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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  10/6/2015 1:34:46 PM
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Up Above

Up above, there's a moon
cleaves to earth,
like a lover;
A shiny new orb there
that delicately hovers.

Below, there's a cloud
in the sky,
sailing high,
As the sigh of a bird
under cover.

And inside me, are wings
fighting hard,
just to sing;
and a song that belongs
to a lover.
Patti Masterman



Upright Lands

The heart holds periscopes of intangible void,
Stereoscopic wavelengths known only to flesh;
The coiled cells lined up like binocular buoys
On the restless waves, that being disgorges.

The lights lighting heaven won't remember one name,
And all paths fill in, when far footsteps fade;
But across the space, feel the echo of lives
That once brushed ours, in a near distant past.

Infinity sweeps the edges away,
We walk in the dumb dust of those who knew
A different day and hour- and yet the same
Endlessness above self-oceans obtuse.

Eccentricity forms the shoreline of man,
There is no normal in our pounded-surf blood;
But the strangeness we knew, in our nursery cribs
Is portent to victories, in upright lands.
Patti Masterman



Urbem Mortis

I like how the sanitary graveyard,
Hides the fertile rot beneath;
Above though it be pleasant, quiet-
What is that strange brown peat?

There beautiful flowers bloom aground,
Though in truth, they're mostly plastic;
And the odd weeds, upon the mound-
They're growing something drastic?

Some people come to see the graves,
Can't find their way around;
If they've no time to search, the knaves
Should not profane hallowed ground.

I love the tombstones standing still,
As though waiting for forever;
And how the lawns are kept so green-
But no, if you please- don't till.

I like it till the sun goes down,
And then I like some other place;
It's better not to hang around;
Some of them might know my face.
Patti Masterman




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
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman