Pocket Poems | Examples

Sky in my Pocket

S             K            Y

 in my pocket holds 
                                   eu 
    
PHO
                                            ric elves who 

forgot they need to plant 
pumpkins and peas

s               ~           K         ~             y
                                                           Y
                                                              y
 in my pocket lets 
                                     l    o 
                                              O 
                                                   s   E
coloured clouds
landing on 
your lap of 
                                    aloe aloneness 

sky in my pocket weaves 
                                     wings on acorn ankles
reminding I can swiftly fly to
                                  macadamia mountains high 

sky in my pocket sighs 
                                   sunlight, then rains crystal
tropical tears into our empty bucket
                                   to quench a thirsty 
                                           Love

Out of Pocket

Not even knowing they must correct,
Sadly their egos speak instead,
This is honestly what led me to leave,
They think they know everything,
Certainly not spoken out of love,
And certainly spoken out without knowing anything at all,
Pride stepping on love chills me to the bone,
Disgusting assumptions just for their own show,
I'm sorry, did you take the time to even bother to listen?,
Or even try to get to know them personally to know their position?,
Their heart, their character.. did you honestly care?,
Did you make any effort at all to love enough to share?,
Because if you haven't tried or taken the time..then tell me who are your opinions about?,
And so that is when God shows you yourself and turns the mirror around.

Pocket Worlds

Taps light up the screen,
endless worlds in my pocket
swipe, and dreams take flight

pocket watch

Dad's old pocket watch...
aureate, fine, glistening...
his time on my hands

Pocket Lint

broke enough to not buy into false hope and dreams

Robin Redbreast’s Pocket

Blithe breaks at the illumination of muted yellow leaves,
so alive, nearly laughing like children; still life clinging.
Autumnal blouse of painted bark and pretty sleeves.
Silence of bluebirds and red robins - inward singing.

The rake’s barely broken earth, a few clingers at task.
Season’s copacetic with only a tinge or tingle of coolness.
Time’s fallen back as I read and write in open-door-bask.
I will join worshippers at church to net November’s fullness.

A shiver, a shake, an ooh, an ahh, A phoebe does go
on and on about the break of day; brightness in her clutch.
The slightest breeze bursts forth to create the ebb and flow.
It’s like an artist brushing hither then thither; a mirthful touch.

More beaks join the chorus, as will I, when I hear the music.
Oh how delightful, a dizzy dance of bells in the wind’s socket.
I swoon and sashay, on the pavement, in communion’s cubic.
How much more seasonal joy leaps from robin redbreast’s pocket?

A Dime in His Pocket

   A dime in his pocket
     hope in his heart
   Just his clothes on his back
     but he’d make a new start

   Constricted at home
     he took to the road
   Foraged for food
     yet upright he strode

   Three days and two nights
     of this, all it took
   For him to come home ~
     let mom and dad off the hook

SHE HAD A FIVER IN HER POCKET

she had a fiver in her pocket
but couldn’t flip it, like in days of old
then
without those satin liners
a hole seized what little she had
and
she leaned over to find a useless penny
engraved with Abe Lincoln’s head
cut off
from making anything at all
happen in this tough life
still
she read of someone who had
spun straw into gold
must
she give up her firstborn
to a chump like Rumplestiltskin
will
money make her a monster
is that what she’s really after
then
she slips on a banana peel
no it was her crisp fiver
which
she slips into a poor man’s hand
he accepts without regrets
and
takes her hand in marriage
he turned out to be rich after all
where
would she be, if she had
listened to the beast

In Memory of Pocket Knives

On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there 
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape 
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark 
of a spotted gum.

There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades, 
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession 
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free 
a form from its binding.

Finally, 
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time 
in my pocket, more languishing 
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve 
things that substitute
for a piece of wood, 
twitching away 
in the cramped solitude 
of an air-conditioned self.

corner pocket

8 ball 
pot black 
decides the win
or lose
blue chalk the cue
kiss the dusty finger tips
the lips smile back at you, 
read, wet, glistening -
ivories like dice,
behind them 
words peppered 
from the tongue
thrown black,
blue stardust outside 
the straight lines
for a little while,
sparkling 
like a photograph

8 ball 
pot black 
decides the win 
carries 7
losers win 
she grins
and says

corner pocket;

you lean in 





Candide Diderot. ‘24 




warm sound.
0-7

Grass In My Pocket

Don’t you remember? That one time
When we were young and adventurous 
We settled on shared breath between
Pine trees and our neighbors oak
Tugging on leaves like they were
All we could afford to clasp

My mom saw us
Hitting each other with sticks
In the chilled South Dakota summer
Like a pair of yokels
In on a joke no one understood
She looked at us firm
Soft white collar hands on her hips
Thin from stress

She told me plants feel pain
I was hurting them
I stared at my bare toes
Wedged in supple grass
And I wondered if you
Also lacked guilt.

Pocket Knife

My grandfather made a gift of his pocket knife. It wasn’t in his will or anything, he just quietly took my hand, put the silver knife, shining after all these years, into my palm and folded his wrinkled, work worn hands around my twelve year old fingers. The handle was cool and smooth to the touch. It didn’t come with a card; no words were spoken–just the knowing look of a shared secret.

cutting through
the summer breeze–
single blade of grass

Dreams In My Pocket

Ive found my dreams again
O glorious day
for I had tucked them in my pocket along the way
forgetting to keep them out in the sun
where they can smile to the world
finding the once forgotten voice 
as I now fly on the wings of grace
realizing the full potential of life 
that is in my hopes and dreams 
that has always lived inside 
just beneath the surface
Ive been cutting them down
suffocating them when they were needing to breathe
but nothing is in my way today
out in the sun and feeling the wind
as my mind starts to spin 
in a brilliant daze
the curtain over my eyes is finally raised

You Can'T Put Thanks In Your Pocket

You Can’t Put Thanks in Your Pocket

Call yourself a friend?
Call yourself a pal?
It’s not what I call you
Ungrateful, selfish
Good adjectives for you
They’re free by the way
We know how much money
Means to you
Can’t put ‘thank you’ 
In your pocket, that’s 
What you live by
Yet, I never got a 
Thank you did I?
I was the butt of 
The joke, wasn’t I
You assumed I won’t mind
You can roll over me
I tell you now
Earn as much as you can
But you’ll never buy 
Dignity or honour
You’ll never have
Enough to give you
That.
You can put honour
And decency in your
Soul, even with empty
Pockets. Think on!

David Cox 27/02/23

Pocket Change

Chimes dimes my pocket
Lost to a whole of fate fades
Four dimes worthless end

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