"pocketing" poems
by Danny Smith
The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking
His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window
He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey
somewhere
Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall
The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment
A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection
The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now
All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there
Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days
sentenced
he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers
Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them
Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them
The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain
©Danny Smith
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
She was a
whiskey sipping,
hips swaying, gripping
my thoughts with every step, she’s slipping—
bold and fierce, untamed and wild,
a county girl with a wicked smile.
Skinny dipping under moonlit skies,
her laughter soft, her daring eyes,
pocketing moments, stealing my breath,
dancing close, teasing every step.
Her touch like fire, her kiss like sin,
inviting me closer, pulling me in,
whiskey warmth on her lips so sweet,
a taste of heaven in every heartbeat.
She’s wild, untamed, my midnight flame,
a burning desire, I can’t contain,
a bumpkin beauty, raw and free,
with whiskey kisses, she’s owning me.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 3:46 PM UTC
Profit
Gross obscene
Exploiting dealing pocketing
Surplus killing debt dispossession
Undoing grieving needing
Ruin destitution
Loss
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.
In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.
He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.
And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:46 PM UTC
She was a
whiskey sipping
pocketing picking
skinny dipping
county bumpkin
Jun 1, 2024
Jun 1, 2024 at 12:15 AM UTC
I don't think I've ever heard my father
Tell my mother that she was beautiful.
I'm sure of it.
Never.
There wasn't any positive comments on her appearance.
"Fix yourself up a bit!"
"When are you going to lose some weight?"
"I don't like your hair that way."
When I was sixteen I wrote her a note for mother's day
Telling her that she was genuinely beautiful.
And she cried.
I can't think of any positive comments on my appearance
That either of them spoke to me,
That didn't revolve around losing weight.
And then was only when I was throwing up on a daily basis.
Pocketing lunch money,
And measuring out one cup of cheerios every day
That I eventually stopped eating,
And starting storing in gallon bags hidden under my bed.
"Are you losing weight, good for you?"
It wasn't even that I looked good.
Or that I looked beautiful.
Or even that I looked healthy.
Just good that there was becoming less of me.
And to keep at it.
And I'm sorry sometime I try to fight you when you say you like my stomach.
I was always told it was unsightly and needed to be smaller.
My little sister listens when they call her fat, that her *** is big, that she needs to lose weight.
Constantly.
Not other kids.
My parents.
She asked me why she didn't have a boyfriend.
She's 15.
She thinks she is fat and doesn't like the way she looks.
I try to corner her every once in a while
And tell her not to listen to our parents.
Tell her that she is beautiful.
That her hair is soft, and her eye brows are flawless, and her tummy is gorgeous.
There has to be someone there to do that for her.
Someone to counter the words of authority.
And tell her that she is gorgeous.
So she never has to meet Ana or Mia.
Because she was average to below average weight
When she was in preschool,
and I in elementary school,
And were put on weight watchers by our mother in the summers.
Maybe because she was never told that she was beautiful.
And it poisoned her.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.
Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.
Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Pick-pocketing angels leave me with no change
Tampered pill bottle head, rattling brain rearranged
Hold me close like a nostalgic note
Please don't toss me away like the others do
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
I'm a modern poet
The white paper wasn't bright enough
My favorite pencil didn't write bold enough
My black final-draft binder wasn't modern enough
My black final-draft binder might as well be waste of time
Because instead of writing by hand with love and mind
I can select, copy and paste, relax and unwind
Instead of sitting-up in my bed, copying neatly or erasing the lines
I can repeat or forget, without blinking an eye
The words are more significant than this...
Than minuscule, locking it, hiding it, pocketing it
My fingers replaced my pen
A white glow replaced the lines
Instead of writing away unrestricted, I
have-an inch above my finger- the time
Before, I would sketch the date & time at the top-right
Now it appears effortlessly, automatically, without my permission
It's not only my paper (or screen) anymore, I mean, I didn't write that
With a push of a button I can perfectly align it to the right
I can no longer be identified by unique handwriting
A "go-back button" replaced my eraser
I can no longer hold words thin in my grip
I no longer have to protect it from getting lost, crumpled, or ripped
It's as safe as everything else here;
Not any more sacred or precious
If I'm a modern poet
The ease of art is at my fingertips, literally
And it disappears when the device locks
I don't turn the page, hear the paper sound
I scroll down with one quick swipe
I may no longer write the way I have
I'll type it out on a $200 iPad
Rather than a cheap scratchpad
Is my new version of 'scrap paper' more valuable than my work?
The words will remain in my mind
I'll **** them out one at a time
Somehow demeaning them with this
Sensational technology that corrupted mankind
So, I'm sorry, poetry, my outlet, my friend
You poor, pure thing, let us pretend
I gave you more time, and effort
Just as should for everything you really care about
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
I.
The night sky cantillates a tune
only sobbing icicles can hear
A redeye flight soars
with a defunctive plot aboard
Supposedly Pluto planned it
News reports the next morning
said responders found a suicide note
along with residue from a melted
block of ice in the wreckage.
II.
