"pocketbook" poems
I see her often ....struggling all alone.
A diaper bag, pocketbook and the baby.
The look of distress on her face as she pushes the stroller home.
She raises her child all by herself.
Her pockets are not overflowing ....which means she's lacking wealth.
She shuffles off to work each day.
She's wondering when they will increase the dollars in her pay.
Single mom to some, Superwoman to her kids.....no regrets, it is what it is.
How I admire her strength and drive.
She's strong during the day, but at night she cries.
This is not the way it was supposed to be.
My child should be seeing double not just me.
Her mind is steady racing, but this is not a race.
The thought started here and now it's in a different place.
The sacrifices and staying up late when her child is sick.
She's snapping pictures at Christmas time as her daughter opens presents left by jolly ole Saint Nick.
She's thankful for this precious jewel that she must shape and shine.
Smiling as she puts her child to bed, because she has to be at work by nine.
There's always something to be done, so there's not much time to sit.
This is a full time job and one which she can't quit.
The cooking, the cleaning and washing clothes,
she's looking for some tissues so she can wipe a runny nose.
She thinks she's a single mom, but that's not entirely true.
The Lord is guiding and assisting ....pulling her through.
Keep your head up and don't let anyone or anything bring you down.
A queen's crown belongs on her head.....not upon the ground.
A dedication to the single mother's........Thank you for all that you do and have done.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
I am anti-matter.
Trending on Twitter.
Shooting a guest-spot on Two-and-a-Half Men.
A five-dollar foot-long
meal-deal of a man,
long on propaganda
while short on substance;
A School-House Rock rendition of
Aspiration Asphyxiation
penning love-letters to Jesus
beneath my breath
to abate the sensation that I'm just
redundant protoplasm
with a pecker and a pocketbook
failing to distract myself from the fact that
every intake of breath is a death sentence.
I have no praise-worthy abilities.
You can't **** your way into heaven.
Satan himself
caught a better break being
cast out of the kingdom--
there is certainty in condemnation.
Those poor souls who harbor
the illusion of indemnity
through faith in a
purportedly magical Jew
truly are the blessed few
not via the Lord's redemption, mind you,
but by the thoughtlessness of their devotion.
Perhaps the two are tantamount to one another.
The ****** are so labeled
because we question ceaselessly--
curiosity is no comfort.
Should the sun burn black,
the world will go cold
or
some star-burst might
scorch our galaxy clean
of all delusions of eternity.
The meek can inherit the ashes.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
Rio Olympics
No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,
stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,
they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,
serious as a heart attack with Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,
or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,
no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,
hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,
honestly,
and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,
where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous, ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex.
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
but sets me up for a personal review, self awareness
Gone mad and with finger, on gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
What are you,
All you foolish humans
That **** each other
Everywhere, every year?
What good is it,
All your mad efforts
That you live and die
To generate hopeless fear?
What have you done
All you foolish humans
That live by rules
But not by laws for peace?
Where is the pride
In what you create
In all your short, sad lives
If the genocide will never cease?
What of the children
Insane selfish humans
That go to sleep
Perhaps never to wake again?
Who in the world
Which of our fellow humans
Can we put our trust upon
If it is not the most powerful men?
What is learned
With your **** and pillage.
Are you much better
Counting up your evil rewards?
Now you have murdered
Robbed and imprisoned
All those who live by the plow
Laughed at by those with swords.
We are the fools
If we think might is right,
That strength is shown
By money in the pocketbook.
We only need to
To take a simple body count;
To slow our greedy rush, and
Take the time to take a second look.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
A pocketbook of grins
deprived of rightful glory,
passion, and peace
unionized candles
like smeared lip stick
upon subconscious intellect
layered with finite faces
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Early Morning ****
with mascara on her eyes
switchin side to side
and so much love inside
Beauty in your pocket
You just choose to flaunt it
Early in the morning
Lookin so good
Stirring those desires
given morning wood
thighs starting fires
on the way back to your hood
"how you doin love"
"sweetheart whats your name"
"baby where you going"
"I could love you girl for days",
Early morning walking
through these early morning talkings
you just love the feeling
all this great attention,
to bad with all this passion
they don't get to see your passion
they just catchin this emotions
going through the motions
but your fish nets do the trick
Early morning catchin
bringing in the money
without going through the actions
See I know where your coming from
I know where you been
i know whats in your pocketbook
Can you count the men
Early morning issues
after last nights rendezvous
Sleep your day away,
Sleep your day away...
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
Rio Olympics
No more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio,
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
Son,
you don’t know me,
allow me to introduce myself,
I’m Aaron Lux I’m a writer,
and I believe knowledge is wealth,
stealth lover yes,
not a stealth fighter jet,
because if you ask me how we can stop ISIS,
I’ll say let’s release the Happy Mist,
they’ll just call it Happy Clouds,
serious as a heart attack with Cirrus clouds of Happy Mist,
or better yet,
Nimbus clouds,
and citrus sounds,
our reigns begun,
this is a flood not trickle down,
no more fun and games,
Olympics in Rio
to get ready for the games,
they cleared out the barrios,
where does tomorrow go,
once it’s gone,
from expectation to memory,
along with the setting sun,
and speaking of sun,
we are live at the Apollo,
like the Greek God of the same name,
trying to fill all theses hearts we meet that are hollow,
hello,
do you want something to believe in,
well how about world peace,
for the people and the planet that we live on,
honestly,
and that is why when I see war,
I don’t think the only way to stop it is violence,
because if you fight fire with fire then you’ll burn the whole world down,
and I’m an eager volunteer fire fighter that’s first in and a final finalist,
where is the Happy Mist,
let’s cover the gun smoke with love soak,
let’s saturate the masses maybe then they won’t be so classless,
and let’s write down this idea before we forget it in our deep pocketbook…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
This stray amongst the lions, singing
Songs about the motions, while he
Shuffles on his feet, and dreams of
Birds and trains and oceans.
Inside a cage of pens and desks, his
Mind a whirlwind blowing, and his
Instinct rarely showing that there's
No real way of knowing. Be-
Neath the towering eyes of stone, he'll
Charge forth into worlds unknown. And
Maybe he'll make us all so very proud.
The jewel within the junkpile, reading
Classic works of old, and telling
Stories of a life she dreams on
Starry nights so cold. She
Takes a subtle gesture, turns it
To a work of art, and then she'll
Take a few steps backwards, turn, and
Then she shall depart. Be-
Tween two realms of parapets, she
Takes her time, but still forgets to
Return to the heavens she is from.
A seething mass of paper, screaming
Mindless riddling tricks, bent on
Giving you your fix, of heady
Sciences, for kicks. They share a
Bleak appraise of life, but still
Together it's alright, because
There's nothing they can't face, if they just
Shine a little light. Be-
Mused and disillusioned glances, and
Gaily executed dances. The
World just fades to white, and all is well.
A satin mix of music, and an
Air of discontent, disguising
All who can't repent and left to
Pick their cold descent. She
Strokes aside her hair and puts her
Hands around your waist, before you
Narrow up the space and dance to-
Gether, face to face.
Alone without a single care, the
World is left to stop and stare; and
Rain falls from the stars in darkest skies.
He stumbles round his words, and offers
Meaningless remarks, which don't il-
Luminate the dark as well as
How he set his mark. An
Awkward, crowded scene conspires to
Rid him of his dream, but still he
Doesn't let it seem as though his
Nature doesn't gleam. A-
Lone with just a pocketbook, he
Takes his turn, but doesn't look to
See if she has found her way back home.
He carries his emotions to a
Private place he knows, where the
Jokers never go, and all the
People walk below. She
Meets him at the bar, but doesn't
Take a seat beside, because she
Doesn't like this ride, and so her
Feelings are denied. He
Stares into her ashen eyes, that
Earthy depth that never lies; she
Sits and plays a tune for all to hear.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
Once upon a time
I carried a corkscrew in my teeth
and tiny feathers leaked out
every time I whispered.
I wonder where the time goes
when you’re not cleaning out the shower drain;
all my hair collects in my pocketbook.
The barista asks for change
and all I can produce is pen caps
and an expired ****** I found in your glove box.
An ocean stands on two feet before me,
all this leather in my hands,
but I’m pierced by the clockhands
I saw in the lines around your mouth.
Tiny feathers leaking out.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
OK, I photograph weddings at City Hall
Done thousands, pays the bills in so many ways
The smiles are so genuine
It's a happy place
I got all kinds of rates for your pocketbook
Hey, you gotta have at least one picture for the memory book
But how about the one I didn't take?
That was the one on my wedding day
She was sitting on a bench at the Marriage Bureau
I asked her if she needed a picture on that special day
She replied, "I'm not getting married, no way"
I gave her my card, just in case
This is a true story, I kid you not
We got together, we tied the knot
Thus, this is a holy place
Holy moley, wholly great
Where true love congregates every day
Just ask me, you know what I'll say
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
***You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition***
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a pool's patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
yet sets me up for a personal review, a self awareness,
Gone mad, I am, and with finger, on a gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
***So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them***
<>
May 21, 2013
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
three houses
stretching from gnarly bow to
copper-greenish branch – only
dropping
one or two at a time
sweet seeds enough to breed
tree houses
a sylvan hotel on the outskirts
of town looking on the steeple
of a country church – its sabbath
psalms echoing painfully
on the tympanum in number two
green houses
hidden in summer’s glory
days to shield the men from pesky
folk intent on taking aim – trying to
test Josiah’s mettle and break
him into baby twigs
poor houses
in spirit and pocketbook
yet each armed with steely latch
guarding unknown contents –
at dusk the shadows of one
candle cannot reveal
light houses
suspended at risk of plunging
mere meters down – the common
room looking after ill-fated siblings
huddling together in fear
and shame
glass houses
no brick or mortar – under lock
and key and susceptible to the raps
of Isaiah the seer’s allegations: “and what
is it you guard with fastened doors?”
the arborist poses
slaughter houses
tremble at the shock – major
prophesying at the door’s weak
and rusty hinges now wet with dishonor
and ruin and guilty sobs making
a last long dirge
© Lewis Bosworth, 2013
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
A cold summers night, with rain pouring down the windowsill
The earth is being cleansed, claiming victory of a rebirth by morning.
The sun will rise in the east and the new day starts by dawn.
Take heed in the morning dew, these gifts of nature have been handed unto you.
Time has no boundaries and the sky has no limits
Daylight forces no battle with night, they only share equal rights.
Wild flowers grow with freedom they inherit, while wild animals fall victim to prey.
Nature is communicating all around us, as the world keeps spinning to conclusion.
The changing of the season brings hope for the future
A new time is beginning, folding the past into a pocketbook of memory.
Some creatures will rise to the occasion, leaving others to falter
Mother nature is calling, calling for change.
Gone today, but still here for tomorrow,
We store away the experience, reclaiming our presence.
Nature will cultivate itself, like the soul reimburses the spirit.
We join the facts of life, with the opening of each new day.
Realm of nature,
Sparks a conversation with thought.
All on a cold summers night, with rain pouring down my windowsill.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Had to stop. The color outside
Drew me.
The air smelled like a lake's.
And I begged for the water again.
That's gotta be the next step.
Find water. Float under it.
I gotta see it. And smell it.
The dying light of rain.
It makes me feel like
Dust floating.
A million different pieces.
Thinking for themselves.
Held together. Happy like that.
The dew makes me see lines,
in the grass blades.
Follow us.
I wrote about those connections
In my little pocketbook.
There were flowers.
Thrashed in the wind.
Didn't care.
Wanted to.
Maybe I can. Floating.
Looking at the water.
Maybe paradise is at the shore.
Atlantis. Happy. Under water. By water.
I can see it.
Lawn chair. This book. Me.
Smiling or too happy to move my face.
Just laying there. Sun. Orange with the evening.
Sunglasses. My grandpa's.
He can see it. I can see it.
Found it.
Paradise.
Fresh water. I'll fish in it.
I can run down and swim.
For. Or float.
Not feel nasty when I walk out.
Let the sun bake the water away.
While I figure myself out. In here.
Paradise. I'll go.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
i suppose i could reflect on the times where i would not leave my bed, even if my muscles got sore. perhaps that could be the reason i never stood on a scale. yesterday's bruises are far too familiar. for some reason, they feel as sharp as today's and tomorrow's. despite what they say, i don't think it ever really goes away. you could say i chose this for myself. it's all a matter of perspective, right? somehow external becomes internal regarding my excuses. perhaps it's all of the bitter coffee and burnt spaghetti noodles. i should stop talking about the things that make me anxious. i always had to cover my mouth when i laughed and maybe that's why i have rotten stained teeth. there was always that wonder about why you would feed me all of those lollipops for breakfast. i guess that means something. the room always smelled of earwax and caramel pumpkin. the significance being clear. for a second, i forgot of all the other people in the room and maybe it's because for the first time, my pocketbook is no longer a pillowcase.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
My life seems to be looked at by those closest to me
Like their corporation
My assets are their assets.
I have to "do as I am asked from. Eat and Plan Vacations as they want me to.
I see people, who try and help by action, as a board of Higher Legislation
I am living a job without a say in fear of no friendship, this employment
Go through termination.
I have had been outvoted many times
to what I request.
Freedom to socialize with others openly
Requests of Transportation
And Groceries
Basic Feelings of Feeling Suffocated
"They are unfounded and untrue. You will think and Live Your Days As we have instructed. Or be terminated.
Lose our help..Have no family.
See who else who would help you or even be near you?"
A deeply hurting link to powers of acting like a "Company"
Just to have help...There are hefty interest charges.
In spirit and in Pocketbook.
I try to communicate
Even to those who, on the outside looking in, can and would help..
If the chose me as worthy
To have a healthier and Free Existence
If I could only fit the criteria
Just once.
For others to see why granting me open heart and choice in my life as I serve
to be a loyal friend as I live out my days in this invisible cage...
Just maybe my emotions, nutrition, career, and social progression
would be worth more than how they view "this weakling on Minimum wage."
It would help them and myself
Out of loyalty.
I always question escape.
For where does one fly to without Superman's Cape?
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:41 PM UTC
are you the one sent
*a new one
this one is special
this one is different*
will you woo me until i fall unabashedly
unadulterated, and unbiasedly
in love with you?
only to toss me to the curb
when i no longer amuse you?
and then will my pain
bring you pleasure
a pleasure that will expand,
even further,
your side splitting, bloated ego?
i've given in to better
i've been left by the best
you are one of many
that i can tuck into the pocketbook of my heart
to bring out and look at
when my soul need a little bruising.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
i saw your note: “the
summation of your tears
infinitely converges”—
then breathlessness as you
paused
—and upon
the water, a heron stirred,
pensive;
the reeds bowed to the northern sky—
“converging, converging”: the mad,
scrawled words, the scribbled midnight
lament; you hid your heart in a pocketbook, pages
folded and layered.
did you feel the reeds yield to
that northern horizon? did you feel that pensive,
infinite heron? she stirred, scattering your
words in the early summer breeze.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
It's cheaper
To die
In the first bed
They put you in
Than to
Heal you of the Earthly
Maladies bestowed upon
Our fragile, rickety bodies
The second they decide
That it's time for you to emerge
Flesh from the flesh of your mother's
Abortion is a travesty
A selfish act committed
By selfish women
Or so they say
It's really funny actually
How they cherish
Your unborn heart
And brain
But once you're removed
From the dark womb
Into that dark room
They say
"Let 'em die."
Because your poor mother
Didn't have enough
Change swirling around
Her shallow pocketbook
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC