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, June 22, 2016

"Lunacy"

As gravity grows in strength, and bends
the space that hems and holds his heart,
the man beaks down and says 'I shall
be prisoner to this curve, this arc;
forever hold me nearing you,
and falling in your sway, your pull.
Each day: I fall a million miles. Some force
still keeps me far from you, and going through a phase.
Always new, to waxing crescent, never wanes, and never
reaching full. Still
nights like these, come out and read
by light of me, which came from you.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Reproducible

I am made of flesh
and bone, the remains
of love diffused in blood
and memories of home
from another life I've never known -
and toads and snails, and bees, and stones,
and sugar and spice, and everything
else that was lying around
when they broke the mold. I tumbled out
soft, and half-deformed. The wax
wasn't even dry, I'm told.

Relay

You exist
in
counterpoint to spacetime, extending
in every dimension through memory
and imagination towards infinite, possible
futures. No need

to rush, there's only us
and a roaring void, bearing down
from everywhere at once. At
the moment time's nicked
by the scythe's tip, I know

you'll only yank my precious neck
out of the way of the sweeping blade,
and probably hard enough to break it
- so go easy, babe. Nobody said
we had to make the impossible look
fun. Just so's
it runs on time,
the game's ruled fair,
you can hand me the baton,
shoot me with the starting gun
and catch me later, 'round the other side
of the looped track we're so endlessly
experimenting upon.

incoming

In the lee of the storm,
as towering hunchback clouds fling waves,
and spearfish for sharks with lightning lures,
awe shucks us like corn and we boil away
in spray, as summer comes in shorn
of every meaning but yours.