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frog throat - October 22, 2014s

author’s note:

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


Now I know why
the bullfrog immerses itself
in the cold dark water beneath the willow
all through the night:

baptisms are not done in a moment—
long solitary work is required
to raise the soul from the depths.

Such resurrections
resurrect deep feelings—

the frog feels compelled to sing

but has not yet reached
the high sweet notes…

its relentless coarse croaking
tells us of the drive within all frogs
to heal and heal and heal
and heal the wound…

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


day raccoon - September 3, 2014s

author’s note:

Not based on any particular experience…

…based on so many similar experiences.


At the end of another party–alone

and blank
under a bare light bulb.

As I drum my fingers on
this hard kitchen table
I wonder if I might’ve died
at some time unknown to me
while I talked in my sleep…

then an icicle crashes outside

and with that relief and release
I realize our revolution never ceases.

In the silence that follows
I can hear the deep hill cave
calling to me…I must rise.

But though I know I can find
soft soothing darkness
beneath my eyelids
I wish to stay at this table
for just few more tickings:

because I’m now aware
of how I am as full
and as empty
as this glass of air—
I no longer hunger
for the Spring sun.

In this unexpected expansion
of light—this sudden freedom—
I lift with a new breath
    of peace

    then on the exhale
I lose that open moment in the breeze.

But though I know I’ve arrived
at the end of another ending
I lag a short while longer
so that I may enjoy
what lingers of the feeling—
the afterglow, then its diffusion…

abruptly shut down
as the clock strikes the hour.

© 2014, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

buffalo finches - August 3, 2014s

author’s note:

I return to a familiar theme…

Maybe I’m repeating myself…

I prefer to think of it as “developing a motif”.


Please pardon my absence—

I’d like to squawk along
with all you other birds:

such noise can actually be medicinal

but for a stronger healing
I must walk alone to the mountain lake:

this alien lake, these alien trees
seem to know me—

they know I don’t need pity:
what I need is their understanding…

their wise silence prompts me to listen

but only for so long:

reawakened by the blare
of this alive quiet
my engine begins to rev

so I know I must return
to the grating joyful cacophony
of forces in opposition

that, in truth, only echo
what bangs and clangs inside me.

So, no matter if I’m here
or there, I can hear myself

though still not as clearly as I wish…

© 2014, Michael R. Patton

who are line - June 11, 2014s

author’s note:

Some say we live in a world of shadows…

I say: let’s explore.


Voices from unseen partiers
echo out of the dark distance—

the words unclear—distorted:

an alien sound

perhaps a little frightening.

I absorb the
as do the oak trees—

I feel the sounds
deep within
just as the trees listen
down in their roots.

What resides inside mystifies me
like a shadow kingdom

and so, I keep summoning
long after the voices have gone:

how beautifully strange we are.

© 2014, Michael R. Patton

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