sky rope (subterranean rappel)

author’s note:

“It must be a peace without victory.”
                  —  Woodrow Wilson
 

THE TRUCE

Half of
this humble poem
was written, originally,
in the language of the cat,
and half,
in the language of the dog.

So we assigned the translation
to a scholarly feline and canine.

But the cat had to work
at night, and the dog
during daylight–

to avoid conflict.

They both realized
they could not coexist
for the entire time required.
They knew they would
–sooner or later–
erupt into animal instinct.

And then
civilization would suffer
one more tragedy
in our battle for peace.

However, the dog and cat
did agree to be
photographed together
to celebrate completion
of the project.

And to their credit…

you could see restrained sadness
in their smiling eyes–
a bemused acceptance,
an awareness of shared grief
from centuries–centuries–
of dog and cat fights.

I can not help but feel hope
when I see such tortured hearts
struggle with all their history.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
steps of dreams
difficult-listening poetry

author’s note:

When I see a shot of a climber scaling a vertical ascent, under a brutal sun, with only a pile of sharp boulders to break his fall…

…I often feel as if I’m slacking.

But I know that there are many ways to do the same thing.
 

AGREEMENT

Our exhalations breeze–
waving the flags of various translations–

When I say “spirit”, you may say
sun or horse or wind
but the horse says “hay”.

When I say “spirit”, the cook replies:
ingredients, heat, fragrance.
But the thief says: fat diamond
and you answer: divine light
dancing through a stone window.

I understand what the mountaineer feels
when he whispers “by my fingertips”–

though I don’t climb cliffs
I am instructed
to hang on, to twist as Houdini did:
upside down.

I am told there is a net
that must remain unseen–
otherwise, where would
my courage be?

I say spirit–and a voice shouts
Amen! from the darkness–
maybe someone in
an ancient congregation.
Or maybe someone
living a religion
no one else even knows.

I say “black and white”
someone else says
“white and black”–
and a bell tells us both: bend
and blend.

When I proclaim: I will open–
one bell says Cross.
Another bell says Tree.
Either way, they both ring.

A new-born baby screams “Blood!”–
and you say–we both say–
flowing all over the world.

I say 4 by 4 room–you say limitless.
And I agree.

Yes, we agree today.  And we will agree
tomorrow.  And in-between
our agreements, we agree
we will not allow
our disagreements
to destroy us.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
bloneironic

author’s note:

A poem previously posted on my other blog, then revised and then revised some more.

“A man’s body buried in the snow will eventually come to light.”
                     –  old Chinese proverb
 

YOUR LIGHT

Your light remains
long after you
have left the room–

does that light
even belong to you?
Maybe you were
the carrier, the courier–

the vessel that spilled all
over the place–

who still helps me
spill all over this room–
now I can see

my colors brush the floor,
walls and ceiling.  Now I can see

my mosaic
piece back together–
                         a jumble wild
yet stitched in the seams.

I can no longer see you
except through your light.  Your travels
must have taken you everywhere–
           I can see you everywhere–

in here, as well as
out there–in all the hands, discarded skin,
all the trees, all the sawdust, all the stones, sand,
all phases of the moon–
                                 all those boats
                                 on the river–

yes,
in every step
I take.

I recognize you.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton

author’s note:

“My poetry isolated me
 and joined me to everyone.”
            –  Pablo Neruda (trans. William O’Daly)
 

SAME

Here I am
straining away–
trying to break open
feelings frozen–foraging
within myself

when I see–to my dismay–
10,000 people
marching in
the opposite way

to a store that sells
wispy fumes from dry ice–

nevertheless
we both study
the same course:
they have grief,
I have grief;
I build strength,
they build strength.

We both try to
understand what
we can not.  Maybe
I fail more often, maybe
I should ease up.

But I am trying to learn
the visions of 10,000
perspectives–

from big-sky miners,
from deep-sea astronomers–

from garden moles (just like myself)–

among other questions I ask:

What do windmills discover
from the wind, from the grain?

This job of mine
is full-time
and until I develop
enough heart, my mind
will feel exhausted.  So excuse me

if my bellowing
seems poor in oxygen–

I really would
like to give you
a fresh breath–

because we struggle
the same climb
toward peace.

We share the same grief.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
honest audio

author’s note:

I don’t know why I wrote this poem.  I’m not expecting any new arrivals.

I guess I’m expressing my hope.
 

CHRISTENING

The sun child
came from the dark
came from below ground
came from the secret circle
of our arms.

The sun child is also
the moon child, the child
that floated down the river
in a round wicker basket
that you wove.

A basket of moonlight–
that became a vehicle to hold
our love.  To carry
another desirous soul
into a world searching
for its peace.

With this child
the world grows
that much closer
to fulfilling
its destiny–

grows closer
to finding the light
that can heal
our innocent eyes.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
earnest audio

author’s note:

Another poem previously posted on another blog and recently revised.

During my lackluster high school football career, I heard only one half-time pep talk.  It really gave us a charge–for about five minutes.

Perhaps the coach should have told us…

…sometimes you just have to take a lickin’ while doing the best you can.
 

NAKED SECRET

I am not afraid
of depression
of this heavy eagle–
this shadow angel
with its blue flame eyes burning
in the dark mist.

I won’t run–
where would I go?
No, not there–
not anymore.

Now I bask under
a gray sky–
defiantly.  I am wet
in the water, feeling
the tug of war
of waves rocking; I’m washing
internal organs
so that they may process
all the dust I ingest,
so that they may be used
by countless others.

