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?

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Locked up safe

You get me all
out of sorts, though. Fresh
out, of sorts. It's this
embarrassment of truth
that you put me, or push, or
every time, come to think of it - shove
me, into the way of seeing. Not
deliberately of course. Naturally, so
necessarily many things pile up, said
but not out. Not out, not loud, not even
whispered, so much - but proud,
though! I mean, why wouldn't
you be? If you mean it,
why blush?

And why not?
You are just
too much. I can't tell you
enough, but

I've found I ought to try
to let on a little less.

It feels a little too revealing,
I guess, or confess. Perhaps best
to just say: what you've heard
is but a pinch of what I've left
in my heart, all composed and
calm and blest, and ready to serve,
but. Well, that would be
absurd.

You can't let it out,
waggle wiggle around, and
expect to keep up dignity
in that kind of clown outfit.
Whose birthday is it? Surprise!
I guess it's mine, but
, again, that would be too much
to further define or divine
or delve into. It would look
ridiculous.

And I'd prefer not
to be so bold, but I am
and so I guess we have left
to hold: this enormous, bagless
cat. Who let this thing in?
It's been sitting in the room
the whole time! Just in case
of mice. We wouldn't want
to scare the elephant away.
That's why I keep mum,
like Oedipus. Another classic
allusion, from a guy
who has lived some myth.

Oh, when you have in you
one million lives
you have never taken one breath
inside, you have to let it out,
get it out, somehow. Some
sing a cheating song, some
break some vow. I,
would love to flatter myself,
could not care less. How
you look in that dress, but
you do. I am not impressed
by your style but my sense
of it is sharp. I must admit
you've taken quite quiet hold
of my heart, in some fantastic
way, in some imaginary
place, where imaginary time
ticks away,
on my watch
you have broken all clocks.
You have caged all song,
And it has to stop.
It has to break something.

But whose?

I have to let it out,
get it out, some how. Since
you won't sing along - so
it's only a song. So
we've seen, and for now,
it is harmless enough. If you've ever
lived one, you would know:

just a song
can't lay anyone low,
until it's sung.

So, yeah, most
of what's in me will
never get out. Please,
you have no idea, as
I'm sure you can imagine, so
forgive what you've seen,
if you would. For my sake,
and to benefit
a doubt.
I know,

It's a risk to take.

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