Still-Life In Silicon Poem by Patti Masterman

No two ever exactly alike, that refinement on spatial infinity,
The stained glass pharaohs of being. Revealed with each
Slight shift of the observer, another hitherto unseen,
Divine intervention of pure and brilliant hues, expertly placed;
But appearing totally random at first glance.
The embodied theme is invisible if you become too involved,
And the tiny details make no sense if you are too far removed.
The translucent washes allow the background behind
To filter thru the prismatic scheme: In the parallel universe outside
You can see only through tiny keyholes of false-colored
Reality, beyond the nearly flat- dimensioned silicon bas relief.
Possessing metallically separated spaces- apparent laws of a specific
Universe, kept deliberately unbreakable except
During the first instant of creation in volcano or forge.
Darker toned offerings used only as shadows or delineations,
So as to not overshadow the inherent luminosity, and to underscore
The communion and transfiguration, of artist into his art.
Visibility being best left to the whims of the phenomenal world;
Sometimes a single stroke of lightning, like a travelling rainbow,
Sparkles certain panes briefly, crossing by on its speed- of- light journeys.
Other times a cosmic camera bulb may flash- freeze the surface for
A vivid pause, enflaming the metal- clad portrait.
At odd and unexpected times, there are the eclipses;
By default resembling most of all, an Armageddon,
(knowing it hasn’t arrived yet as the fused glass is not melted into
brilliant puddles on the chapel floor) ,
Arriving belatedly, out of sync with the portrayal above.
Escaping out directly into the palette- rendered tale, a needed
Time machine diversion for those imprisoned behind it.
Times interface only endows it with a certain dated realism:
The figures forever frozen like Epyptian tomb paintings, and the
Ever-present angels, being the popular ornamentation of that era and style.
Although perhaps divinely inspired it is not above providence:
When rain comes, it gets wet and it’s candescent light temporarily grows dim.
If you look closely you can usually find a dove, wings outstretched,
Hovering in place near the top of the windows,
Made bright-haloed at the instant of creation, by the descending
Benediction of grace bestowed upon the Alpha to Omega
Of each separate incarnation.