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Patti Masterman Poem
Though I am the algorithm
for dust into dust,
And they may say life arose
simply because it must
In my body, long-dead suns slumber on-
And in my heart, beats a universe’s song.
Copyright © Patti Masterman | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Patti Masterman Poem
If you were a pear,
I'd be a compote.
If you were an ice cream,
I'd be a float.
If you were an apple,
I'd be a pie.
If you were a picnic-
I'd be a fly.
Copyright © Patti Masterman | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Patti Masterman Poem
Heaven's drunkard is the butterfly,
Tipsy on flowers, Mr. flutter-on-by:
Papier-mache wings wafting along,
He flies on currents of invisible song.
He could stop but the flowers are so many,
Beckoning with pastel faces of plenty;
At night he dreams of hot-house bouquets,
And dances with them, a fine polonaise.
Copyright © Patti Masterman | Year Posted 2011
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