Ok folks.....its April 17th, Poem in your Pocket Day, (in case you are unsure, you carry a poem, any poem, and when asked by anyone...you share), that being said...I'm asking.What is the poem in your pocket??
This is the poem in my pocket today...
"How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity."
— Emily Dickinson
Others that are coming in from friends and family:
In Bay's pocket....
Revelations by David N. Wilson
The seventeenth configuration of stars,
In conjunction with the proper illumination
Of neon signs on cafes, and bars,
Birthed an epic transformation, An arcane celebration,
A revelation that encroached on the darkness
Souls set free, spirits unbound,
And everything on sale, one night only.
Sitting back on his heels and smiling,
"That is so COOL"
In Stella's pocket...
I made myself a snowball, as perfect as could be
I thought I'd keep it as a pet and let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas and a pillow for its head.
Then, last night, it ran away,
but first it wet the bed.
In Delly's pocket....
Life is mostly froth and bubble
Two things stand like stone;
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.
In Jon's pocket....
Hors d’oeuvres, hors d’oeuvres, ain’t they neat?
Little piece of cheese and a little piece of meat.
- Mason Williams
a portion of the poem in Brian's pocket...
They call me the hiphop-potamus
cause I got flows that glow like phosphorous
Poppin off the top of this oesophageus
Not because I'm a water dwelling mammal
from Africa Called a hippopotamus
I'm not a hippopotamus, I'm a hiphop-potamus
Where did you get the preposterous hypothesis
that I was a hippopotamus? Did Steve tell you?
What's he got to do with it? Bloody Steve!!
Other rappers diss me Say my rhymes are sissy
What, what, what, why, why, why?
Be more constructive with your feedback
Because I rap about reality
Like me and my grandma having a cup of tea?
Ain't no party like my nana's tea party Hey-ho
In Maura's pocket...
REFRIGERATOR, 1957By Thomas LuxMore
like a vault -- you pull the handle out and on the shelves: not a lot, and what there is (a boiled potato in a bag, a chicken carcass under foil) looking dispirited, drained, mugged. This is not a place to go in hope or hunger. But, just to the right of the middle of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in their liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming in such company: a jar of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters full, fiery globes, like strippers at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino, the only foreign word I knew. Not once did I see these cherries employed:
not in a drink, nor on top of a glob of ice cream, or just pop one in your mouth. Not once. The same jar there through an entire childhood of dull dinners -- bald meat, pocked peas and, see above, boiled potatoes. Maybe they came over from the old country, family heirlooms, or were status symbols bought with a piece of the first paycheck from a sweatshop, which beat the pig farm in Bohemia, handed down from my grandparents to my parents to be someday mine, then my child's? They were beautiful and, if I never ate one, it was because I knew it might be missed or because I knew it would not be replaced and because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy.