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?

Monday, March 13, 2017

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

the witness

If a tree falls in a forest, it
was not sound. You didn't
hear a thing, you
were there, on the scene
- in the way, and
perfectly positioned
to say. "It didn't make
a sound! I'd have ducked, dodged,
run away otherwise," resolutely refusing
to blame your earbuds, maintaining a cracking,
groaning, giving-way tree ought to out-racket
anything on your playlist, therefore:

it didn't.

It was silent. You're perfectly confident
you are competent to swear
on the truth in the matter. The proverbial treefall

did not make a sound.

If a tree falls in a forest
and it kills the only witness,
is it any of our business?

Well. In memory of the thing,
now definitively settled,

Let us have one minute's silence.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

execution style

I'm always sneaking up, but
you never have once.
But we all have wants -
How can you be so cold?
No, not cold: direct.
You have never let me hang,
But I kind of wish you would.
Let me stretch out my neck

You

stabbed me in the heart, but at least
it's from the front. I will turn my back
on you, if that's what you want

if that's what you want.

Let's do this. Execution
-style, I'm sick of pleading
innocent. Not guilty,
'cause I might be insane, but

I'm not giving up on it.

post-op

You've sewed shut your lips, and you're waiting
for the stitches to melt.
You'll never once open your mouth
to tell how it felt.