Divine Dust

author’s note:

“Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother‘s eye.”
                      --  Matthew 7:5


DIVINE DUST

In these dark ages I’m proud to report
I ingest ever larger amounts of cloud dust
in an effort to clear the air.  I swallow
to keep from being swallowed up.

Having lost our best miracles
our change now requires
such tedious menial tasks.

Returning the dust
to the earth
brings down
the divine.  I’ve been told…

a dragon lies coiled
somewhere amid the darkness of the dirt clouds

I hope to clear enough to see my way
to this beast: this beast can burn me clean
free and clean of my many motes of trouble.

Yes, I know surrender requires struggle

but

my fear of the dragon can be overcome
by my fear of being smothered under
the weight of all this clinging dust.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
myth steps

Knot

author’s note:

This poem reminds me of a travel program I saw on South Korea.  At the border station, the guardian soldiers of the North and the guardian soldiers of the South try to stare each other down, their hands clamped into fists.

They stand in this position of readiness for hours on end.

It seemed like such a waste of energy to me, at first.  Then I saw it as an incredible feat of endurance.


KNOT

Maybe Alexander did undo
the Gordian knot
with one stroke
of his sword–-

but those times are over:
I’ve dulled my blade
trying to cut
these stubborn knots, my knots
have taught me

I can not break
what has bound me up
through lightning
destruction.

I’ve learned
to talk to a knot
as if to a fist: patiently,
respectfully--it knows
if I try to cajole.

So much power
restrained
in that knotted hand.
So much energy
released
as the knot
opens whole.

But I’ve yet to best
my turtle reflex:
when the shadow passes
I’m likely to relapse--
to try to shelter
in the darkness
of my fist.

I’m still talking
my way out.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
100 Best Poetry Blogs

Silence : Drama

author’s note:

“Exploring the silence gives poetic thought birth.”
                          --  Pao Hsien
                               (trans. Paul Hansen)

“This world of dew
  is only the world of dew–
  and yet...and yet...”
                          --  Issa
                               (trans. J.P. Seaton)


SILENCE : DRAMA

All seems to make most sense

when I am

at my most
silent.

But silence
is never
absolute.

As a result,
there’s always
the desire to
go deeper into
the stillness of the pool--

and yet

also the desire
to dawn--to erupt--
the desire for drama--

to sound the stage--to be
the grand duke
the grand duchess
as well as
the whipping boy--
the sodded serf--
the grasping beggar--
the newly-sprouted vineyard beauty--
the scientist lusting
after discovery--

the mendicant
whose eyes reflect
bleached-blue sky--

but also to be death’s lady,
to be a buccaneer who buries
treasure so low-down
only a crazed hero
can raise it.

I want to smudge myself
with all our dust,
then to cleanse myself
with all our tears
until I no longer need
to be here, until I’m only
the sweep of a spirit
following but still pushing
our forward progress
from behind the curtain
of the wind.

To that end
in this life, I’m pulled to dance
but also reigned down--
deeper
deeper
down toward
that which always seems
to be deeper than my reach.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

100 Best Poetry Blogs

My River

author’s note:

When I first heard I should "go with the flow", I believed the flow to be out there.

It is out there.  But I’ve come to realize it’s also in here.


MY RIVER

I tried to work on myself
as if I were wire.

I twisted and bent myself
until I finally learned
we are 90% water.

As we move we flow
even if we seem to be stationary
we flow, we switchback to go forward,
         we continually carve new ways--
         we change constantly.
Even when stagnant, we brew.

We can not contain ourselves.

I now know
to encourage the flow;
I know now
to get out of its way.

But I’m still learning how.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton

100 Best Poetry Blogs

North Star

author’s note:

I really had to question the line: “…by working so hard/ to catch what can not be caught/ I have stoked my power.”

I’m glad to say that I stand by it.


NORTH STAR

Because the waves move
while the reflection
remains still
the North Star
always appears
to be right over there.

But swim as I might,
I have yet to capture
the North Star--

and though I now know better
these arms and legs of mine
continue to plow onward

propelled by a low desire
to seek those earthly reflections
of what exists on-high.

I battle this lowness but lose--still distracted
by the seeming closeness of the reflection--
wanting so badly to believe
that all my straining has finally brought me
within arm’s reach
of the North Star

but then the water breaks
under my hand
and the image smashes to pieces.
A wounding frustration.

Yet in healing that hurt
I build a stronger bond.

But even more ironically:
by working so hard
to catch what can not be caught
I have stoked my power.

I think I will find
the North Star
when my legs learn
to stop kicking.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
100 Best Poetry Blogs

Owls

author’s note:

Dedicated to that which flies about at night.


OWLS

Every night, the owl ups from my chest
in the junkyard of sleep
to fly out the window
and over the block houses, over
the breezing fields, over the half moon lakes
and breathing trees--

to glide into your room
to settle quietly on your heart
to tap your own owl--the owl
that talks to you all day
while you sleep walk.

Night after night,
our owls soar together
over the great land
to share those truths
we’ve hidden from ourselves.

We save each other’s lives every day–
even though you’re now an empty space
beside me,
even though I’ve finally ceased to feel
that empty space.

I dreamt of you last night as if
recalling a hunting song
from my early days.

I’d forgotten I knew that song.

Though I have distracted myself
from the memory
I know your song still flows
through my veins--
I fear the memory
still has something
to teach me.

Remember when I hicupped
this line?:
“We are each of us door
  knobs to all those
  who would walk through
  the door.”

I walked through
and you walked through
and now only our owls
remain to share the story.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
dream steps

Change of Heart

author’s note:

A companion poem to the last one posted.

“Children fill their shirts with
  rocks and carry them around. We’re
  not children anymore.”
               --  Rumi, trans. by Coleman Barks


CHANGE OF HEART

Women and men
die in a foreign land
because I still can’t
believe you
                 and you
still can’t see why
I have doubts.

Children suffer
because I desire
your sweet milk
but won’t admit as much
to myself.

A woman
is falsely convicted
when I don’t tell myself
the truth.

Through you
I’m reminded
I must bandage
my wounds.

We can change future history.

I tell myself
the truth
when I happen upon
a child crying.
Or see a deer
lying beside the highway

struggling to breathe
as it bleeds to death.

When I see something
I can not change
that I want so desperately
to change

I know I have no choice
in my choice
to change myself.

© 2010, Michael R. Patton
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