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?

Friday, January 22, 2016

"Close The Door"

if you close the door I will cease to exist,
you won't track me down from the clues I left
all scattered around, you know
they point nowhere now

if you close the door I'll remove my head
and reveal myself as the alien dead,
go back to my planet and report
that love is unsound

but I'd rather be human with you

and you know you make me feel like
I was one

and I want to be new and improved,
and you said you want it too
and then you said you wanted to
run

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?
Thou art sweeter, yet no less savory for it -
and of buns, you require none but thine own.
Of heat and steam, thine is the more wholesome entirely!
You freshen the air splendidly, and all who breathe in it
are wakened to a hunger not merely bodily in nature,
but of soul and of mind, transcending to realms ethereal
and empyrean. In form thou art more delightfully various;
in face, certainly had any sausage a face, we would scream
to see it! Yet upon thee, nothing could sit lovelier
than the dulcet light
within thine eyes,
shining in and upon the song
and the dance
of expression that passeth
in every glance
of the play
of thy face.
Shall a sausage fit
to compare with this
ever be ground, or stuffed,
or hung? Methinks,
fuck no. No fucking way in hell pal
Not too fucking likely.