Long Pocketful Poems
Long Pocketful Poems. Below are the most popular long Pocketful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pocketful poems by poem length and keyword.
As a ...
child I was carefree
played in the mud
football my hero
goals from the foot
teenager I had worries
imagined and real
twisted illusions
hands on the trigger
young man I searched
for a pearl in the shell
submerged in an oyster
cracked abalone dreams
midlife contender I built castles
fortresses and embrasures
aimed for dubious targets
carried quivers and arrows
midlife defender I proceeded
octopus in smudged mind
jellyfish in a broken soul
starfish bereft of shine
comet in waiting I flickered
pondered the milky way
approached reflections
condensed my approach
fading asteroid I wandered
questions unanswered
responses transcended
beginnings of ends
The path took me ...
to a compass with no needle
the chart lost on the way
with a pocketful of marbles
and a hole in my trousers
away into an underworld
a cess pool of promises
an anchor rising above
shredded sails on the mast
to a point of surrender
white flag crusted in salt
the earth as a rainbow
horizon in waves
a tool kit of memories
scraped knees once again
scabby wounds healing
shedding my score sheet
The aging child ...
needs no referee
no penalty zone
no final whistle
no chalk in the dirt
thrives in the mud
balls up or not
shelters a mussel
opens the drawbridge
back to the square root
equating adventures
the circle half finished
I pump up the ball
I moved a few goal posts
changed my position of play
removed strings from my boots
walk the pitch back to the roots
Childish or a bit wiser but carefree at last ...
16th May 2020
torrential rain
of t
e
a
r
s,
now dry;
a pocketful of years
i wish
i could reclaim,
d r i f t e d into oblivion,
yet, it h u r t s
to contemplate, still.
though you've since
blown your last goodnight kiss,
you visit me
time and time again,
for memories of you...
are watered seeds
in the garden soil
of my mind,
you perennially exist there
as a peony
in full bloom,
thriving past
every season
It's where
I promise to keep you, Dad,
until my life
is through.
gone to glory
yet, you remain...
unforgettable
I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
Nor is it strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him, 'till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Parts of:
The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel
Still Here
I will remain
Despite the strain
The punches thrown
The anger sown
The promises made
The truth does fade
I hear what I want to hear
Disregard what I fear
I bear scars
From life’s wars
Knocked about
But never out
I am still here
I shout
The Great Continental Divide, more appropriately
known to most Easterners as the Continental Divide
of the Americas, but nope, not out here in the Western
country past the great Missourah and the grand ole Miss.
In the days long before the gold rush
struggling G.I. men, in the days where
gender roles were unheard of in them
there of the West. Long before that
coastline got an eyeful, there were in
between places, and a whole lot of
empty spaces, in between those places.
They were a pocketful of nightmares the
G.I. men couldn't muster enough people
to fill in the gaps. A lot of wild stories did
spread a foreboding to the scant few who
were just desperate to make anything to
move. Claims were jumped on, and as it
was always the way west, that the gun
ruled and the law hid behind that gun. The
good did die young. And the law stayed low.
Gold rush so did the people, but still, the gun
rule and the law stayed hidden. In time, things
changed for the better, as a gun was hidden and
the law, for what it's worth, saw sunlight. That
same sun had shone over the cemeteries too.
Besides dates and names, was the word, GOOD.
That is where the real West lies--not by what
you see, but by what you don't. Yep, by golly gee!
The GOOD people of the West are all laid to RIP.
They come with pockets full of sunshine,
yellow pills like dying stars,
scattered along Kensington’s broken spine—
this avenue of hollow breaths and burnt-out dreams.
Neon signs flicker in the fog of dusk,
their glow mocking the dim light
in glassy eyes sunk deep
into faces carved by hunger and haze.
Skin stretched thin over bones
like plastic bags snagged on rusted fences.
The streets breathe slow and shallow,
littered with needles—
silver promises turned poison.
Laughter here is brittle,
shattered glass crunching beneath tired feet.
Even the wind moves carefully,
afraid to stir the fragile ruins.
Once, there were playgrounds—
now swings creak with the ghosts of children
who no longer laugh.
The scent of fast food grease
mixes with the copper tang of blood and despair.
Deals whispered in alleyways
like prayers to a silent god.
They clutch at that sunshine—
tiny suns to burn away the cold,
to melt the ache gnawing at their ribs,
to blind them from the slow decay
creeping up their veins.
