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Saturday, August 18, 2018
What's in your pocket?
We all do it. Shove that stray receipt, coins, Kleenex etc in our pockets and if you're like me, on laundry day, somethings might get missed and left in your pocket. So tell us, in a poem, what's in your pocket?
I really do want to write a new poem for this. I have Dr. Seuss ideas for a kid poem, but I do have this one, which I've probably posted before, but it fits the prompt to perfectly to not post it:
SEARCHING FOR MY MOTHER a sestina variation
The first November freeze. I reach far back in my closet for my coat, can’t believe it’s winter. In the pocket, my hand finds something foreign, a black leather strap watch. I don’t wear a watch. It is my mother’s, taken from her dead wrist, still keeping time.
Time reels. I hold it to my ear, believe this inanimate object holds life, find nothing. Do her skin cells cling to the watch? I sniff, try to find, be with my mother. It is odorless, cold as wintertime. My hand moves to my pocket, puts it back.
In church to hear the musician, I find my long lost faith still unrestored. I watch the ceiling. It does not fall. My mother isn’t there. Still, I check several times. One woman has her hairdo, one in back has her eyes. I wonder how they believe.
I visit Erie in June, the beach, watch sunbathers, waves, drifting sand. My mother used to drive the peninsula. This time I’m alone, drive past her house on my way back. Her garden still blooms. I could believe she's there, but don’t of course, know what I’d find.
I go through recipe files my mother used, sort greasy magazines, take my time, find a handwritten book. Taken aback, her presence, I stare at measures, believe her essence resides in recipes, find cookies, pies, that she had baked as I watched.
Andy Williams died. I call my mother. She has all his albums. It rings three times, a stranger answers. She cannot call back. She is dead. Sometimes, my mind still believes she is where I can still talk to her, find her number, her address, her ticking watch.
I cannot go back in time, but will bake her cookies, cherish memories and find my mother’s watch once again come winter.
my pockets are full this and that I've got plenty of stuff and that's a fact, I've got my little green stone that brings me luck a gold necklace I found in the back of a truck a bullet shell I'll turn into a vase with miniature flowers I have got in a case everyone carry's things that are special to them and my pockets bulge like no other I have a special magical gem I rub with my fingers when I'm worried and I want all of my stuff with me in my pockets when I'm buried I guess this sounds like a peculiar wish for a girl who knows what heaven brings but I plan to have plenty of pockets scattered all over my wings
you are right Victoria! women want pockets! remember when all I would wear was men's jeans because they had so many pockets! we would go to the army navy store and get them. lol
Wallet, cell phone, kleenex, band aids Half of which falls out when I Attempt the extricate my phone from The rest of the contents Stuffed in my pockets
I've always been one to cram needed items into my pockets
Years ago my mother observed this and asked why do you Use your pockets instead of a purse as Receptacles for all your stuff
Purses annoy me they are bulky and only hold me up so I will continue to stuff all my keys, coins, tissue, and everything else I need to get through the day so get used to my bulging pockets!
alo if you put everything in a purse, it's like putting all your eggs in one basket. some junkie loonie grabs it and you'd spend a week on the phone sorting it out. zip pockets on fonzie jackets are good and you get to say " heeeeeeyyyyy, get outta my fricken wayyyy " ha ha - take care my friend. yeah i did pot my first poem in the wrong place. don't shout at me by text - love - paul.
Some soggy bits of toilet paper Because Kleenex box empty And not going on much else. Might be back in hospital Before nightfall, or maybe not. Nothing Progressing like I’d hoped, hard To think, good thing poems Are written in short lines. Last night I dreamed I’d written a brilliant novel. In one chapter A reader suddenly felt himself gasping for breath Until he realized It was just an extraordinary novelistic technique And that he was all right. I woke up deciding I would never write that novel Even if I could.
I read your post about the dream. I think the part where you woke up gasping for breath needs to be in the poem, as to why you would never write the novel.
I think you hit on something there... the reason we write poetry instead of novels... it's easier to think in short sentences rather than entire chapters. I agree with Vic about the reason why you won't write that novel needing to be in the poem. hope things get better for you!!!
Some soggy bits of toilet paper Because Kleenex box empty And not going on much else. Might be back in hospital Before nightfall, or maybe not. Nothing Progressing like I’d hoped, hard To think, good thing poems Are written in short lines. Last night I dreamed I’d written a brilliant novel. In one chapter A reader suddenly felt himself gasping for breath Until he realized It was just an extraordinary novelistic technique And that he was all right. I woke up gasping For breath, my mouth heavy With thickening saliva, Tongue swollen, deciding I would never write that novel Even if I could.
think i put my last poem in the wrong place. this should work before bonita starts shouting at me.
