One and One

author’s note:

A simple dream image is rarely simple.
 

ONE KNOWN

I had a dream of
the numeral
                 One.

In the dream
a big “1″
just stood there
daring me
to confuse myself
with interpretation—

knowing I could not resist
the temptation to ask myself:
What is “1″?

The number shoots up,
the number signals us

to form phalanxes,
to build foundations,
to summon our ambition—

“1″ pushes the stalk
from the earth,
“1″ points the spear
and spire—

to lift us to our vision before
we whistle back down the pole
to live the day’s plain struggle.

One stands alone.
Lonely as a telescope.
The number is original,
individual–yet includes all.
For all are one.  So I’m told.
But I’m trying to see—

what One asks me to see:
what I already sense
beneath the ten thousand
glances and motions—

Unity.

To feel is to see:
I am too many fractions
and yet I feel
I remain one
beneath all the fractures.

But sometimes
when I’m filled with the strength
of my individual self
I begin to fear:
am I all I have—Uno?

However,
when I try to work my will
I can not ignore
I am not in control:
I am property.

One has me.

Yet I can know that One
through myself—

but also
through all those other Ones—
including stones,
including clouds,
including waves,
including you—

including all
the shadows
of all those things.

Like all previous
dreams of “1″
this One dream only asked
the question—

it’s always up to me
to painfully bless myself
with one or more
answers.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

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audacious audio

Small Righteous Act

 
author’s note:

“He words me, girls!  He words me!”
            — Shakespeare, from Antony and Cleopatra
 

SMALL RIGHTEOUS ACT

Under the spell
of my layered somnolence,
I’ve neglected so much
that needs tending:

I’ve neglected
my fingernails—I’ve neglected
to root out what crawls
under and infects the pink

and in neglecting myself
I’ve also neglected
this community that
scoots along
like a worm-eaten dog.

But we all spin the wheel—
even in my neglect
I have performed
certain responsibilities.

Though I can’t stop children
from running from
growing shadows,
though I can’t stop adults
from running from
tattered shadows,
I can still contemplate
predicaments—
their motions stir me—
and in my slow-waking
contemplation
I can’t help but love us

even in our crazed
belligerence—

contemplating
the restrictions
of my own crazed belligerence,
I understand us.

In response
to such contemplation,
I’ve begun to clean my fingernails
—determined to turn my mind
   away from neglect—
I’m cleaning my fingernails
because I don’t know how
to talk to you right now.

I’m cleaning my fingernails
hoping that—
from this small righteous act—
I will produce some truth
behind all this
righteous-sounding
hothouse
moon-eyed
generous
verbiage.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
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earnest audio

Bounty

author’s note:

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine saw a mutual friend of ours—a long lost friend—in a dream.

He had died.  She said he seemed so peaceful.

Knowing how he lived, I could easily believe he had died.  However, I had a hard time imagining him as peaceful.
 

BOUNTY

What if the spirits
down the white tunnel
have lied to us
about the peace beyond
death?

What if
the pain of this life
does not abate?

Why would Aunt Maggie
suddenly become happy?

How could she so quickly develop
a new perspective?

Well maybe
when you don’t have to worry
about survival
you can see
so much better.

Maybe
once you step back, step out
you no longer identity with yourself
in quite the same way—
though you still own that life
that life
no longer owns you.  That pain
no longer owns you—you own the pain.

Thus, you can hold the pain
at arm’s length—in a manner of speaking—
as one might hold a nut—

and look at it straight on

then ask yourself,
“Why did
 I ever allow such stuff
 to shell my life?  Why did I ever allow
 my mind to become as small
 as a pecan?”

Through pain we grow—isn’t that
the promise?  So perhaps in death
we can harvest what we have grown.  In death,
we feast on the bounty of spirit
raised through our pain.

Perhaps that is why
Aunt Maggie looked so peaceful
when you saw her
in the light.
Perhaps that is why
Aunt Maggie
shone so much brighter
than in her earthly life.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

Alone at the End of the Show

author’s note:

“I need
  more of the night before I open
  eyes and heart
  to illumination.  I must still
  grow in the dark like a root
  not ready, not ready at all.”
             — Denise Levertov
 

ALONE AT THE END OF THE SHOW

Again at the end,
the movie house
washes out
to sea—

again, sea gulls
perch on the marquee
and imitate the cries
of dreams, awakening me
in my theater seat.  The screen
once more a black blank.  The only patrons left
are bubble gum and the shards
of popcorn.

I swim from the exit, harkening
to the song of the setting sun

but when all suddenly goes dark,
the spell breaks and I say to myself,
“Here is the isolation I really feel—
  isolation so intense
  my ribcage
  could crack open.”

But even so…

it’s not so bad.  Though the cold
shudders me to the core
until my legs dangling down
are numb
and I wonder if
I’ve become bait…

it’s not so bad—life is full here: the ocean
can even swallow whales—the ocean
now reaches the stars.

It’s not so bad
for me to become
innocently small,
a helpless little orb
lacking a boat.

And in a short while I know
the moon will grow bored
with me, with my yearnings,
my philosophy,
and as just before
will draw the fog to shore.
Will pull up
the blanket tide,
will sweep me
back home.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
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