But the sunshine is ash.
It burns bright for a breath,
then leaves them colder,
slumped against crumbling row houses
where no one knocks,
no one waits.
Mothers with hollow gazes
search for sons lost
in the amber glow of spoon and flame.
Sirens wail like mourning doves,
carrying bodies wrapped in stillness
from corners that forget names.
Kensington weeps at dawn,
the city waking
to streets swept clean of stories
no one dares tell.
And still—
they come with pockets full of sunshine,
chasing warmth that turns to shadow,
burning out beneath a sky
that never learned to care.
Contest entry: Pocketful of dreams
The room was bright my favourite colour
Large airy and yellow
It grew smaller as I walked round
And there was a yellow fellow.
Through a yellow door into a smaller room
So small I nearly couldn’t fit in.
Then a yellow mouse passed me
Banging a spoon and making a din.
Through a yellow tunnel I suddenly burst forth
To find I was the yellow trumpet of a daffodil
I used to like yellow once
But now I’m feeling quite ill
The yellow black stripes of a bumble bee
Headed for my flower
I tried to move my trumpet away
But didn’t have the power
I fell to sleep in a yellow bed
My quilt all yellow too
I found I was suffering Jaundice
So you looked yellow too.
© 8/01/2014
never will I forget
hearing
your assuaging earful
a pocketful of moons ago;
merely four words that quelled
a storm of anxiety raging within me.
so terrifying, you see,
when they're held in abeyance,
a torture among tortures
when kept in suspense with them.
i recall telling you I loved you
in the hush of nightfall
bracing myself
for perhaps
an awkward silence;
a gale-force wind that would've
blown down the foundation
of my painstakingly constructed dreams.
i had an inkling your feelings
mirrored mine,
but I just had to be sure!
when I heard you reply...
"I love you, too,"
i finally released
my suspended breath
as my heart sung hallelujah!
i couldn't describe
how good that moment felt
if I tried.
i could breathe again.
my joy knew no bounds!
the kingdom of heaven
came crumbling
down to the Earth,
falling atop my head
like confetti.
my spirits floated on cloud nine
when I knew you loved me just as much.
i still am elevated.
I got the full moon brought down for you, dear
The nice flute stood there restlessly ready
You didn’t come and all my dreams shook in fear
Don’t lose heart, said the reassuring sea
I nurtured a sky with whispering rain
I had also brought a nice umbrella
In blue haze you kept me waiting in vain
In shock returned my empty gondola
The tipsy wind of spring I still do raise
My pocketful of moonlight is in wait
When in sunset the sky makes love, I gaze
And fill the pink wounds of void you create
The light and shade from your window oh dear
Are painful pearl drops mingling in my beer
______________________________________________
30/11/2016
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was the weight
that threw me~
how a pocketful of coins
could sag like regret,
how a dime could vanish
between couch cushions
and take a week’s patience with it.
The cashier laughed,
not unkindly,
as I fumbled quarters
like a magician with stage fright,
my fingers betraying me
with their too-quick math.
But then—
the click of nickels finding their orbit,
the way a dollar breaks
into four perfect silences,
each one a chance
to begin again.
Now I make change
like a thief counting seconds,
smooth and swift,
because loss is just arithmetic
in reverse,
and every missing penny
is a lesson in letting go.
hello, Paris it's mama dearest
Mama bear pulls into Seattle with a roar
searching the neighborhoods of the poor
You hear me, come out from hiding ... my baby cub
mama has a pocketful of your favorite grub
hello, Paris come out wherever you be
hello, Paris come out wherever you be
There's a warm bed and shower to be had
so come out now, and stop being so mad
At every corner mama roars, stomps her feet
hoping upon a wishing well daughter's eyes meet
hello, Paris it's mama dearest
hello, Paris it's mama dearest
She sings her song over and over, hoping a prayer
is answered by her, and not another naysayer
Fear is born as fruits of her labor rot
but mama keep swimming up river for her baby tot
hello, Paris it's mama dearest
hello, Paris it's mama dearest
On a crescent moon, lost in a crater, daughter sleeps
in a dilapidated room on flea infested bed with a creep
Such fate of what a warm voice does to someone that's cold
her precious gifts and youthful innocence stolen
hello, Paris come out wherever you be
hello, Paris come out wherever you be
connie pachecho
12/30/16