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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  2/11/2016 11:04:09 AM
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  Best Poems From
  PATTI MASTERMAN
 
 
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  1597.     

My Lover He Writes Perfect Prose

My lover, he writes perfect prose,
It pours out of his pen, it goes
To all those parts, yet undisclosed;
My brain, my thoughts, and even those
Admit his words more perfect, far
Than Morse code, from a twinkling star,
Or crickets legs, just keeping time
With Mother Earth's most perfect rhymes.

My lover sets his time to none,
Not setting moon, nor rising sun;
He is no watchdog on the prowl,
No baying at the moon, no howl,
But keeps awake the hours dark,
Just hoping then, to see a spark
From words professed of love, so deep
His spirit's secret hours, keep.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1598.     

My Mind Has Left The Premises

My mind has left the premises,
My mind has gone away:
All my thoughts were blemishes
Upon a perfect day.

My shuttered windows blackened,
With dark sunglasses too,
And busy jaws have slackened-
There's nothing more to do.

Now deep in thought I'm floating,
Through fleshy pods of mind,
And randomly emoting
How memories unwind.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1599.     

My Other Self

In that other place where we dwell together,
I laugh and touch your hands, your face:
It's true that our two hearts there, tethered
Forget their worries for some brief space.

In that hidden world there is no distance;
No miles to thwart our every scheme.
In your clasp there, love, I know I'd dance
Pure joy to see your sweet smile beam.

Would that we could stay forever;
Would that we must never leave-
But naught dwells here can ever sever
The other world to which we cleave.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 

   
   
 

  1600.     

My Plain Face

If finding emptiness, instead of the world,
And what the world thinks beautiful; worthwhile-
I can't help it if I'm made this way,
Though for some reason, I can barely stay

Safe in the doorway, as they make their jokes;
And all the randomness, that our lives cloak,
But if depressed, I've always been the same-
Finding both the self and not-self, strange.

It seems in pieces, and I've done my share
To try to catalog my vague despair;
That I'm a stranger, in a stranger place:
It's written plainly, on my more plain face.
 
Patti Masterman
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman