoughts.
Then of course, I wanted to find
what was behind
those thoughts and feelings.
And so I continued to explore.
No, I didn’t always like what I found inside
but good or bad, the discoveries amazed me.
Antarctica has already been mapped.
So I’m probing this other strange continent.
However
I’m still obliged to participate
in the cacophony outside.
And since I must, I might as well
open myself fully to the experience:
I’ll grin as I squint into the blare’s bold wind
and let my monkey dance in the mad parade.
I can still enjoy the superficial noise—
I just need to remind myself:
the show is not the substance.
I can play as a child
without becoming infantile
as long as I stay connected
to the wise one I’ve found
below the surface—
in the recesses of the quiet dark.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton
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—
struck down by a shock 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.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
“Strumming my pain with his fingers”
— from a poem by Lori Lieberman
THE WIND STRUMS MY STRINGS
One twilight evening
I heard a gust of wind strum
the out of tune strings of a cheap guitar
abandoned in a trash bin.
Then another gust
rang the guitar
then a third banged the strings.
Though discordant
those chords made a spark
in the depths of my heart.
A feeling beyond adjectives.
I then asked myself
how such sounds could create
that feeling within me
and arrived at this answer:
As the wind sweeps over the earth
our excess emotion gets whisked up
and rides the many currents like dust.
We can feel some of that feeling
by listening to the wind strum
such things as wheatfields
and lakes and trees and bridges
and electrical towers and guitars.
After that realization, I decided
to join along—
to open myself up
and let the wind strum
my poorly-tuned strings.
Who knows?—
my notes, though rough
might spark a light in the hearts of others
the way my own heart was sparked
by the raw sound of that cheap guitar.
But I’d failed to anticipate
the amount of pain in the wind—
pain from the wounds
suffered by human minds.
Pain from all the creatures
struggling to survive.
Pain from the wounded land and water.
All that pain awakened
pain dormant within me.
The hurt rose up
and from my mouth
came a crazed cacophony
that included:
the whimpering pleas of a puppy
and long coyote howls
and low ghostly groans
as well as the bellows of a fallen bull.
No, my sound didn’t stir many
but at least I experienced some relief
by giving voice to buried feelings.
Since then
I’ve found much more besides pain in the wind
and so, I’ve been able
to expand my repertory a bit.
But the message remains
basically the same.
And that message is:
I hold more than I know.
Which means:
We’re all hold more
than we can possibly imagine.
And to those who say
No, we hold less!
I suggest:
trying opening yourself to the wind.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
For those who ask, “What’s her name?”
I say: use whatever name you wish.
THE GODDESS BLESSES ME WITH RAIN
The gifts of spring come naturally
because Earth tilts on its axis.
And yet I thank a goddess
for bringing the raindrops
that awaken my gray head—
in this moment
I feel I’m being blessed
by one who understands
the struggle of my winter.
With the breeze she tells me:
You needed Winter’s darkness.
But now’s the time to break the seed.
Open yourself to green glorious Spring.
Yes, I know about the tilt.
But I’d surely be a fool
to reject such a loving goddess.
How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton
Michael Patton
sky rope (subterranean rappel) 