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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  8/30/2015 4:51:00 AM
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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



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
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman