Moving & Expressing

    

author's note:

Though I appreciate the services that Tripod has provided, I have decided to begin a new poetry blog at http://skyrope.blogspot.com/.

I also have an audio poetry blog at http://soultime.livejournal.com/. 

There are still 167 poems listed at this site (and most have images attached).

I maintain a web site on Tripod at http://michaelpatton.tripod.com/, an images blog at http://michaelpatton.tripod.com/artwork, and a dream work blog at http://dreamsteps.spaces.msn.com/.

Michael R. Patton

Wordless Message

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

author’s note:

My own flight pattern only appears erratic to me because I don't understand its purpose.

Yet.

BAT MESSAGE

Bat with its erratic,
                   yet geometric
flight pattern
disrupts my television
reception--

brings me outside
to stand
in the sharp cool
grass.

With my hands
holding the air
still

I gaze at the stars

which seem to have a message
for me

and maybe

I understand the message

though I have no idea.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

Just Visiting

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

author’s note:

This poem came from a dream--which is a good place to find a poem.

In the dream, I went down into a hollow where a group of men were high on honey. But fortunately, I soon climbed back out.

HONEY POT

Men in a hollow under a railroad bridge
dipping from a big cast-iron pot
of gold honey--

their minds thick
with sugar silliness--
rubber-tongued, they goof and lolly-gag,
pink cheeks wet with honey dew.

On the near concrete pillar, a cantina poster--
the sudsy lady
with sashay froth of flagrant dress
stimulates more ladling--

by men desperate
to fire the coal again--
something deep in the gut
was knocked cold
way early;
they’ve bowed
until now they choke when
they breathe.

Heavy bubbles rise slowly--

sluggish but still giddy from the honey-drunk,
a man opens to what he otherwise might have missed:
through the dark railroad trestles, he watches the clouds
pass, for the first time in a long time
sees the bewildering shift of shapes--

initially, those billows remind him
of the cantina woman
with all her petticoats gushing up.

But as the clouds continue
to burly and wisp above the tracks,
some come to resemble
the childhood storybook horses and dragons--

then--too quickly--

the spinning fillagree hardens
into clog wheels that shadow
the faces bittersweet. The hollow now a pond
of dead goldfish.

But before they can all
fall off their cans, fall
into sleep on the broken-glass ground,
someone near panic catches
them up with a cry of
            "Honey!"
and reawakened,
they struggle to regain
their previous exuberance and
rabble

as the master-of-ceremonies spoons up
more drollops dropped from heaven’s candle.

Though the original high has dissipated, there’s enough
warmth left

to settle them
into an easy melt, to extend
their reprieve,
to luxuriate their descent
down a slow numb
slide.

Even though this world has become
too much for these honey-sunken men,
sometimes they still understand
that they actually cherish every choking breath--

even when they arrive
at whatever resides
at the bottom
of that cast-iron
pot of honey.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton

dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
http://michaelpatton.tripod.com/poems 
michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

Finding Trust

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

author’s note:

I have found a new challenge: to not make things more difficult than they need to be. 

BIRD’S EYE VIEW

The world welcomed me
with closed doors--

as a result, I soon began to distrust
all doors, distrust calm walks
among sun-filled trees, distrust
the breeze that touched my cheek
with empathy, with admiration
for the part of me that wants
to follow rivers
all the way
to the horizon.

I began to distrust all hills that did not appear
vertical. I began to expect that
all birds
would peck at my eyes. But

even in distrust, I loved every moment,
every sling, every load, every trip,
every slippery slope, every hyena,
every hope, every broken window,
every fallen frame--anything that needed
patching, anything that needed to be
made whole, anything that had
turned
upside down.

I saw myself in all fractured objects.
I wanted to crawl into a cave so blue
that I would feel warm no matter
how cold
the air grew.

And I did crawl.
And I did find
a tattered coat--
a garment with the strength
of ages. I found
what I could not
lose. What I had not
lost. Even so

I felt I had not
found enough. Even so

I walked out on two feet
instead of four. I could

walk out and around and yet
ever so often
look down and feel
that warm blue cave deep
in my belly.

