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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman  9/2/2014 11:34:43 PM
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Corpus Mundi

We are the life's blood of the corpus mundi
We are the consciousness that's flowing itself
Through the labyrinth; the traffic that moves
Along the venues, carrying commerce of the living
And when we stop or die; replaced instantly by others
So that the greater organism does not cease
Because of a few omissions, or errors of code
As our body also is composed of many subdivisions and departments
And itself would not stop operating due to tiny flaws
And those parts too have their own mirroring armies,
Little foot soldiers, guarding the gates of the kingdom
Monitoring the blood flow that protects life, even as we
Ourselves, are the flowing blood of the corpus mundi.
Patti Masterman



How The World Engraves Itself Upon Our Being

I do not know how one writes poetry
or how bright stars shine only at night-
Although there are theories to be found, in certain writings
that say stars may be seen in the bottoms of the deepest wells
during daytime- if one stares long enough, without blinking.

I do not understand how the sea
may be heard in a conch shell one has stolen
from the bosom of the ocean,
however I have seen children, listening patiently at the open end;
And also, I do not understand how pearls may arise
in some hidden place, simply from an irritation.

They say the earth is round, not flat-
though I have found only the flat parts, in all my wanderings.
Still, I feel sure there is poetry enough left over in the world
that stars and wells and seashells-
And even the occasional irritant-
can write their story in the sky, the sea,
and in granite and oyster-shell, leaving it safe there
so that our children's children, and even their children, after them
can someday find and read again old tales, reborn.
Patti Masterman



JonBenet the Falling Star You Are

She can't remember that last day.

Was it the cord wrapped tightly around her neck,
choking breath and thought? Memory can't be retained
in a brain starved of oxygen. Killer's face
stalking her, with florid concentration-
better to wipe it, like her thighs,
wet with bloodied water. What is being erased:
innocence, virginity, that last Christmas-
The secret Santa visit she was longing for.
This isn't it.

Grace and charm won't save her now,
it has become obvious, she is only child;
merely flesh, miniscule articulated human-
trying to fight some terrible monster
she can't even put a name to. Who knew
the evil in fairy tales really existed? Where
is the good fairy, the hovering angel, the savior
of all good little girls, who've done nothing wrong?
Didn't she say her nightly prayers-
for it must have been this, she was praying against?

Where is Mommy, Daddy; the house so huge and quiet now-
will they never wake? She tries to rise through the floors,
screaming at the sleepers, it's not her time.
But death is the mystery
too large, for her small frame to easily contain.
(With her thin arms raised obscenely overhead,
where frail hands can't scratch at cruel tethers)

The only goodness, that she will forget soon
who exactly she was, and also these strong hands,
that blow which broke her vital mind.
(Before this, all she had known of hands was kindness)

She never looked back again at the shattered window
Of soul; her eyes, where his staring reflection
Wavered forever just out of reach, like a falling star.
Patti Masterman



Paisley World

We can live in a paisley world,
Of colors, all mixed up in swirls.
We can hide in the subterfuge,
Blend in with the curling hues.

For some reverse and some contain
Patterns, to confound the brain.
Some double back, the very same way,
And some are mute, and some delayed.

We won't talk so they won't hear
Words between us, that make clear
A paisley world is best for us;
But plaid works just as well, I trust.
Patti Masterman
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Poems By Poet Patti Masterman