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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:
Maybe my family should’ve sung together. We might have learned harmony.
HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF
In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.
But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.
Their music lightened many hearts.
But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.
Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.
By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.
They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—
their indifference now seemed monstrous.
A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.
Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.
Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.
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:
Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.
THE SYMBOLIC TREE
The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.
Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.
But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.
With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.
Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.
Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.
Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.
I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.
Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.
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) 