Pocket Poems - Poems about 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...

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

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A pixelated egg held in my hand, A digital life I had command. Three buttons small, a tiny screen, A world within so bright and keen. The beeping sound, a constant call, Demanding care lest it should fall. Hunger pangs and happy chirps, A delicate balance with little quirks. I fed it bits of digital treat, And played small games, its joy complete. Cleaned up...

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

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broke enough to not buy into false hope and dreams...

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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...

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Lucy Locket lived amidst Lakeland Hills, where jay serenaded morning; Like plum rainbows celebrate sunshine, with never any silent warning. Lucy was merely twenty years old, like a peach rose, dusted with dew; And she was also a dutiful teacher, unveiling what children never knew. Lucy liked to sew and to garden, like green nature, roving everywhere, Recalling lavish, sunset...

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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 ...

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In the pocket of the evening, language floats – a cosmic virus, Its seeds unknown, brought on the wings of silent comets. It clings to people as the light of stars to the night-time tree crowns, Whirling miniature orbits in a mute dance, under the vault that hosts wandering thoughts. Man, his bits and pixels once scattered through the...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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I keep the panic attack In my pocket, untaken In my closed hand My wish is to run on autopilot Minute by minute Until it's fine To not derail Or fall out of the sky Because I pushed myself Into a place of nervous energy Where my wanting to do good, to help Is battling with my instinct to run away My memories are...

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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...

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