Flying Ointment Poem by Patti Masterman

“This is a subtle art, ” says she;
Her old eyes gleam with secrets rare.
“It’s not the boiling cauld, you see,
That puts the magic in the air.

It matters little, what is mumbled;
The candle flame can’t charge the aether.
And many rites are easily fumbled
By knowing neither whither nor whether.

No powdered coral can tide the storm;
No vaporous draught can call the sprite-
It’s thoughts that give a spell it’s form,
And love, that makes a potion tight.

Allow the brew to fill your senses
And, let the disbelieving grumble-
All their dreams lie caged, in fences;
Yours shall soar, while theirs will crumble.”