The birds now rest on
my outstretched arms.
And none of them has tried
to peck out my eyes

--yet.

But now I trust myself enough
to have enough trust.

The birds weigh nothing--actually
I think they may have
lifted me up.
I--who aspire to mend
broken wings--find that I require
these creatures--I need them
to share
their perspective
with me.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

Street Mirrors

author’s note:

It seems that a Tripod formatting change now creates extra space between the lines of the poem.

I don't like the appearance, but perhaps it's easier to read.

This new system also prohibited me from posting an image with the entry.

This poem is dedicated to the city of Chicago--my first real city. A city that nurtured my salad days.  In memory, I am nurtured still.

 

TREE MEMORY

 

Down along the dark waterfall cliff

trees at various angles

cling to rock in ways

that remind me of those people--

known only in passing,

passing on the rainy gray street, heads

bowed as they feel the thoughts

rumbling in the subway beneath our feet,

their silence speaking to something

roaring within me--I couldn’t hide from

myself--they wouldn’t let me--

 

the tree roots are

the raincoat feet--

 

the layers of water

crashing--

the howl of the city.

 

© 2006, Michael R. Patton

dream steps blog

shameless self-promotion

artwork for poetry blog

michaelpatton@lycos.com

find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

Socket to Me

author’s note:

Many years ago, I got hold of something too hot to handle. So instinctively, I threw it back down. Or else, it slipped through my hands. Whatever the case, I lost it.

I’ve spend the intervening time trying to get it back.

SHOCK

Looking over at a roof top
I saw
a string of electric lights--
dead at the noon hour.

So I snuck back at midnight,
just to see how the bulbs
might perform
in the dark.

One--only one--burned, but even that one
blinked
on and off--
uncertain of its decision.

All the other lights
were dead planets.

However,
I believed that a simple twist
could make those glass orbs surprise
in an instantaneous blaze.

So I climbed over a wall and up
a tree, then shimmied along
a limb until

I reached that rooftop
and the spiraling string of lights
strung over the roof’s spine.

I wasted no time, but
put a burglar’s glove
over my hand, then, with
heroic anticipation,
eased the one blinking bulb
deeper into its socket.

For one nanosecond, I felt the satisfaction of
securing that bulb--felt pleasure--for one nanocsecond--

then a full dragon charge ripped
up my arm,
danced my legs, jagged my brain, pumped my stomach--

E-lec-tricity--
          like a god in its
          fervor and severity--
gripped my entire frame,

shook my rationality
into watery jelly.

A moment later--after an eternity which
I will reference in the afterlife--
I blew from the roof like a crisp burnt leaf--
          though I’m actually a golden loaf
          whose gold is still hidden
          under the opaque flaking crust.

As I dropped,
my thoughts were those a ragdoll
might think
as it drifts down through
a bottomless pit.

I had only one concern--
to locate my heart, my heart--

which my mirror eye soon found
reflected in the moon.

If asked for an excuse,
I would say that some special force--
          within--
had guided my mind
to that fool’s errand,
had guided me to that string
and its electrical short--

I’m still looking
for that gold--
still flaking off
that burnt crust.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
email: michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

The Value of Monsters

author’s note:

          “We have met the enemy and he is us.”
          -- from the comic strip Pogo, by Walt Kelly

THE FRIENDLY MONSTER

Be prepared:
the Friendly Monster
          can be
          big as an empire,
          or the size
          of a crocodile.

And if the Friendly Monster seems strong
that might be because
you feel so weak.

So I say again: be prepared--

you may hear a knock on your door

and a thunder-rumble of a voice that says,
“I will help you. I will. Please let me in.”

And you do feel you need
some help, you can’t hardly rise
from bed, you can’t think to question,
so you squeak,
“Oh...okay.”

So now the monster goes about helping you
fend off invaders--real and imagined--then
fixes your pipes, stocks your
store room, impregnates
your daughter, piles a load on
your horse, scalds
your cat, siphons gas
from your car--

and once the monster has done all
that--and more--
you realize he now owns
your house--the monster is
the ghost tenant. And the ghost
pervades every single pore.

But you don’t dare say,
“Would you please leave?”

Because then the monster
will begin to sob,
rubbing its iron fists into
tiny reptilian eyes.

You’ll spend
all day
apologizing. Because once
the tears have dried, you know
there will be wrath.

Even if the Friendly Monster does go...

it will go in a huff.
It’ll poke its fang teeth
through your roof, grab a rafter
in its jaws and crunch--shake
the entire house all the way down
to the foundation. The walls will
fissure like children; the plumbing
will pop and spew poisons,
the electric outlets will shoot
sawtooth fire--
as you tremble--

as the monster stomps boards into splinters
with its spur feet, pounds plaster
into dust--

until your shelter rests in
a pile of gutter rubble.

Then the Friendly Monster
will stalk off, nose in the air,
still acting hurt.

“But at least I got rid
of that monster,” you sigh,
looking for the bright side.

Until--

lo and behold!--

the next day,
the Friendly Monster will
casually wander by
and,
smiling sweetly,
say,
“Okay, I will forgive you--

“--as long as you let me help.”

But now you feel so much stronger--

and that, I suppose, is the true value
of monsters.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
email: michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

Rendering

author’s note:

Ram Dass once met a man whose eyes burned so brightly, he had to ask the man what had happened.

The man replied, “Solitary confinement.”

HAPPY ASHES

A dragon built
of brick
consumed all
the smoke of its fire

until the fire burned pure blue,
burned fresh green.

That fire filed me down
to ashes,
left me as happy as
those solitary tables
in the dark caf¿. That fire rendered me--
          I’m as empty as a forgotten road,
          a road rising into the mountains, revealed
          by the halos of trees.

The sky opens my chest
as the moon
lights the white peak.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
email: michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

To All You Buckets & Wells

author’s note:

Does a tree falling in the forest make a sound if there’s no one around to hear it hit the ground?

I think it’s total arrogance to suppose that it wouldn’t.

WONDER

Went out in the sun today--the rays
like strings
drew me up
over the water. I am a bucket, I am a well.
I coalesce for a moment
of wonder. Then I disappear.

Without me,
the trees still rustle green.
Naiads still flow
          around the stones
of the stream.
Ores still pulse
within the earth.

Somewhere a child
plays with a ring. And swings
a cup up
to the clouds.
Maybe the child breathes in
some of the same air
that once brought a cry from my lungs--
          and the same storm carries that cry
          aloft--

and as that child
lifts its voice,
I sound another heart.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
email: michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com

House of Mirrors

author’s note:

I find that I can’t see the best in myself without, in the process, also encountering the worst.

MY HOME

Home. Every time I wake up
I discover someone else
in the room--so crowded now--I’m forced to expand--
I can’t even open
a cabinet door without
finding a body
curled to fit the space--
a body perhaps dormant, perhaps newly born,
perhaps someone who looks
just like you--

and perhaps
just like me.

These shadows require
a host. They require responsibility--
how do I respond to what they tell me?--
the best and the worst are
both overwhelming--I feel like running
in a circle.

I can not invite
you in--where would you sit?
Too much commotion
for you to be comfortable
in this house.

I feel another knocking now
against the walls of my stomach,
against the walls of my heart.

But I do realize there are
benefits. For one thing,
I have learned tolerance.

Can I now hope to receive:
the recompense of
your tolerance?--

can you be tolerant of me--
of me and all my
spiders and cats, all my mongrels,
Mongols, buzzards, crones
war heroes, cattle herds,
megaphones,
sulking ghosts,
ladies in silhouette,
bank robbers, monks,
mountebanks, wounded doctors,
seamstresses, sewer lines,
altars, robots, toads,

that high-stepping dictator
with his servant girl in
hangman’s pigtails

and

a dragonfly leading
a squadron of bees
                        --?--

to name only a few.

© 2006, Michael R. Patton
dream steps blog
shameless self-promotion
artwork for poetry blog
email: michaelpatton@lycos.com
find The Raven’s Way at amazon.com