A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

Try the RANDOM button, to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.

*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.

but aren't they all random?

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

letters in war

I see you all the time, and feel good. You make me.
I remember we were such cohorts once. But maybe
it is just the general feeling of disconnectedness
that sweeps in, changing my perception of how
close I am, and was, to everyone - and that
means, maybe we were never any more connected
than this. Anyway. I miss feeling like cohorts.
But a cohort disbands after war, after all. And
though I'm never sure whether we enlisted
or were conscripted, I feel our esprit de corps
like a phantom limb.

I think of you so highly you make me proud.
You are part of me because you make me know
what I could be, you make me proud of what I could be.
Your secret demons don't scare me. Mine
are far worse, or at least - they bask in that
opinion of themselves, as they tear red weeping tears
from my insides with whatever parts they can sharpen
into their inarguable points against. However close
we may or may not be, you are an ally. You strengthen
and fortify my defense. I think of you as a friend
I'd gladly stand as many rounds
of ammunition as were headed your way -
as many as I could stand, in front of you
as many rounds of libation. As many as
you and I could stand together.
For me, the difference between the two
would involve no hesitation.
You and I could stand together.
I hold you dear, though perhaps
we were never close. It is no bother
to me, that we may not be close.
We may not be. We barely know
each other at all, after all.

What we do not know
of each other is surely enormous, and valuable
- incalculably vast and unexplored.
It doesn't bother me in the slightest
to know such a sprawling expanse of wonder exists.
It makes me happy to know you have all this
unknown under your care, and will manage it.
I trust you to, and I too have my wonder to deal with.
The world is far richer for all the unexplored we know is there.
People who rush to say "I know you" - they do not know a tithe
of you. Nor do I. And if we knew each other better - I feel
convinced, I am convicted - whatever wonder the universe
has, that you show me through your eyes, or whatever
knowing you reveals of the things you have inside,
I am convicted and convinced I would know no more of you
than I know now, really:

That you are good. That your pain and mine
were closely allied. That I am on your side. That we
were always closer than we knew.

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