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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  10/30/2014 11:49:22 PM
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  Best Poems From
  PATTI MASTERMAN
 
 
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  1597.     

Our words sound like trinkets

Our words sound just like trinkets to us,
Even if not worthwhile to save,
Thoughts crystallized by flowing days
Are precious treasure just the same.

Though they never inhabit actual books
And no one proclaims their virtue;
Even if they don't out-live ourselves,
When life sets our last curfew.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1598.     

Out Of Emptiness

Everything comes out of emptiness
Arriving early, arriving late
Empty coffers empty eyes
Empty smiles and empty cries

Things want to fill themselves with you
Things you say, things you do
Thoughts you think nobody knows
As all upon your face, they grow

In struggling sun, the dying things
Arriving empty, too late to run
Sterile thoughts, too shallow to live
In lives to shallowness, we give
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1599.     

Out of nothing came the all

Out of nothing, came the all,
More potent than just fiery ball
Gave birth to water, air and dust;
For in matter dwells deepest lust:
One day the universe itself woke up,
And discovered then that it was us.

We orbit now round matter's throne;
In ages past, like stars we shone,
Our bodies culled from myriad ports
To bear themselves, till Earth aborts:
Inside us, many mansions found,
So that from matter, we're unbound.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1600.     

Out of Sequence

It must have sucked to be a Pompeian psychic
Back in Vesuvius youthful, fiery days; or in Herculaneum:
Flashes of some blackened, ash-filled Armageddon
Always intruding, in even the happiest of circumstance.
Curious, frozen statues, in tortured stances
Always blinking on and off in the background,
Like some hellish, neon warning.
Trying to do a reading for the client,
While tormented by a vision of their hollowed, lifeless shell
Angled towards the horizon, propped on their elbows, even in death.
The whole place; a ghost of it's own past, and future sterility:
The prophets should have been
On the first bus or donkey out.
Instead they are piled up down there with the bodies
At the harbor's edge; all their unspoken predictions
Having made perfect sense, at the end.
Who knew the mountain was a hungry predator
That would stop at nothing, to engulf their
Charming, sophisticated world,
Thus saving it for the future generations:
A snapshot incredulously out of sequential times domain.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 
 
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rain poems
 
school poems
 
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman