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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
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
I don’t finish poems. I just give up eventually.
THE CURE
She wanted to express
the complex emotion of that moment
in words
or paint
or song.
If only for her own benefit.
Her plan was:
On days when she felt blah and dim
she would return to her creation
and experience once again
that emotional moment
and in that way, cure her malaise.
However
she soon discovered
the work of writing was such drudgery
as was the work of applying paint
as was the work of crafting a song.
So she decided on a different strategy:
on those bleary days
she would instead open her mind and heart
to the complex emotions
conveyed by artists she loved:
poets
and painters
and magicians who made melody.
And because she now realized
how hard they’d worked
her appreciation for their gifts deepened
and so, she opened even more.
Nonetheless
one night she felt so flat
she could not muster the strength
needed to open her door and enter
the rooms created by those master carpenters.
In desperation
she then wrote:
If I feel too dead to open
to the life that gives life to my life
how can I live?
Honest lines
and yet
they sounded rather mundane.
And so she tried to find better words—
and more of them!—
she wanted to create incisive verses
that would fully truly express
the debilitating frustrating blandness
of that moment.
And by laboring long
she managed to transform those lines
into a melodic poem of color.
Not bad, maybe even good
but still
her creation somehow didn’t seem quite right to her.
Nonetheless
she felt she’d gone deeper
than she’d ever gone before.
And so
though she felt disappointed
she also felt rewarded for her efforts.
And that complex mix of emotion
cured her malaise.
For a moment, anyway.
Years later
she remains frustrated in her work
but keeps on because
she knows she deepens and heals
each time she tries and fails.
What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
Yes, I shout. But I don’t scream. Screaming…that’s much more serious.
A SHOUT
For many years
I held the shout down in my heart
until I finally realized the obvious:
if I didn’t release it
the fire of that feeling might destroy me.
Yes, I could have shouted with a crowd
inside an arena or in a big stadium.
But my shout felt very personal.
The feeling belonged solely to me.
I tried to write it out
but words could not express
the gnarl of feeling I felt.
So I went deep into the woods
and in the shadows I shouted.
No words, just sound.
I shouted my hot noise out.
Shouted until my throat felt scorched.
Shouted until exhausted.
Then lay down in the leaves.
At rest.
Quite cool inside I was.
Until I returned
to the human world.
Having heard my shout aloud
I could now hear its echo
in the fevered shouts of others.
All over this planet.
Our gnarl of disturbance
had disturbed me before
but now it disturbed me much more.
And so I fell from my perch—
I lost my equanimity
and again felt the fire of frustration
rise in my heart.
And again felt the need to shout.
But that complicated feeling
of desire and confusion and hurt
was no longer so personal.
So I wrote a poem to the whole human race—
again I tried to express the inexpressible
and again I failed
but accepted my failure now
because this way I could at least convey
some sense of that feeling
and maybe people would realize
they sorta felt the same way.
So my imperfect verses would also be their shout.
Yes—I would shout those words to the world.
Maybe the world wouldn’t listen
but no matter:
I needed to get that shout out of my heart.
Years later
and I’m still shouting—
sometimes when I start I won’t stop
until my fire burns out.
That way I can rest for a moment in the ashes.
As long as I can get that brief reprieve
occasionally
I’ll gladly do what I must do
to live as a human being on this planet.
My War for Peace: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton
author’s note: Our dreams show us the many creatures we are. THE DRAGON FROG As a child I heard a story about a diamond honed by fire in the belly of a dragon living in a lake underground. But when I asked my teacher How can I get down there? She smiled wisely and explained: the tale was symbolic— the dragon actually slept within me and when I became a adult that glorious golden creature would rise to the surface. Yes, I thought, it’ll roar And the world will witness a diamond blazing on the flame of its tongue. So with great hope, I waited and when I thought the time had come I proudly strode out and opened my mouth believing my oration would dazzle. Yes—like a fiery diamond. Well, I wasn’t a total fizzle-- occasionally I thought I saw some crystalline sparks drifting up but even then the world did not respond and in depression I doubted I would ever be the fire-dragon of my imagination. What I experienced instead was my inner bullfrog mired down in the muck. But as any wise swamp-guide will tell you: deep frogs feel compelled to sing about this muddy life of ours and I swear when I listen closely I can detect promising glints of diamond light in my belching eruptions. And from what I’ve seen I’ve learned dragons must often live as subterranean amphibians before they can birth gems. But I’m honest enough to admit I might remain as I am: a lump stuck in the mud of a swamp. In any case I won’t ignore the impulse to croak— I tried before and died. Each year, the clocks ticks louder and the desire to live shouts louder. Who knows?— under such pressure this dragon frog could finally cough up a few jewels.
33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
sky rope poetry blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton
Michael Patton
sky rope (subterranean rappel) 