SECRET POCKETS
phone numbers of people i can't remember met them sometime last novenmber a picture of a love that is just a burnt out ember could never forgive her greatest crime
a big fan of pool pockets as long as my fancy dan hustler trick shots don't get my shoulders pulled out of their sockets wish i had my hands in pockets on pirating yaughts hands in my pockets when it's cold makes my bones feel old.
" empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose " - diamonds on the soles of her shoes - paul simon.
my other poem seems to have disapearred. hmmmm curiouser and curioser. gonna have to type it out again. yeah getting the ball in that guys pint was fun. i only meant to jump the six ball. that was when i got carried out using the groucho marx quote " i've been thrown out of better places than this!!!!! " ha ha - love - paul.
I can't find your first poem. are you sure you potted it...lol.. on this page? what you didn't mention hitting the pool ball off the table and into another man's lager? that was too funny!
What's in my pocket? Some money to spend, I'll buy you a present if you'll be my friend. I'll share what I have if you'll share it with me, Let's go shopping together to see what we'll see.
What's in my pocket? Some trash I picked up-- someone had discarded an old paper cup. If people were mindful they would not do that, somebody stepped on it, mashing it flat.
What's in my pocket? There's nothing today! I'm free as a bird and happy to say My pocket is empty, to the brim it is filled Of nothing-- but fingers, so's not to get chilled!
Oh pockets are helpful, I use them each day for various items for work or for play. I'm fond of my pockets, I love them I do and I'll bet a nickel you're fond of yours too.
eighty five ponds and some baccy some algerian dope that is still quite tacky
" i've a hole in my pocket " - yellow submarine.
got my flick knife my cards and my phone, which sortta contain my life lots of papers i don't understand wish my pocket still contained my cold ex girls hand
got my glasses so i can avoid stoooopid asses got a bunch of spare change for the homeless kids to rearrange some of the street kids are really strange they have nothing in their pockets except heroin and crack sky rockets
don't pull out your cash around here they'll be on you in a minute my dear.
thanks victoria. i performed this one at an open mic thing at my fav pub last night. that was fun. especially in my stanley kubrick " born to kill " t - shirt from " full metal jacket " ha ha - love and peace - paul.
i usually sign up second, or third on open mic poetry. gives me time to drink belgian lager and smoke a joint outside...the harmonica solo's do get out of hand though ha ha - nice one vic - love and peace - paul.
I really do want to write a new poem for this. I have Dr. Seuss ideas for a kid poem, but I do have this one, which I've probably posted before, but it fits the prompt to perfectly to not post it:
ReplyDeleteSEARCHING FOR MY MOTHER
a sestina variation
The first November freeze. I reach far back
in my closet for my coat, can’t believe
it’s winter. In the pocket, my hand finds
something foreign, a black leather strap watch.
I don’t wear a watch. It is my mother’s,
taken from her dead wrist, still keeping time.
Time reels. I hold it to my ear, believe
this inanimate object holds life, find
nothing. Do her skin cells cling to the watch?
I sniff, try to find, be with my mother.
It is odorless, cold as wintertime.
My hand moves to my pocket, puts it back.
In church to hear the musician, I find
my long lost faith still unrestored. I watch
the ceiling. It does not fall. My mother
isn’t there. Still, I check several times.
One woman has her hairdo, one in back
has her eyes. I wonder how they believe.
I visit Erie in June, the beach, watch
sunbathers, waves, drifting sand. My mother
used to drive the peninsula. This time
I’m alone, drive past her house on my way back.
Her garden still blooms. I could believe
she's there, but don’t of course, know what I’d find.
I go through recipe files my mother
used, sort greasy magazines, take my time,
find a handwritten book. Taken aback,
her presence, I stare at measures, believe
her essence resides in recipes, find
cookies, pies, that she had baked as I watched.
Andy Williams died. I call my mother.
She has all his albums. It rings three times,
a stranger answers. She cannot call back.
She is dead. Sometimes, my mind still believes
she is where I can still talk to her, find
her number, her address, her ticking watch.
I cannot go back in time, but will bake
her cookies, cherish memories and find
my mother’s watch once again come winter.
Wow...this is beautiful...I think about calling mom all the time. I think of something I want to say and can't believe she's dead...
Deletepowerful in the emotions it evokes. yes you've used it before but when a poem is this good it deserves to be posted more than once.
Delete" i'd like to go back to the old house, but i suppose i never will " - the smiths.....i liked andy williams - love paul.
DeleteGorgeous poem. It must have taken a lot of rewrie o be so smooth. Kudos.
Deletemy pockets are full
ReplyDeletethis and that
I've got plenty of stuff and
that's a fact, I've got
my little green stone
that brings me luck
a gold necklace
I found in the back of a truck
a bullet shell
I'll turn into a vase
with miniature flowers
I have got in a case
everyone carry's things
that are special to them and
my pockets bulge like no other
I have a special magical gem
I rub with my fingers
when I'm worried
and I want all of my stuff with me
in my pockets when I'm buried
I guess this sounds like a peculiar wish
for a girl who knows what heaven brings
but I plan to have plenty of pockets
scattered all over my wings
lol!!! yep! custom made wings with pockets!! love it. fun write!
DeleteLove it. BTW, that's what I think the real answer is to the question "What do women want?" POCKETS!
Deleteyou are right Victoria! women want pockets! remember when all I would wear was men's jeans because they had so many pockets! we would go to the army navy store and get them. lol
Deletenice wolfie. i've got a magic gem too and a lucky bracelet i got from a woman. didn't bring her much luck. she's in jail now.
Delete- love and peace - paul.
Cute poem, would be fun to see it illustrated!
DeleteWallet, cell phone, kleenex, band aids
ReplyDeleteHalf of which falls out when I
Attempt the extricate my phone from
The rest of the contents
Stuffed in my pockets
I've always been one to cram
needed items into my pockets
Years ago my mother
observed this and asked why do you
Use your pockets instead of a purse as
Receptacles for all your stuff
Purses annoy me they are bulky and
only hold me up so I will
continue to stuff all my
keys, coins, tissue, and
everything else I need
to get through the day
so get used to my bulging pockets!
I liked.
DeleteLOL. I can tell you and Linda are sisters. I do the same thing too, cram as much stuff as possible into my pockets.
DeleteMy sweater pockets are so full sometimes that the sweater hangs funny! Especially when coins and cell phones are involved! I loved your poem!
DeleteI love how Victoria or I can sneak in an acrostic and no one notices...lol
Deletealo if you put everything in a purse, it's like putting all your eggs in one basket. some junkie loonie grabs it and you'd spend a week on the phone sorting it out. zip pockets on fonzie jackets are good and you get to say " heeeeeeyyyyy, get outta my fricken wayyyy " ha ha - take care my friend. yeah i did pot my first poem in the wrong place. don't shout at me by text - love - paul.
Deletep.. i meant post not pot.....though some pot was involved ha ha - paul.
DeleteLOL. You cheated by not capitalizing all the first letters!! Great acrostic!!
DeleteYes, very clever as always! You've a great knack and it runs in the family, ha ha. The poem is nice too!
DeleteSome soggy bits of toilet paper
ReplyDeleteBecause Kleenex box empty
And not going on much else. Might be back in hospital
Before nightfall, or maybe not. Nothing
Progressing like I’d hoped, hard
To think, good thing poems
Are written in short lines.
Last night I dreamed
I’d written a brilliant novel. In one chapter
A reader suddenly felt himself gasping for breath
Until he realized
It was just an extraordinary novelistic technique
And that he was all right. I woke up deciding
I would never write that novel
Even if I could.
I read your post about the dream. I think the part where you woke up gasping for breath needs to be in the poem, as to why you would never write the novel.
DeleteI think you hit on something there... the reason we write poetry instead of novels... it's easier to think in short sentences rather than entire chapters. I agree with Vic about the reason why you won't write that novel needing to be in the poem. hope things get better for you!!!
DeleteIt was all I could write at one time,
DeleteSome soggy bits of toilet paper
DeleteBecause Kleenex box empty
And not going on much else. Might be back in hospital
Before nightfall, or maybe not. Nothing
Progressing like I’d hoped, hard
To think, good thing poems
Are written in short lines.
Last night I dreamed
I’d written a brilliant novel. In one chapter
A reader suddenly felt himself gasping for breath
Until he realized
It was just an extraordinary novelistic technique
And that he was all right. I woke up gasping
For breath, my mouth heavy
With thickening saliva,
Tongue swollen, deciding
I would never write that novel
Even if I could.
YES!! Much more powerful!!
DeleteI love it! You don't carry much in your pockets but, you carry a lot in your brain!
Deletewow! loved the first version but yeah this one packs more power. and yeah, what Linda said :-)
Deletewe write all our best novels in our sleep tad - peace - paul.
DeleteOh this is such a good poem, and of course the more we know the more re can feel and experience. Nice work.
Deletethink i put my last poem in the wrong place. this should work before bonita starts shouting at me.
ReplyDeleteSECRET POCKETS
phone numbers of people i can't remember
met them sometime
last novenmber
a picture of a love that is just a burnt out ember
could never forgive her greatest crime
a big fan of pool pockets
as long as my fancy dan hustler trick shots
don't get my shoulders pulled out of their sockets
wish i had my hands in pockets on pirating yaughts
hands in my pockets when it's cold
makes my bones feel old.
" empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose " - diamonds on the soles of her shoes - paul simon.
my other poem seems to have disapearred. hmmmm curiouser and curioser. gonna have to type it out again. yeah getting the ball in that guys pint was fun. i only meant to jump the six ball. that was when i got carried out using the groucho marx quote " i've been thrown out of better places than this!!!!! " ha ha - love - paul.
DeleteI love the take on pool pockets. I never even thought of that.
Deleteyou're obviously not a hustler vic ha ha. my triple bank shot in to the middle pocket is just ridiculous - pool and pockets - paul.
Deletethe other poem is below bonita....it was hiding somewhere - paul.
DeleteI can't find your first poem. are you sure you potted it...lol.. on this page? what you didn't mention hitting the pool ball off the table and into another man's lager? that was too funny!
ReplyDeleteWhat's In my Pocket
ReplyDeleteWhat's in my pocket? Some money to spend,
I'll buy you a present if you'll be my friend.
I'll share what I have if you'll share it with me,
Let's go shopping together to see what we'll see.
What's in my pocket? Some trash I picked up--
someone had discarded an old paper cup.
If people were mindful they would not do that,
somebody stepped on it, mashing it flat.
What's in my pocket? There's nothing today!
I'm free as a bird and happy to say
My pocket is empty, to the brim it is filled
Of nothing-- but fingers, so's not to get chilled!
Oh pockets are helpful, I use them each day
for various items for work or for play.
I'm fond of my pockets, I love them I do
and I'll bet a nickel you're fond of yours too.
lol! yes I do like my pockets and hadn't even thought of how we fill them with our hands to keep warm on cold days! fun!
Deletepockets need to be firmly zipped around here tash. re posting my first poem that got lost in cyberspace apparently - love and peace - paul.
DeleteYes, a wonderful kid poem!! I love it.
DeleteThis came out as a children's poem without my eralizing it until I read it! LOL!
ReplyDeleteIN MY FONZIE JACKET
ReplyDeleteeighty five ponds and some baccy
some algerian dope that is still quite tacky
" i've a hole in my pocket " - yellow submarine.
got my flick knife
my cards and my phone, which sortta contain my life
lots of papers i don't understand
wish my pocket still contained my cold ex girls hand
got my glasses
so i can avoid stoooopid asses
got a bunch of spare change
for the homeless kids to rearrange
some of the street kids are really strange
they have nothing in their pockets
except heroin and crack sky rockets
don't pull out your cash around here
they'll be on you in a minute my dear.
" a pocket full of mumbles " - paul simon.
lets hope this one doesn't get lost in space.
Almost a list poem, but so much more. I like this a lot.
Deletenice! good write!
Deletethanks victoria. i performed this one at an open mic thing at my fav pub last night. that was fun. especially in my stanley kubrick " born to kill " t - shirt from " full metal jacket " ha ha - love and peace - paul.
Deletethanks bonita. just texted you. you shot that guy in the head yet? ha ha - pussy cats and peace - paul.
DeleteOh this is a very good poem, and I can just see you delivering it! Kudos!!!
ReplyDeletethanks tash. might read it tonight at the open mic at bar loco. makes a change from my deadly serious love poems - love and peace - paul.
ReplyDeleteYou're a star! Shine away!
Deletewell my hair is nice and shiny today....probably 'cos i managed to get pizza in it ha ha - love - paul.
DeleteFinally, a new one.
ReplyDeleteHow Hosting a Poetry Reading Is Like Teaching Kindergarten
Do you want to read?
I ask, try to hand him
the sign up sheet.
He says, No.
I have this feeling,
watch him as others read.
He looks anxious,
worried. Turns
his head right, left, all
the way around to see
who gets up, reads.
So, at break,
I ask again. He says
no, he wants to, doesn’t
have a poem.
Poets done,
he looks at me, eyes
sad, so I ask again.
Hand slip into
his pocket.
I ask, Do you have
a poem in your pocket?
Pulls out paper
that defies
the seven-fold rule,
slowly opens it to
reveal a page
of tight text,
but still sits there ‘til
I wave him to the stage.
He comes, slowly,
like I am
forcing him to read,
His face opens and he
reads his opus.
love it!!! I felt as if I was watching this unfold as I read which makes me think this is based on an actual event.
DeleteOn a compilation of events. It really happened quite often to the point where I called it "pocket poetry."
DeleteNice story and fine poem. Love that last verse, his face opens, love it!
Deletei usually sign up second, or third on open mic poetry. gives me time to drink belgian lager and smoke a joint outside...the harmonica solo's do get out of hand though ha ha - nice one vic - love and peace - paul.
DeleteTasha, I decided this poem may be a keeper. If I rewrite I will have his body unfold also, like the paper.
Delete