I compliment myself
on being such a complex being.
So monstrous.  So like igneous rock.  In contrast
to my lamb-like appearance.

I am the storm mountain.
I am the stone face the storm
cracks, erases–but who needs
a stone face?

I never knew I would be so strong.
I never knew I would have to be.

This depression crept in like smoke
to whisper a naked secret to me–
to tell me I can be
even stronger–to intimate

that I will be required.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
hear these poems

author’s note:

I am posting this poem in honor of Administrative Professionals Day (April 23).

Feel free to slip it into your boss’s “In” box.
 

CATHY CAFFEINE

This poem commemorates
the obscure child book character
Cathy Caffeine–

the tug boat that volunteered
to pull a skyscraper across the ocean
from Shanghai to Manhattan–

a proud prow willing to drink
galleons and galleons of coffee
in a valiant effort to keep
her steam pressure up.

No one ever noticed her–
despite the sun flag on her mast,
despite a heart
she had enlarged
so as to pump squall waters
from the furnace room.

No one ever heard her engine groan–
they only saw the skyscraper
sliding smoothly through seas
that bucked and brayed–

the edifice gliding
as if guided by a god–

but since no god
ever appeared before them,
people came to believe
the skyscraper might be
a god itself.

From such mass opinion,
Cathy Caffeine concluded
she had done
nothing of consequence–

       despite the pain
       in her main beam,
       a pain that ran
       from stern to bow–

she believed she followed
a monumental monument
even though
that momentary monument
always shadowed her.

The Cathy of this child book story
can be found all over the world–
can’t we see them?–the churn
of their propellers
gives the planet its spin.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
earnest audio

author’s note:

Another poem previously posted on another blog and recently tweaked.

The monster mentioned in this poem comes from a movie, made in the late 50’s or early 60’s.  Unfortunately, I have forgotten the title.

As I recall, a woman is hypnotized each night as part of a club act.  Her somnolence creates a monster that rises from the ocean waters to terrorize the town.

I saw this movie years ago at the New Orleans Worst Film Festival.  But I don’t consider it a “worst film”–the movie may lack artistry, but it has plenty of raw instinct.
 

GRIEF WATER

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water–
to a small bay
filled with oceanic feelings
all the way
to the horizon–

a wheatfield of mud water, water
soiled by the erosion
of the roiling waves–waves
beneath the surface.

I went to the bay because
emotions are not something
you can hold in your hands.
Not something you can quantify

except to say: it is more, then too much
then less–

but still something–
sometimes too much even when diminished.

Emotions usually feed as whales feed–
in large amounts on small things.
But emotion wants more
even when well-fed.

I went to the water
because I’d already been
to the wood–to the scraggily
crackling underfoot–stumbling
the clumsy root

onto the knee bone.  The dust mold drifting
through the beams shooting
down through the branches
can irritate

grief-sensitive nostrils.

I needed to be washed clean

so I wadded out into the brown water
toward the setting sun, though I knew
I could never reach the edge.  Even so

I listen to
the desire
to lessen distances.

The water rose until the coolness
touched my chest heart.
That same oil slick water
curdles duck feathers
and reflects gasoline rainbows.

Nevertheless, I cleared–

sliding through folds
of slippery copper sun paint;
assuming the chilly calm
of a water mocassin

until I realized I bordered the territory
guarded by that scaley web-foot monster–
the one that rises at night from the depths
after the lonely trembling woman
has been hypnotized rigid.

So I dredged my feet from the water muck,
I walked myself back out:
         changed now–yes, somehow
collected through dispersion; strengthened
by giving up.

I still don’t understand
how this mechanism works;
I still don’t understand
how to work this mechanism–

so–until I do–
I can’t–I won’t–take credit
for being
the person I’ve become.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
earnest audio

author’s note:

In an interview, the actor Tommy Lee Jones claimed that he used to attract squirrels by knocking two fifty-cent pieces together.

Unable to locate any fifty-cent pieces, I tried to do the same with two quarters.

But squirrels, apparently, are not so cheaply bought.
 

DRY ALIVE

Despite an occasional cough
I am breathing well
these dry days.

Even the simplest act–
    appreciating the squirrel’s
    hoarse, strained barking–
can lead me into real time.

My birds gather quizzically–
wait for puddles to appear

but the wise cloud knows
when to release rain.

To write about dryness
–imaginary emptiness–
vitals my blood.  Honest expression–
even when wrong–corpuscles
this life well.  So many secrets
I’m still trying to tell myself.

Here’s one secret:
           the worst drought
can bring more
than the best rain shower–
I’ve received so much
from dusting on this trail.

When the desert wind rustles
these bare branches into fear
the sky shatters
and yet–I can still see
an open blue heaven.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream work

author’s note:

Another poem posted on another blog and recently revised.  For one thing, I changed the word “insignificant” to “so small”.

I think it’s okay to feel so small, as long as you don’t feel insignificant.
 

RETURN TO CENTER

I dreamed tall trees
that made the home underneath
feel so small, yet
make that home feel
secure.

The drip of the trees
touched my shoulder
like fingers
reminding me
of what I feel at night
when I breathe the scent
of the lake,
but can not see the water.

I dreamed waves made
by a wandering swan.

I dreamed my heart was those waves
as they struck
the rocks
along the shore–

then came back
to center.  All the circles gathering
to a still point–a point

that could not remain
so still–a point I could not
hold, but a stillness that I know
will return

whenever I break
upon those rocks.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps