Pocketed Poems | Examples

ALLUSIONS OF A VANISHED NOW

ALLUSIONS OF A VANISHED NOW*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
stainless-steel womb
welded shut, 
buried beneath the oak's gnarled roots,
remnants given to the earth.

allusions of a vanished now~
faded sepia photographs,
a girl's clumsy drawing of herself,
a compact disc, its molded plastic brittle,
a mix of forgotten summer love songs.

headlines tell of wars, violence, and bloodshed 
tidings of momentary joys~
the scent of potpourri, a best-selling book, 
a poem scribbled on frangible parchment,
a smooth, grey river rock,
pocketed on some long-ago walk
treasured remembrances.

When unearthed decades from now,
will future inquirers understand
the echoes,
the desires, 
the fears, 
the loves,
invisibly etched in these ordinary relics?

Will they see us in the dust motes dancing
in the beam of their curious light?
Or will it all just be
a mysterious puzzle,
a murmur,
quickly forgotten,
returned to the earth's clutches?

*Note: Poem published 6/27/2025 then deleted; (Poetrysoup.com/poem/allusions_of_a_vanished_now_1737437) This is my original pom

A Thump on the Head - No Regrets

In times of impending demise, you might see your life being replayed across your mind. Sometimes it’s in fast forward, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes both at once. Life flashes in random order, constantly cycling in and out like an out of control tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. You’d think that with all those moments stuck on a playback loop that one would walk away with perfect recall of all the events. Not true. You can remember things like the first time you pooped in your diaper and that piece of Bazooka Joe bubble gum you pocketed when you were ten years old. Every detail, no matter how small or insignificant will come flooding back. But what the heck just went down, draws a complete blank.

when death feels certain, 
life flashes by in seconds—
don’t regret the show

Wave Trawling

Where the tide licks a sandy beach
a running ripple
thins to wash a ring of rounded pebbles -
there, a muddy ribbon
trickles through brine rinsed trinkets
surged up as a slosh of time
from the oceans depth.

Here be the bones of seahorse dragons,
and the beached and bloated
pods of marine algae,
Fractured mollusk shells splinter,
carapace and claws swell
in a mutual dross,
a trawled-up flotsam
tossed upon
low spin drifting waves.

A sculptured driftwood
expressed into mythic forms
anchors its art where the wind combs.
Sometimes coins, both new and old, surface
to be pocketed once more.
Obscure metallic treasures knuckle
and poke-mark the shoreside
with their unanswered questions.

I walk an ankle-deep dawn light
shipwrecked on my own shores edge.
A seagull's homeless cry
keeps me fishing for new depths.

Trawling For Sea Bones

The sandy beach
thins into a wash of rounded pebbles
where the tide licks,
before that a muddy ribbon
trickles briny trinkets surged up
from the oceans bottom.

Here be the bones of tiny seahorse dragons,
and bloated macroscopic marine algae,
their seaweed green strands inflated
until the sun bakes
their pale upturned pods into pyrite beads.
Fractured mollusk shells splinter the broken claws
of minuscule crustaceans -
all the natural flotsam of debris trawling waves.

A sculptured driftwood expressed into mythic forms
anchors its art where the wind combs.
Sometimes coins, both new and old, surface
to be pocketed once more.
Obscure metallic treasures knuckle
and poke-mark the shoreside
with their unanswered questions.

I have no questions, walking the dawn light
I am a shipwreck, my mind roaming
along the shores edge.
My heart a seagulls cry, a wilderness call
that keeps me fishing for new depths
of a fathomless self.

Puppy Gave Lawmen a Merry Chase

The sheriff saved the puppy and pocketed him.
His deputy laughed; was this a trick or a whim?
I think he’s going to be a buddy; let’s call him Jim.
I am actually taking this puppy to my friend, Tim.

Tim Henry, the one who solved the Templeton case?
Oh, yes, and you can come if you keep up the pace.
The puppy got down and gave both a merry chase.
They finally caught him, but it was quite the race.

How soon can we get there? Asked Deputy Trotter.
The darling puppy was panting like a thirsty otter. 
I think I am keeping this pup for my granddaughter.
Said the sheriff, pouring into a cup some water.

A Quiet Place

I have come to find my haven in the thicket of night 
after I've pocketed the sun and shared with it its light 
The intricate pattern of a flower reminds me of God's lace 
and here in this forestry of wild, I am never out of place 

Reveling in the beauty of silence I admire wordless wild
and love the symmetry of nature for its utterly compiled 
There is a quiet place I love to go where all the flowers grow   
and there I am content to wait, for Eastern winds to blow.

Phoebus

I curled up in your arms and fitted in each crevice,
     
     Turning gently to warm my bottom you slid around my thighs,
    
     Pocketed in your arms we breathed the same air,
     
     Touching at one point or one limb, 
     
     Stroking along every hidden soft fold,
     
     We made love again and again,
     
     Until giggling, totally awake, we stretched and kissed,
     
     To be part of our new day.

Ice Covered Roads Get the Best of Us

January has pocketed frosted dreams
Firmly tucked away, hidden under her black ice
Her treacherous blizzards torment the foolhardy
Many driving too fast on her hills should know better

In a heavily prayer-scented car
A risk-taking older cigar-smoking woman twirls around on the ice
Finally landing with a splat, slamming into a steel embankment
Her days on earth over now

bitterer than any rejected suiter, the incredible storm picks up
The woman's Ford is covered in mounds of wet heavy snow
This is a desolate road, people do not see the wreck for hours
Nine One One is called, but it is too late.

This smoke has words that escape me actually
The EMT says, as he reaches the scene
I see no smoke, his unaware partner replies
Not seeing the haze that is taking the lady’s soul to heaven

I, the Liberal

Mind if I tell you, honestly, I’m not
Proud of obstructionists who forget peoples’ needs
Who speak derisively of folks like me …
Call us liberals because we see vast acres of land
Lying fallow while millions go hungry for a place,
While the wealth of the nation is pocketed by a few
Or, spent lavishly on worthless trips into space
We who believe the past is history … cannot be changed
But can be atoned for, and, can be correctly taught;
We who believe basic healthcare is a human right,
That no child in America should ever go hungry
That no woman should be forced to bear a child
Nobody wants! and who will be another burden,
For I have observed hundreds of children in foster care
Often destined for the ghetto life and abject poverty
While politicians argue themselves into insolvency.

written October 31, 2021

Female Figure In a Museum

She has left the drape of darkness.
Soft electric lighting
nudges hips into revelation.

Her stone has left its whiteness,
blue veins bury their tributaries
into perfected form.
There’s a dappled culturing
where marble flexes.

Her body lives beyond death and life,
the sculptress created her
as a mirror-image of her desire.

It is a dishonor to simply look
at such plicature, curve and contour
as if she were created
only to be an object for the eye;
to touch her, bring her under my flesh,
to know the shape of her in my body
that is the secret depth, the wish.

Hands seek to hide my mind
while they ripple together within 
pocketed thoughts.

The Journey of a Refugee

THE JOURNEY OF A REFUGEE

Running from an economy full of hate
hunger will place him behind bars unless he relocates
war and crisis lingering with the hope to end soon
have pocketed young lives since five bloody Junes
a new home is the dream where kindness isn’t dormant
and challenges of life, soft and not adamant
reality of a visa will be in the next September
a time, the grave will add him to its number
the territories of the waters have no love
risk is never straight, always a painful curve
a space in the traveler’s harbor, sent is the request
paying in full, survival by all means, a conquest
every wave of the ocean, death teases
tossing the fragile boat as it pleases,
risk is watered, its grasses are green
a hundred and seventy four displayed on its screen
landing at the border, safe and unscratched
his painful stories on his head attach
moving into camps, acceptance is not immediate
not a problem, since from hell, he has learnt to integrate.

BY JONATHAN  a refugee from DRC staying in UGANDA ( KYANGWALI REFUGEE SETTLEMENT)

EMAIL. jnabasa135@gmail.com

I Dream of a Mighty Oak Tree

One of four acorns waits in the hatcher;
is he afraid of the cold air outside?
Others around him make gains in stature
while he shows strong signs of wanting to hide.
He almost peeked out but quickly broke stride.
Found them late last summer on the bare ground.
Pocketed four of hundreds I had found.
Demolition of our woods taking place, 
at home I prepared their burial mound -
castaways, comrades from wildlife's lost space.

When they’ve resurrected and grown stronger, 
I dream of a tree where songbirds can roost. 
Though the last acorn’s taking much longer,
his buddies gave him a much-needed boost.
Caution set aside, his strength they induced.
Heard them this morning, telling his small world, 
“You can do this, push harder, come unfurled;
there is sunshine, fresh air, so much to view,”
Dancing with the wind, the three of them swirled
as we witnessed the last acorn’s breakthrough.

October 3, 2020

Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Contest:  The Last One

Summer Storm

Summer Storm
The day unbelievable
heavy and humid laden, barely breathable;
a sallow haze hangs in the air and noiseless din
that pressed against the body and the skin.

Singular steel gray clouds
painted the sky to ominous dark shrouds
and florescent yellow green along the treeline,
roll thunder drummed a beat softly hummed feline;
intermittent light flickered across the horizon as it rose
then brilliant white streaks of crackling white glows,
the thunder crackled across the earth below
snapping free leaves and branches in tow
until electricity ruptured loud the sounds. that slows.

Down between the hazy atmosphere
rain opened up close and near
a downpour cascading through the tree light beams
rooftops flowed with swift moving streams
flooding gutters to overflowing, washing clean
the residue remains unseen.

Summer burned the grass
brown spots pocketed here along the paths
flower petals falling everywhere too fast,
these restless winds race in and out
exhaling and inhaling every tendril and sprout
till the rolls drum off to the distance ending summer drought.

Image may contain: sky, cloud, outdoor and nature

My Words

“Past moments segmented euphoric,
notebook in the back of my jeans”

It used to be a pocketed feeling,
today it’s the air that I breathe

They used to visit when I would invite them,
now they’re my shadow unseen

Blanketing my world with their lettered embrace,
to inspire, enthrall—and redeem

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2020)

She Is a Silver Lining

There was no brilliance
in the photo I took.
No inspired flash
as time's translucence
caught up with us...
Filtered past blinds,
early Sun's elegance
haloed her grey cloud curls,
soft blurred the lines
between past and presence

I said: "Just tilt your head
a little bit to the left..
Now where's that Smile?"

Captured she is.
In my heart's new album.
Pocketed providence.
With her Silver and Gold
" pennies for thoughts..."

In the photo she looks
like a shy child
aglow in the sunshine.
After a storm.

Posted: 7th November, 2019.

Dedicated to my Mum. 
You've lived up to your names: Thelma Grace- "Willful, and Graceful..."
It might take some time for a daughter to realize how many positive " life lessons " she has learnt from the First Woman in her life.
I am grateful for your motherly mentorship. Never to be forgotten!
I love you with all my <3.

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