dUNKED

Up from the bottom
  of an old pond,
  that duckling
has seen something strange.”
     — Joso (trans. Beilenson/Behn)
 

dUNKED

In those ocean dreams…

I want to bob on the top
of the water like a buoy
even though I know
if I don’t dive down
I will be dunked

dunked again:

drawn down
by some force of nature—down

to dark depths
where faces float like jellyfish:

they seem so foreign
and yet I’m told
they’re all a part of me—

even the women
even the animals
even the machines.

Occasionally I’ll witness
a face so luminous—
I burst to the surface with joy

but more often I’m greeted
by something much dimmer:
maybe a blank-eyed robot
or a drooling dog.

So next time I find myself
bobbing at the top
I may again resist
when I feel
that downward pull…

even though I know
I’ll be dunked if I do

yes—dunked again.
 

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
myth steps blog

Advertisements

Her

author’s note:

It was blessed good fortune when I discovered the books of Robert A. Johnson.
 

HER

I write to honor a woman
who hides in full view—

whenever I lose her
she watches and waits

as my stitches break open—

she will sew me back up
but I must first guide the thread
through the eye of the needle:

I must nurture her
before she can nurture me.

If you claim
you do not want her
I know your poverty—

I once tried
to leave her behind
because I thought
I needed to be tough
to make this trek
across the desert…

but finally I felt so weak
I had to stop
and as I gave myself up
I realized her presence
then realized her strength—

when I looked skyward
I found her gliding
in a fleet of sunlit clouds

then discovered her again
in the cloud shadows moving
across the brown sand.

At night,
she beams down upon me
from the eye of the moon

as I nestle into a boulder
shaped like her hand.

Some meet her by blessed accident:
a burglar opens a window to rob a jewel
and ends up leaving with the bride.

She comes to me
when I finally acquiesce
and allow myself
to experience perfection…

© 2014, Michael R. Patton
listening to silence: the book

Sophie Sophie Sophie

author’s note:

Many have speculated on the existence of a goddess religion in ancient times…

I now have my doubts.  Even so, I know the goddess is real.
 

SOPHIE SOPHIE SOPHIE

I lost Sophie so long ago
I can’t remember when—

now she seems so foreign

though I see her everywhere:

in the glowing pearl earring
found suddenly in a dark theater

in an elegant hand print on
a frosted window
highlighted by The Moon

in a burning sunrise cloud

in the reflection of that cloud
on the gently burning sea…

so much of life says “Sophie” to me—

including the way
the peasant woman kneels
at the creek as she scrubs
yesterday’s clothes
—her long black hair
   flowing down to the ripples—

I stand there, smiling whitely
with my hands behind my back
acting casual as I remark
on today’s weather

while to myself I chant
this sacred thought:
“Sophie Sophie Sophie”.

But as she lifts her inquiring eyes
I’m startled awake
and ask myself,
 “What—
  what could she possibly see in me?”
 

© 2014, Michael R. Patton
dream steps: the blog

Intense Gentle Essence

author’s note:

Mrs. Creighton, my high school English teacher, was always on our case regarding redundancies within sentences and paragraphs.

So the poem below is a type of revenge.

And yet I thank her, for helping me to keep my language honest.
 

INTENSE GENTLE ESSENCE

Knowing
I may be possessed
by a gentle spirit
if I enter that room…

I hesitate

because of the intensity

and yet, I am drawn inside

because of the intensity:

when I stand very still
and allow my heart to fill
until my brain stops
long enough

for those nerve endings
to unclench their tiny fists…

I can then sense
the subtle rhythmic waves
of her breath…
the warm thrilling mist
of her presence
within me—

it’s both too much
and not enough:
that essence…

collected then dispersed again
throughout the darkness
collected then dispersed again
throughout the darkness

the darkness within
the altar of my chest
the temple of my body.
 

© 2014, Michael R. Patton
new steps