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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  9/1/2015 7:07:09 AM
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  PATTI MASTERMAN
 
 
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  1597.     

My Soul Into Granite

My soul, into granite
Into quartz; into feldspar-
The flesh world can't hold
My roving mind, bold

Ever changing flares, but
Where's the base layer-
Reached not by prayer
That time hasn't raked

My soul's been naked,
For two billion years
O, clothe me in starlight,
In pure dreams of suns, bright

The universe of substance
Subside into me-
I just want to stay true
To myself, in that light

(written to Kelpe, Half Broken Harp)
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1598.     

My Soul Is Not Poetry

My soul is not poetry inside of it
and it is nothing pretty;
My insides are dead, rotting rhododendrons
beside a rusting pitch-fork
inside a barn, deserted for the last fifty years
and too dangerous, to ever go into.

But if it could go inside,
My un-poetry'd soul would hop, crawl, and climb,
in spite of its lameness
up the rickety old ladder, to the hayloft,
And there eat the little green apples,
already wormy
from the gnarled tree, outside the window.

My soul would peer out the window and look for any signs
of the once-life that used to abide here-
To feed it's ravenous hunger for poetry
and then develop the unavoidable belly-ache.

Of course, I know lots of others
whose soul is not poetry, either;
And we are all trying to re-light the same matches
once struck by people, who had flames burning them inside

Which they dutifully copied down onto damp, tear-stained pages;
(so the words would not burn up the paper)
And then there were the copy machines,
and printing presses, to duplicate their fires-
Like carrying a bit of coal to the next door, and the next one
so that everyone could have a bit of fire in Winter.

And the thick water, of all the world's approbation
soothed their old, weeping wounds
While the rest of us not-poets huddled around not-fires
in cold deserted barns,
and picked fresh flowers every day

So that we could earnestly watch them die
all over again, each day,
and pronounce it poetry,
while nobody noticed how many words
we managed to hemorrhage out.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1599.     

My Soul Married Yours

My soul married yours long before it told the heart,
That was your secret gestures, it had been concealing
And shy alphabet letters formed our non-linear talks
On which ancient symbols were awakening with the news,
That my rapt countenance longed to behold only you.
And in Morse code, my riotous pulse was pinging,
In tiptoeing tiny steps, toward your smile-fragranced planes;
With small sips of blind and drunken-wheeling wonder,
On Adirondacks of time, I finally met your gaze.
And together found, we were writing the same vows;
Our fingers following a bright-feathered knowing,
And scented blooms of flowers knew your older names;
And avalanching comets swept clean the turgid dawns.
Then the seeds of forever were pocketed in your breath,
Wreathed by stars, and saved for hidden yearning.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1600.     

My Soul's A Ruined Chapel

My soul's a ruined chapel
In tall grass and weeds,
In woods bright and dapple
My life's gone to seed.

My heart’s a drowned temple
In seaweed and pearl,
It’s idols all broken
And prayer wheels unfurled.

My life’s an old story
That children once knew,
And whispered at night
When candles were few.

My days are thin sheaves
Of a crop that once grew-
Now the gardens are dead,
And the harvest is through.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman