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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  7/3/2015 1:10:39 AM
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My heart has got a vacancy,
It's cleaning out its rooms;
One full bath and kitchenette,
Half price, till Sunday noon.

My other renter left this space,
He left in quite a hurry;
His mental state was woeful,
All conflict, angst and worry.

I had thought the suite of rooms
Was nice enough for one,
But he was heard complaining
There was not much view of sun.

He only saw the moon in there,
But kept the curtains closed;
He was afraid of neighbors stares
When he waked or dozed.

He had another life, I'm sure,
And quarters, that were better;
And so this morning, on the door
I found his dear-John letter.

So I am in the lurch you see;
I've moved his things all out.
I'd like a renter, same as he,
But now I'm filled with doubt.

Perhaps my place is too old now,
The furnishings seem worn;
And in the very midst of it-
The place feels quite forlorn.
Patti Masterman



Vainglorious Ending

The whole world longs to fill itself up with drama,
Even a child’s learning to tie his shoelaces
Could occupy several long minutes, easily;
And a divorce could hold our attention till afternoon,
Until the cascade of emotions has frozen over more solidly
And when the motion ceases, there is much less to be noticed.

A spoon’s casual relationship with the China
Is best remembered by acoustic clanging noises;
A knife, as it pierces some flesh,
Muting it to the same tonal key
As the screams that echo off the black, polished metal
Of a casket passing quietly beside us,
While the deeper silence stays locked inside it,
The reversed sounds of an entire lifetime
Condensed down to the muffled scrabblings
Of a few rooting insects.
Patti Masterman



Vanity Will Dress When Other Clothes Fade Away

You will live on forever in this old vanity set, they say;
For you will have filled it with so many hopes and dreams
Here before its mirrors, on this cheap rosette,
Though it a poor imitation, of something better.

And these soft-closing drawers would never hold-
But a spirit has such little volume anyway,
Its lifting can scarcely be measured any normal way.

The dreams were always real. Your spirit will find rest
Among these archaic odds and ends,
The remnants of a life once lived;
Old things have a hidden taproot to the past,
Unlike things not rooted nearly so deep.

Some things will endure until the atoms lose their grip
And wander away, to become other substances similar-
Or else give up, and go back then to dust,
Until found by another time and need.
Patti Masterman




A Russian can take a stilted verse,
Born bow-legged, by a frozen lake
And spank it's rosy cheeks, till spring;
Play it like a well-tuned balalaika,
Warmed by umber-tumblered fires,
While prays an icon fresh from casting
Bent from a jewel-encrusted lyre,
Swathed in firs, in the finest troika
In tall forests, thick with pine;
So that recited soft, at sunset-
Once each day- soon you are mine.
Patti Masterman
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beautiful poems
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home poems
hope poems
kiss poems
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• nature poems
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war poems
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman