VoicePost 639K 3:15

(no transcription available)

author’s note:

Yes, I did see such a woman.

It was a waking dream.


BACKWARDS FORWARDS

I saw a woman walking backwards
today and something within me
said “yes”.  The best dreams
are immediately known, known
beyond speech.

Interpretation takes second place
when feeling is provoked.

Someone started to laugh at her--
but I understood his fear.

When she neared the corner,
she turned and started to walk forward
and I felt relived--something within me
again said “yes”.

But after only a few steps
she stopped--as if remembering--
and began to walk backwards
again.  Though now she faced
the opposite direction.

I knew my prayers couldn’t help her--
I know that what is fair
doesn’t always appear fair--

Nonetheless...

because I couldn’t follow her footsteps
I kept wondering about her--
which is prayer
disguised as imagination.

I hoped that people
might perceive her danger
and open those glass doors
--every accident
   is collective pain--
I hoped that distant people
would recognize
her noble mission.

But some accidents must happen.

Will she ever reach the end
of all that backward walking--?--
then return
the same way she came--?--
but this time, looking forward,
put all her perspectives in order--?

Yes, of course--sooner or later--
and then she will tell
of that time
when she walked backward

and her story
will always contain
a beginning,
a middle,
and an end.

But of course
only children’s tales
end so neatly.  Yes,
she will finally turn
and return, but over time,
turn again, turn again,
turn again.

Moving so swiftly,
I often feel dizzy;
moving so slowly,
I often feel bored.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
new steps

VoicePost 446K 2:21

“auto-transcription does not work for poetry” Transcribed by: soultime

author’s note:

Though the poem below is not based on an actual situation...

...it is based on an actual condition.


PINK RIBBON

Though she asks only for
the simple sling
I summon a full force
of 10,000 dramatic soldiers
in order to deliver.

Such an opportunity!

Fighting against my embarrassed ego
I have dedicated myself to her service.

I argue, “Why not?”
After all, she has indulged me
by patiently tolerating
my ornamental descriptions
of her delicacy, her strength,
her heart-felt grace.

Who else has allowed me
to express so much?

So again, I argue, “Why not?”--
consider this: though I offered
to move mountains for her...

she’s placed only one request:
the ribbon of pink silk.

But since heroic deeds daunt me
less than something that binds,
the deeds are less, and the ribbon
is more, so how can I resist
such an opportunity--?

Nothing else
can give my service more meaning.
Without service,
where is our meaning?

So...though I still doubt
that I’ve yet bled enough...

I go to the reeds by the river
to find the pink garter snake
that’s waited so long in the mud--
    waiting to wrap its life
    around the two of us.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton

new steps

VoicePost 442K 2:11

(no transcription available)

author’s note:

Prometheus may be my favorite Greek hero.

We need more like him.


THE PRICE OF FIRE

I brought fire down
from the mountain.

After purposely tempting
the gods of lightning
during a long dry summer

I was finally struck down--finally

a storm god lost patience
with this hungry warrior.

When I returned,
she stood at the kettle
stirring cold soup--
took one look at me, saw
me charred and said,
“Why did you do
  such a thing
  to yourself?”

“I have brought
  fire for your hearth, for
  your soup, for
  this rustic house.
  Fire.”

“You could’ve been killed,
  Fool.”

“But the world and you
  depend on me,”
  I countered.

“You’ve frazzled your nerves,
  stammered your brain, now
  I live with a tremoring shadow.”

“Can’t you see it’s worth it?”
  I said weakly.

I’d hoped for adulation,
but if not adulation, at least
understanding,
but if not understanding,
at least, leniency.

“You want love, but the truth is,
  you did it for yourself--
  now rest.”

And with that, I’d received
my understanding and leniency,
so we sat down
and gave blessings.  Knowing
that we’d deal
with the demons
of my gods later on.

But at least we’d feel warm.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
new steps

VoicePost 290K 1:27

“transcription does not work for poetry” Transcribed by: soultime

author’s note:

“Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.”
                   --  Mary Oliver


COMING CLEAN

From all my washing
--to wear down
impediments...I’ve realized
the painful obvious

fact: washing away
can never
completely erase
what first caused
that battlement.

On the other hand...

neither will forgetting.

This work has also taught me
why someone would want
to forget--

because when
I get past
the anger
underneath
I find grief.

Another obvious secret.

But if I can keep
eroding, I believe
eventually--finally--
I’ll uncover
the fast certainty
of stone.

The one I sensed
all along.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
new steps

VoicePost 444K 2:14

(no transcription available)

author’s note:

“How slowly we flash up in clarity!”
                  --  Nelly Sachs


STOKING THE THUNDERBOLT

As the dark cloud
shadows my path

again, I am made small

and return to
the childhood wonder

of how a cloud builds up
as it searches the earth--
slowly filling
with life
until ready to burst

like an eggplant ripened
nearly to rotting--
every egg must eventually
surrender its shell.

I can’t help but wonder
as I did as a child
how those wispy clouds
not only survive
the tearing wind
but build stronger, fighting.

As they grow, they begin
to hear the thunder god
rumbling within--
the thunder god will use them.

When I sense such forces
I can’t help but wonder
as I did as a child
how my own life
will play out--

you never know--premonitions
don’t even tell us half the truth--

the flash creation
actually happens
so very slow--
no matter how
you urge it on.

I can’t imagine: yet I know
such forces--when summoned--
very nearly kill us.

But such forces, unsummoned--
unexpected--kill us even worse.

So I bow here, working the hammer--
knowing that with each stroke
I stoke the thunderbolt, that I stoke
toward bursting.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
new steps