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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 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.
Listening to Silence: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
While doing research for this poem, I discovered that use of the word “delusional” has sharply increased in recent years.
Just thought I’d throw that out there.
THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD
Why was the bird so madly ambitious?
We don’t know we only know
from a young age, the bird
wanted to create a song
that would endure after its death:
a song to be sung
down through the generations--
the beat would become part
of the heartbeat of this planet.
Though at first its tune
sounded quite puny
the little bird sang on
believing its sincerity
would one day transform the ditty
into a symphony worthy
of sophisticated orchestras.
A silly notion, yes
but one that encouraged the bird
to keep singing
through all those years
when its song of life
only had enough life
to shake the leaves.
The bird kept singing
even as its frustration
grew from a mild irritation
into a torment
and then a torture.
The bird continued then because
it could hear how that heartrending pain
actually helped to strengthen the song
and could feel how
its voice now sounded all the way down
through the trunk to the roots of the tree.
This development continues to develop
and so, the bird still believes
its song will eventually
deliver listeners into ecstasy.
If no wandering composer
offers to score the notes
the bird plans to fly from its tree
when the song finally feels
ripe to the point of bursting
then that avian will sow the seeds
of its complex melodies
all over the world
so that choirs everywhere can chorus
the wondrous composition.
A grand ambition, but
that bird is obviously suffering
from a delusion.
I shudder to imagine
what might happen
to the poor creature
if it ever wakes up to reality.
But to be honest,
behind my pity
there lurks a bit of envy.
33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton
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.
myth steps blog
© 2021, Michael R. Patton
Michael Patton
sky rope (subterranean rappel) 