Stopping with the Flow

author’s note:

On this day before the Winter Solstice, in the darkest time of year, I revisit this poem…

…written before “twitter” became another good word stolen by popular culture.
 

NIGHT WINTER WIND

The rabbit wrote an alien message
with its tripod paws
through the snow fields
as a dark wind
carved its ferocity
into the side of a drift.  That wind laughed
at my attempts
to find shelter inside my thoughts.

In such cold fire,
the owl almost
seemed friendly—the owl channeled a spirit
all night long

but gave no answers or glad tidings.

Yet despite these conditions
my senses expanded—
I could feel the sweet discomfort
of the bees in their slumber—
the desire to gather pollen never rests.
How the crickets twittered anxiously
in their underground cocoons—
agitated by a song restrained.

Salmon jumping upstream
show how we must sometimes go
against the flow.
But as I stood in the midnight field
Winter let me know
that earnest though I be, I was no match
for its currents and waves.

So I acquiesced
and knelt down on a bare rock
to prepare
for the opening of Spring.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
taking new steps

Our Oceanic Power

author’s note:

As the nations of our world discuss climate change this week in Copenhagen, I thought it’d be a good time to revisit this poem.
 

THE EFFECTS OF GLOBAL WARMING

When the waters rise
high enough to engulf
us all, we won’t bother
to ask “whose fault?”—

because

our new sea life
will be a totally
different way
of thought,
a different way
of being

because

you don’t argue
with the ocean,
you don’t tell the sea
what to do
or where to go—

you just follow the current
because
waves obey laws not rules—

even when standing still
waves move—you may feel
stationary, but the water
has actually shifted you

one mile east or west
or south or north
in the last five or forty
or forty-five
minutes.

So how will you know
just where you are—or

where you have been—or

where you are going?

On the other hand,
with no boundaries to bind you
your senses can grow, can extend

through the depths—
‘til you feel
what the whale and dolphin feel—

you’ll know of fish and reef
long before you ever see them—
you’ll experience
the constant drizzle
of proto-plankton—

you’ll expand until
you blend into others
as they expand, until…

everyone becomes one
massive breathing organism—
until you and I are part
of something that has no parts.

Would we still have thought?
—well, yes, but
   as to where mine end
   and yours begin,
   we’d have no clue.

No more individual hearts—
we would all be one big beat,
a constant boom-ba-boom-ba-boom—
a systole and diastole reciting
the history of heart breaks, the history
of how the heart then joins
back together again.

Was it a catastrophe
when the first cell
split?  Was it a second
catastrophe when
those first two cells
both fractured into
two more?—

because, once they started breaking,
all hell broke loose.

All those divisions couldn’t help
but cause friction, and friction
creates heat—

the engine begin combusting
exponentially.

So the temperature rose until
the waters began to overwhelm us,
until Ocean urged us
to flow again
into its loving arms—Ocean
welcomed us home.

But before we sign this storyline,
we must ask ourselves
——–and fast——-
if we are really ready to go—
ready to discard ego.

For myself, I think so—though
perhaps not so soon—

but as for you

well…

maybe we should just put
this transition on hold.

Because

unless we first disperse
these sombre clouds around us,
wouldn’t we
just muddy the water—?—
and thus remain
darkly alone…?…

But if we can finally remove
those boulders of fog
from our eyes—
if we can clean
until this mess is up—
then we will
have gathered together
our oceanic power—

and thus, beat as one:
boom-ba-boom-ba-boom.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

What I Deny I Know

author’s note:

“I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than
 the flow of human blood in human veins.”
                     -–  Langston Hughes
 

A POWERFUL FLOOD MUST NOT RUSH

If I remember to stop
to listen—
I’ll feel the shovel
bite down when I begin
to wake in the morning––
I will feel

the dark earth break
open—night collapsing
as day
sharpens its flower.

But before that light comes in
if I hold very close, very still
I can feel

the grubs squirm—smell
the white odor
of their ruffled robes
within the moist black loam.

Such sensations
draw me down
to sense again
what I sometimes
deny I know:
the existence of river

underground, but rising

—aching, but waiting
   through the years—

as it slowly pushes past
all the barriers—
knowing

a powerful flood
must not rush.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Too Late

author’s note:

The photo above shows an early attempt to improve my balance.

The pillow attached to the rump has since been discarded.
 

A SYMPTOM OF LEARNING

When we meet
you will know me
by the lightning wound
on my chin

where I’ve struck
down
time and again—

sleepwalking, but awoken
upon landing.

If you’re wondering
why I keep
falling asleep
when I stand back up…

Well, at the moment
even such a small shift
in atmosphere is enough
to knock me out,
dizzy with spinning—

sometimes I wish
I was still crawling
with eyes shut.

Too late—
I’ve already seen
the higher perspective—
I can’t stop seeing.

So don’t fret about
the blue and purple bruise
on my chin.
It’s merely a symptom
of learning.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps