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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  3/2/2015 2:32:57 PM
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Nothing So Far Away

Children's faces I see no longer
Voices of those vanished long ago
Scenes and places now dismembered-
In the subconscious vaults below.

The leftover pieces fall so quietly
Into the cavernous deeps of mind
Once they were new and fresh as flowers-
Picked but once, and then left behind.

Once upon a time, days seemed eternal
Endless the hours, that we thought would last
But they all shrank down into just some memory-
Nothing's so far away now as the past.
Patti Masterman



Nothing to Say

Defiling time, spent tidings of wild hedgerows
We circumvent the feathered wheeling flight
Copse of down in woeful breasted dove
Portents my winded craft will scuttle
As ill conceived a knocking midnight blows
Fat roosting hens past windmills mocking hours
With loosened arms their towers rock and sway
Docked boats row against mad chiming spirits
Nothing nailed down can have a word to say.
Patti Masterman



Nothing Wind Writes Can Long Remain

The earth makes trails around the sun,
The moon follows closely in its wake;
The planets want to become one,
For all of gravity do partake.

The moon makes a backlit lamp of night,
The sun does cross-hatch on the trees,
Twinkling stars vanish at morning light;
But the dust remembers what it sees.

The waves write in wind, upon the beach;
The sand, where the hurricane has lain,
And shadows do sunlights reach impeach-
But nothing wind writes can long remain.
Patti Masterman



Nothing's as Dead as a Fish

There is a dead fish somewhere,
Rotting deep inside of me.
The smell is visceral, though invisible;
It stinks of abandoned dreams,
Rots with unfulfilled ambitions.
It's dredged up again
With every unhappy circumstance:
Float, fish, through unquarried hopes,
Carrion of your eggs, your staring eyes,
You fins shriveled and stuck to the body.

Once you almost flew in water, but now you sink stone-like.
Once I sank in air, after I was abandoned
Too far from the riverbank.
Now I stink like a day old fish
Found around the frying pan,
Where there is only more fire,
And a flaying knife, to lay me open
To the world's inquisitive stares-
Even if they pretend not to smell it.
Patti Masterman
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman