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author’s note:
Posting this poem each year has become a Christmas tradition with me.
THE LIGHT OF DECEMBER AT MIDNIGHT
Night feels darker in December
and as I open to
the strange deep quiet
of Solstice
I stop my walk
to re-examine
the outdoor nativity scene
that before seemed so kitsch.
But now
I suddenly see
the pink plastic baby
lying in tinsel straw
is the new life
hidden in my heart–
a slow gestation,
the birth, not guaranteed.
Then I see
that glittery styrofoam star
is the wise one within–
the one who often sighs with sadness
at the sight of my rough antics.
Then–alas!–I see
that plywood cow beside the manger
is the domestic animal I usually am–
the unenlightened me.
Yes, this bovine is quite dim
but I can see my vision has improved–
consider this:
I’m seeing light I missed last year.
So this hope remains:
to eventually grow
into a wise old child
who can gaze into the mundane
and realize
the glory of its light.
Listening to Silence: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2022, Michael R. Patton
author’s note:
Still pulling.
OPENING THE CHEST
At first, the wooden chest
seemed to be just another
lifeless museum piece—
antique, but cheapened by wear:
a big chip out of one stout leg;
a crack in the pediment;
the wood finish faded.
But those closed doors
piqued my curiosity…
So when the room cleared
the little boy in me
stepped over the cord
and tried to swing open
those two doors—
feeling the tightness
of the creaking hinges
in my own chest.
But despite the tension building within
I kept opening:
obeying my spirit
by fighting that resistance.
I pulled, I pulled
until
a sudden piercing pain
brought the relief of release:
a welling glow spread
out from my center
as I stood, transfixed—
witnessing
that goblet on the top shelf—
its silver plating tarnished
and diminished with dust—
so plain!
but also so open
as if to say:
here I am—
ready to be filled
so I can give
what I’ve received.
I felt the humility
of naked exposure—
I felt the tears
and bold strength
of willing sacrifice
(the victorious surrender).
But at that point
I stopped myself
because
I dared not go too deep
in such a proper public place.
Ironic:
I rarely find meaning
in those spaces and things
that’re supposed to be meaningful.
More often I find meaning
by glorious accident.
I can’t seem to manufacture
such experience
but I can return
to that greater response
by remembering
the blessed chance event.
Return again and again.
© 2019, Michael R. Patton
My War for Peace: poetry ebook
Michael Patton
sky rope (subterranean rappel) 