I am still raw, and at the
same time well-cooked, and
burnt to a crisp!
             —  Rumi (trans. Coleman Barks)
 

THE END OF THE LINE

During his life he’d often cursed
the arrogance of those clouds—

monoliths, so callously ignoring
the pleading of human beings

or else chucking down
lightening bolts
without apparent provocation…

He cursed until
that December morning
he stood waiting
in the graveyard—

the moment when the sunlight caught
a little wisp of cloud
issuing forth with his breath

and in a bolt, he realized
those gods also dwelt
devilishly inside him—

but of course—!—
how could they rule him
from so far away—!—

he now felt much better about himself:
he must have been an important man
to rate such powerful attention—
yes, his gods had been strong medicine—
poking his eyes, twisting his nose—
often, stepping on his toes
when he desperately wished
to go forward—!—

then later, kicking his backside
when he wanted to hang back—

tricking him
down cold dark alleys—
pitching him
to the hungry fire—

yes, he’d been burnt
again and again
yet he felt he still
wasn’t done—!—

even at the end, still not done—!

Now he saw how
the worst of it
was as good
as the best—

there were no longer any lines—
no divisions
between one and the other—

between one breath and the next—
between your breath and mine—

no longer any lines
between whatever he believed
himself to be
and whatever he’d believed
his gods to be—
the gods that’d loved him so:

so mercilessly—

so blessedly—

he saw it altogether—but who
was he now—?—
as the line between
the part of him that knew
and the part of him that did not know
finally dissolved completely…

like a vapor, dissipating…

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
my dreaming steps

author’s note:

After finishing the poem below, I realized I could indeed support my thesis with a mathematical proof (see graphic above).
 

LIVING PROOF

My proof, I know
is not so obvious—
being as it is, invisible—

nonetheless, I will argue
we get better, therefore…
so does life—

get better, despite our regrets
over blind decisions—

in our regret, we fail to see
how life gets better
as age breaks us down—

gets better, as we lose and lose—

I proclaim: I must’ve gained
more than I have lost
because I wouldn’t want
to begin again—
at least, not
where I began.

Yes, the ambulations of this life
contain some weird wonderful magic:

no matter what I do, where I go
I keep heightening
—deepening—

somehow in diminishing
I grow—!

But how can I say I see
such states of being
when this magic hasn’t yet
healed my sight?

Well, though I’m still purblind
I can sometimes detect
the truth
in the dark—
when I use the darkness to feel,
because in deep feeling, I know
for certain: beyond reason:
I am closer to becoming
the one I hope to grow to be.

The one I now know I can be
despite appearances
to the contrary:
because in deep darkness, I can see

and in seeing myself
I can see you too:
see you’re also taller
…deeper.

So therefore, I say
we keep getting better
as we keep losing—

maybe we’ll finally
lose enough
to finally see
how we have always
only gained.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

The above illustration is based on a dream—a sleeping dream.

Since dreams don’t lie, what I believe must be true: we are indeed climbing.
 

MY BEST BELIEF

Sometimes when I stop for air
I then have time to feel my fear—

naturally, I’m afraid—
climbing as I’m climbing—!—
apparently, I grow smaller…
as I ascend—ever
smaller—

yes, the greater
altitude gives me
perspective…

nonetheless
when I look down
my heart—
      so instinctual, so animal—
drops

and then…when
I look back up
my tiny eyes see
only cloud—

but who among us
can truly say
where we’re headed—?—

without pretending to be God—?

I can only tell you: I woke up
and found myself climbing a hill
that then became a mountain
when I woke up—

not knowing
what else to do
(still so drowsy!)
I kept on going up—

but now, as I see it
we don’t really
have a choice—

however,
I no longer
pretend to understand
whatever would be God.

Anyway, to continue
to live by my beliefs
I must push myself
whenever I stop for air
and again feel nearly
overwhelmed by fear

so I tell myself:
“Maybe when I’m high enough
 that animal fear will…give up
 and finally fall away!”

Though I also honestly admit:
maybe not.

In either case, as I continue
crawling up, I hold secure to me
what I believe
may be my best belief:
   no better way
   to endure this life
   than embracing
   my only choice—!

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: “based on a true story”.
 

BRIEF WINGS

For a moment this morning
I again felt those wings…

beginning when
I saw a small bird
hopping among some leaves
then in a flutter, in a breeze
it disappeared—

though I walked on
I could suddenly sense those wings again—
opening slightly—just a bit more than before—
prying my shoulders blades
another inch up, subtly broadening
the band of my chest—

but I dared not push the wings
to unfurl more fully—
in the past, I’ve used impatient force
and lost and lost again

so I continued on
down the street
keeping the same pace,
trying to be nonchalant

even when I felt a little lift
as the wings yawned open
to the first pinion joint

—sprouts drowsily waking—

no, I did not
try to spread—did not
jump into the air—no—!—
I tried not to hope—
tried not

to desire what I desire so much—!

Yet despite my careful balance
after only a few breaths
the wings collapsed back
as if I’d only dreamt them
at the long night’s end.

Yes, I know they’ll return—
but I can never guess how long
between now
and the next blessing—
from past experience: maybe months
but maybe tomorrow.

In any case, I know only too well
I can’t wish them open—I know
I can’t spur the movement
by meditating upon
another hopping sparrow…

so instead, I try
to distract myself—I try
to forget my fervent wish—
after assuring myself of what I know
to be true: one day I will fly—
though I can hardly believe
I will, I know I will—I don’t know
how far, how high, how strong—
I only know I most definitely will:

not fly all the time, no, but I will

because I have wings—still so small
you can’t even see them…still so faint
I can almost convince myself
they don’t exist…can almost

ignore them growing
under my shell.

Meanwhile…

to keep my heart
from hurting, I tell myself
I’m perfectly content
with this long, tedious
wonderful walk.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

Mythological traditions all over the world contain stories of a big flood.  But that makes sense…

“Flood” is a part of life.
 

ARCS, NOT ARKS

When the voice said “arc”
the builder heard “ark”

and so saved his family
by hammering together
the fort of a big boat—

not realizing we actually
needed an arch
to bridge the waters—
to bridge one side
to the other:

a means to connect
black and white
shadow and light
day and night.

Even so, we respect the builder
for his trust, his courage, his sincerity
under the hammer of mockery—

like so many of us
he accomplished much
in his wrong-headedness—

give us credit

but now let us learn
from our brave mistakes—
let us learn a better bravery—

the answer is made clear
after every rainstorm:
when the arch spans the sky
we are told to join
right to left, left to right—
one side to the other—
both to each other

in a band of all colors.

So now we no longer
have an excuse
for our misunderstanding:
no excuse for building
arks that can no longer save us—
no excuse for not building
arcs that can.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

“I have sounded the very bass-line of humility.”
             —  Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I
 

ELOQUENT BULLFROG SONG

I know the bullfrog doesn’t
really feel driven to express
its tender wound by croaking
through the burden of night—

I know the bullfrog doesn’t
really try to ease its grief
by covering its stricken body
with dark water for hours
under the willow…

I know my words are merely poetry…

and yet…and yet….

when I hear its insistent dull sounding
I know the bullfrog is a heart imprisoned—
—unable to fully wail, because of the sharp pain
   yet unable to stop, because of the sharp pain—
the bullfrog is a heart
speaking to me of the life
that comes from death…

when I witness the frog’s long lonely baptism
I realize how the solitude of darkness fosters healing:
allowing soul to slowly rise from the depths.

My words are poetry: my words
tell me my ears and heart tell the truth:
how the croak is more than biological impulse—
     such flat monotonous noise
     is actually an eloquent song
     a song of the great relentless striving patience—
     a song of promise,
     a song to give us hope.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

This poem refers to the famous statute of Nefertiti that can be found in the Neues Museum of Berlin.  However, it can to me through a photograph in a book.

Nonetheless, my response is authentic.
 

CONTEMPLATING NEFERTITI

Maybe I sang to Nefertiti
in a previous life

because her slim sculpted neck
now looks so familiar
to the eye of my heart.

Unlike her, I seem to be made
of ragged junkyard edges
and yet
I can feel her ancient eyes—
    eyes that say nothing,
    eyes that say all—
calling to a quality
deep within me—

how can I ever find
the strength to descend
to such a sound?

But as my eye sees more and more—
as my eye understands—
    as my eye sees
    what can not be said—
    as I hear
    Nefertiti’s quiet lips—
I experience my life
as being part
of that same mystery…

then, despite my doubt, I resolve
to keep diving—to go as far
as I can stretch—
                       to reach
and by reaching, express
what I now realize
can be found
at such great depth.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

For the record…

…as I recall, they really weren’t so big back then.
 

INCONSPICIOUS GIANTS

Yes, there were giants
in the earth in those days—
but don’t worry

giants will appear again—!—

only these will be
of a different breed:

no more flowery
than a common weed—
not one will call herself
guru or priestess—

not one will bang his chest
with the histrionics of an ape
or pretend to be Nefertiti—

and nary a one will beg
to be elected President—

no, they will continue
to bend and tend
as quietly, as steadfast
as the Golden Retriever—

ordinary…extraordinary
plain gold street lamps

whose light we take for granted
during the sunny Summer’s day

but whose light
will show the way
in the long night—
when the distant
moon and stars
no longer suffice—

whose light
in the long night
will finally reveal them
to be giants.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

author’s note:

As Buckminster Fuller told us, we are on a spaceship.

But in the course of our mundane daily activities, it’s often easy to forget.
 

BIG STONE

I’m told a big stone
sits—moves—turns
under our world—

supposedly this spinning foundation
keeps us from falling
down through space—

keeps this Earth
from descending
into a black ocean void—
forever lost—forever alone—
in the darkest depths…

yes, the stone holds us
as this planet races
through an alien Universe
uncomfortably vast—

this stone holds us—
though the temples
have all fallen
and the prescriptions
no longer nurse us
as promised…

but though I know
about the stone
I still feel scared

except in those times
when this fear overwhelms me
and I must find the fortitude
to stop…

because when I stop, I can sense
the round grindstone way down there—
a feeling so subtle as to be unbelievable
and yet a feeling strong enough
to give me strength—

the stone speaks to us—
not in words but with the solidness
of its security…and also with
the great power of its spinning—
a power frightening—

but even when our fright pins us down
we continue to spin, to spin along—
(we have no choice)—held as we are
by that stone.

© 2012, Michael R. Patton
dreaming steps

author’s note:

I thought this poem might be appropriate for the beginning of a new year…

…as we look back to see where we’ve been, as we look ahead, trying to see where we’re going.
 

VERTICAL-THUD GIFT

How discouraging—!—
to receive
the unexpected gift
of being lifted

straight up—vertical!—
for a brief sweet moment…

only to drop—
to land too soon
with a thud—

how encouraging—!—
to now know that what I’m aiming for
is worth the work—

to know the value
of the slow tedious climb…

to know the necessity
of having something solid
under my feet at all times

as I adjust and readjust
to a perspective
expanding so gradually
but steadily expanding.

© 2011, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology