but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

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 laying 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.