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Best Poems Written by Robert Masterson

Below are the all-time best Robert Masterson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

Salesman

Step right up! Settle right in!
For I’ve a tale for you I’ll spin.
Step right up enjoy the show,
I’ll tell you things you already know.
The beauty of it is I make it sound new.
This magical tale I’ll spin for you.

I’m a North American Shaman,
A Shakespearean sage,
A snake oil salesman,
Post latency age.

My goal is simple as you’ll soon see,
To slip from your grasp quick as can be.
Cause I’m slick as owl spit on plate glass,
as I talk I’ll pull facts from the cleft of my sass.
By the time you realize what it is that I’ve said,
I’ll be gone to the next show, cause you are brain dead.

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

One Time Around

Morning begins,
not with the fresh promise of a new day.
Instead,
the air is thick with promise and fear.

The sun shines bright.
Its rays only a fraction,
a spattering of pink and yellow light.
This morning is cold.

The day begins in a different way.
Though sounds signal this gathering life,
the morning sky is neither blue nor grey.

Mid morning sky becomes a gathering storm.
	A strong fury,
		blossoming fatalism,
			the end seems near.
		But slowly
	slowly,
	v e r y  s l o w l y,
the storm passes.

Alive.

The clouds clear and promise is again thick.
The sun’s rays are strong,
but still the air is curiously cool.
Warmth is absent.
Warmth is craved.
Its absence is feared.
Perhaps it is warmer there,
	or there,
		or there,
			maybe there?

But here it’s not unbearably cold.
The flickers of warmth from a distant sun,
An ancient ball of gas billions of lifetimes old,
whose rays are curiously and unbearably obscured.
Eight minutes old waves,
illuminate fears felt but not heard.

A bird soars high, 
warm and free
from the thickness of promise,
and the absence of heat.

The sun now sits high in the limitless blue,
with warmth still frighteningly distant. 
Alone, though not, in a day half-way through.
Alone, cold, and now trapped in what seemed but an instant.

The burdens of a day only half-gone,
encumbered by a life only half-spent.
The fleeting memory of warmth leaves only greater desire,
Its passing a scar in a life only half-went.

The only thing worse might be no scar at all.
Then again…

What has this afternoon,
		this evening,
			and this night to bring?
Will they pass with grace, poise, and bright warm sun?
Might they deliver a joy that will sing?

Will they bring warmth from the promise of tomorrow?
Or might the warmth of the sun never reach this day?
Might they repeat the day’s early sorrow?
Perhaps the promise of a day that will never really be seen?
Or will they bring ever more cold, more pain?
Or might they bring the birth of wings?

Whatever, may the end come swiftly.
Let the burning cold come with the flash of a moment.
For this day has been long,
				cold,
					and alone.
These scars are many and they run long and deep.
May this end come like an eagle,
for it be too long if comes with a creep.

It has been too long, too dark and too cold.
It has been far too painful, and too lonely to grow old.

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

It

It is with me all day.
Everywhere I go It is with me.
Sometimes It, I’ve been told, is BIG.
I have no real way to compare.
Most of the time it isn’t.
It just is what it is.
It is enormously distracting.
When the right person passes it grows.
When the wrong person passes it shrinks.
Ii can bring life to be.
As mine has.
It can cause a life to end.
Mine never will.
It can cause mountains to be moved,
Worlds to be traversed.
It can be the center of all thoughts, motives and actions.
It can be the most powerful force in all the world.
But mostly, 
no matter what anyone says,
It is delicate,
It is vulnerable.
It is important – vital really.
It is amazing what an ego can be.

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

Destination Unknown

Every traveler has an end in mind.
The journey traveled only part of the find.
Every road has its share of twists and wind.
Parts of the journey make us feel blind.
Days where the need is to unbind.
The hard part? The path is unsigned.

But in the end, when the score is told,
That's the end when, with hope, we're old.
Despite sometimes harsh we refused to fold.
While many days long and often very cold.
And days, turn years, as the calendar rolled.
The hope? We found happiness untold!

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

Tingle

My eyes tingle,
Heavy with the weight of the day.
Heavy with the palm of pills I take to surrender thought.
My mind is busy.
It races through.
It finds love with which it can’t find success.
My eyes are heavy.
Maybe they too are surrendering,
For chemistry is far too strong.
Usually sleep is week.
My fingers are not cooperating,
 the doorman to unconscious control the gilded gates,
 he so often holds me back.
Dick.
But let me soon.
From topic to topic my brain is restless.
Targeted for?  
It remains elusive.
Is this quality?
Is this trash?
For whom does this text toll?  
Each day, a step. 
So long as we are moving,
For when don’t communicate our emotions, inside I die.
I have for far too long.
The sky tears open and rain gushes through.
They never tell you how much work it is.
They never tell you the hoops through which to jump.  
The sky is a royal blue and this merciless week has, at last,
Returned to its lair.
It will survive.
But it will thrash out again.
We will have days of torment, turmoil and terror.
Yet on magical days the energy of man smiles upon us.
In those moments we are whole.
We are strong.
And there is nothing that will stand in our way.
But now, the little friends fog my vision and loose my place.
They craze my fingers and numb my toes.
They are friends, family and the invaders of evil.
They aid me in healing.
They help me with the wounds of the day.  
I will shine.
We will be strong.
But for now the tingle takes me away.

Details | Robert Masterson Poem

Life

In the beginning,
We play without plan.
In the middle,
We plan without play.
In the end,
With hope we prey.