Biography of Alicia Patti
I have been writing poetry for 50 years. I have entered some contests and three of my poems have been published in small press poetry books. In the early 1980's I edited and published Freedom's Child, a poetry journal dealing with liberty and individualism. It was a very creative time, and I met many talented poets in this manner. Freedom's Child last publication was December,1982, and it left a huge void in my life; however, I soon took up writing again and have been avid in this regard ever since.
Alicia Patti Poems
My favorite bookmark smells of cherry wood; each time I read, its smell compels me to proceed.
A Day At The Beach
I sit here in my cups wondering where it all went and why. Fishermen cleaning their wares along the decrepit pier seem to sigh with each
Conjurers like us have no need of disappearing acts or card tricks
Would you think of me when the wind whips up the sand and the angry sea crashes against the crumbling jetty where our beach blanket used to lay;
It makes no difference now that the sun has set on western ground. Time will toll the age-old tale for posterity and frown, as sad old men daydream
We’ll never know who the culprit was. The tamburo
a chance sighting eucalyptus trees up a slight incline a moment’s gasp
Two men dressed in gray asked us to leave the grieving room. The son is here, they said. Reluctantly I left my sister’s resting place
Why did Nurse Ratched think she had dibs on all the nuts in the bag? The little power she enjoyed pushed her over the edge. I was there, I know:
How I love the coo-coo-coo! of a dove, especially at dusk when the summer air is redolent with musk, and all around are the sounds
Memories Of Childhood
How they haunt me still like playmates’ naughty taunts. The old church bell the lilacs’ smell,
I saw you walking in the park today, And all at once my world came tumbling down. You looked as though you had not aged a day! - Although I noticed just the slightest frown
It never occurred to me that I would see the end of us come so suddenly: a tornado roaring down the highway past 101 and Grand would be the final brand.
They were told the streets were paved with gold. I remember the pain and pride in my father’s eyes as he pounded the kitchen table, his big fist like a hammer of God, and my mother’s sighs in measured counterpoint,
I wander through these woods alone
at night, when all the world is still
and not a light to guide me.
To my left, careening cliffs of tangle
weed; my right bears brooding
wisps of winter trees.
Surrounded by the mist, I long for home
as one would long for shooting stars
to melt the frozen snow and dare the fires