Some millions of miles away
pocketing silence in his palm
Neptune’s tears freeze
on the green tips of pine trees
Frozen leaves sleep beneath
glaring Great Horned Owls
Black eyes bend in the back,
ground stiff as their spine.
III.
There is nothing scary about
a sad bedtime story
without crows or ghosts
or a cat’s empty cradle
When the pages turn
the night sky descends into
its deepest sleep before dawn
and closed eyelids fantasize
about tomorrow’s morning.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 12:52 PM UTC
Do you remember our bulletproof afternoons?
The ones downtown wandering the pawn shops, looking for nothing.
Remember the antique Coca-Cola bottles you loved?
Remember the good deals on the old Nintendos?
Remember kisses you gave me in the back of the store?
Remember pretending the cameras couldn't see me touch you?
Remember holding my hand outside?
Remember your hand on my waist?
Remember the rain on the sidewalk?
Remember me laughing?
Remember the old books on the shelves?
Remember me stroking their spines?
Remember me writing my own stories about how they got there?
Remember watching me and loving that?
Remember the jewelery?
Remember the bracelets and necklaces? The trinkets of broken loves?
Remember the rings?
Remember watching me sooth the lonely rings through the glass?
Remember what I said?
Remember how it broke our hearts, to see them broken beneath the glass?
Remember how the engravings broke our hearts?
Remember how you held my hand and kissed my shoulder?
Remember how you told me not to worry?
Do you remember pawning my ring?
Remember pocketing the cash?
Remember watching the pawn man place it beneath the glass?
Remember the couple holding hands, hearts breaking over my ring?
Do you remember breaking their hearts?
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:32 AM UTC
staying up all night
getting high to forget my problems
judging everyone i see
watching too many movies
ignoring everyone
constantly overthinking
drinking until i pass out
sleeping all day
paying bills late
biting my nails
screaming into pillows
missing old friends
smoking
overdrafting
not taking any advice
avoiding social opportunities
pocketing candy at the market
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Having completed various jobs
indoors and out
such as running errands
and shopping etc
your mother gave you 2 shillings
and you went through the Square
to a shop on New Kent Road
where you bought
a small penknife
you’d seen in the window
and you showed Jimmy
whose knife collection
was large
including a bayonet
his father brought back
from WW2
but he was unimpressed
showing you in turn
a **** knife his father
took from a dead soldier
from some battle
he’d fought in
you never showed
your mother
but Helen saw it
on the way to school
next morning
and peered at it
through her thick lens spectacles
does your mother know
you bought that?
she asked
no not yet
you replied
pocketing it out of sight
maybe another day
don’t you tell
your mother everything?
she asked
no not everything
you said
I have a need to know
basis I work with
what about truth?
she asked
you gazed at her
in her dark blue raincoat
buttoned to the throat
her wavy hair
in two plaits
her eyes peering at you
through those thick lens of hers
truth is like bubble gum
you said
sometimes
you have to stretch it a bit
to get a bigger bubble
she shook her head
making her plaits move
each side of her head
I don’t want the future father
of my children to be a liar
she said
maybe he won’t
you said
you are
she replied
you looked at
the record shop window
as you went by
a picture of Elvis Presley
was in the window
smiling
don’t you like the knife?
you asked
looking back at her
as you spoke
only if you tell your mother
she said
ok I’ll show her
and tell her
after school
you said
she smiled
and her big eyes
lit up
and she pushed her arm
under yours
and squeezed you near
and all because
of the small penknife
you’d bought from the shop
through the Square
but you did love
her big bright eyes
and wavy plaited hair.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
at 8:20 am, i get into the shower
and remember the last time you were in it
almond milk, pine sap, sputtering hot and weeping
we didn’t dream that night and
after you left i lay on the kitchen floor,
repeating myself.
during the day i sell the same wine over and over:
tobacco leaf, dry leaves, black cherry
there is one here that is a kiss, a second
i can’t describe wine as a cul-de-sac
and your button up, so i say “strawberry.”
i flew to new york and
the weather felt like my blood,
sticking to your neck
we spent the weekend in the country
entangled, frightened, drinking cider
spilling it out through our sharpening teeth:
dogs barking at a few falling leaves.
when i came home i scratched off my skin- i turn cold daily.
there’s not much to eat and
you would tell me that
there isn’t enough cheese in my fridge,
and it’s the wrong kind,
and why are you looking at me like that?
i come to you each night in your little plastic bed
breathing small seeds
pocketing light.
(you don’t know. you are asleep)
how do you do it, keeping so warm?
dear, i can’t stop drawing the moon
because i keep hoping i’ll see you in it.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Its a place we all know, too **** well
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
John McClane **** sure, excelled
A simple Christmas soiree, ***** and drugs proliferate
Hans crashing the gate, with Red Dawn, to liberate
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Hans and Co, heading off to hell
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
John McClane **** sure as f*ck, excelled
Six hundred million, in negotiable bearer bonds their prize
Not Brazilians, but Germans, as terrorists, disguised
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Expensive suits getting ruined, no one got dry cleaning bills
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Takagi had a walk on part, I hope that, I'm in his will
Counting up the bullets, none left to be spared
Putting Hans on the pavement, Huey Lewis (lookalike) can't be repaired
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Bearer bonds upon the sidewalk, wish I was there
Nahhhh-ka-tomi Plaza
Pocketing some negotiables, nevermore financial cares
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
*There ain't no train to heaven,
...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
...that dream it ain't real.*
*Man there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.*
Working all these days,
and working all these nights.
All I do is work,
Man that-life-ain't-right!
When I was little,
they said I'd be rich.
Here I am today,
digging one more ******* ditch!
Breaking back and tough,
I'm lost in a bottle...
I'm finally getting outta here, hittin' gas; gone full-throttle!
*Cause there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.*
*Woo- there ain't no train to heaven,
...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
...that dream it ain't real.*
*Man there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.*
Money is a trap,
without it you get stuck.
All I do is work,
looking for that decent buck.
Pocketing a little here,
no, not really, just enough.
Working harder every day,
man this life is rough.
Broken down, feeling bad,
and I'm lost in a bottle...
I'm finally getting outta here, hittin' gas; gone full-throttle!
*There ain't no train to heaven,
...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
...that dream it ain't real.*
*Man there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.*
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
It takes all I have
to control
each action sluiced
and sliced
into little round cubes
burnt by internal fire
soft ash dust
sparse windy air
pocketing my desire
for you in pieces
just waiting
for the right moment
to leap into unknown waters
feet first
so frozen and
the river could be cold
to the touch
but your skin is warm
and gentle
heat rising
searing my arm
tingling my senses
scrambling my brain
to mottled bunches.
I have too much
self control
(and it's eating me alive.)
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
Across the sunlit summer’s lawn
came a strange, laughing child;
hair tousled, face wreathed in smiles,
china blue eyes shining with true simplicity.
Together they watched her awkward gait,
and pitied her protruding jaw and lips.
They compared notes on her recent behaviour
and yesterday’s strong epileptic seizure.
Angelman sighed sadly and, pocketing his pen,
observed to the medical student:
“It’s tragic how just one abnormal chromosome
can cause such awful blight . . .”
The child came jerkily up to them
still smiling, and as ever bereft of speech.
A tear manifested itself in the doctor’s eye,
as the ‘happy puppet’ began to laugh again.
Uncontrollably.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
The upright has been uprooted
From the once shore of the.... Free!
The vile and barbarous
Now run the oil's...... Squeeze!
Pocketing, they make their run's
Breathing polluted air from man-made. Greed!
I can spit into the indignant sun
While my head burns from its..... ***
The law abiding has been rousted
Though we say no more! Get out the doors, of the white house you are.... Hosting!
We don't need no hosts
You Mason jokes
We need no smoke
Blown from your holes,
It's so **** tiring
Getting........ old!
Regain your soul's
If you have one of course,
Yes the people are irked
Yes the people are worked!
Many a dime from hard working
Being taxed up their............ bum's!
We're not taking anymore
You vacationing schmucks#
How's this for globalism
You globalist f#####!
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC
Sing the scales for me,
The scales of love and commitment
Or of hate and resentment,
Just run me the scales
And tell me the tales
You know the ones
The happily-ever-afters
The smooth-sailing rafters,
The divorce rates rocketing
The greed stricken pocketing,
It’s the people, you know?
And it’s the people you know.
Yet the people you know,
Are rarely people you know.
So sing the scales for me,
One last time.
Sing the scales for me,
So I can hear you rhyme.
Sing the scales for me,
Once ‘fore you go.
Sing the scales for me,
Because it’s you I don’t know.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
his hipster beard -
mandatory accessory for this
gentrified borough of Pittsburgh -
leads him back and forth
from the kitchen to the tables
he serves more tables than he should
I wait too long for my
overpriced salad
as he drops a plate of greasy wings
in front of a table of oblivious
professionals who
judge him
find him wanting
without ever looking up from their phones
a small bead of sweat accompanies him
when he drops off my check
I pay with a twenty and he brings me back
a ragged five and a one-dollar bill.
I know what he did. Fuck.
god ****** hipster server trying to fleece me
playing on social pressure
betting on pocketing that faded fiver
that he did not earn from me
I force him to break that Lincoln
I tip three bucks
because I ****** well won’t let him get the best of me
my indignation is an all-American righteousness
so much so that I forget -
forget I paid four times what the salad was worth
forget he doesn’t see a penny of that profit
forget that he makes less than three bucks an hour
forget that without tips he won’t make rent
I forget all of this in my pride at catching a huckster
who just wants to keep the lights on
one more day
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
(actually, now at present time juiced
well nigh high noon same day)
On this January nineteenth
tooth thousand and nineteen
dogged by an earlier notion
searching soul to glean,
(while at Collegeville Diner)
above place previously wrought
poem hammered from this peon
expounded possibly seen,
asper belated birthday
outing now I mean
to expound upon nagging , yet keen
existential question, sans what purpose
validates yours truly within skien
of terrestrial webbed wide world,
no...no...no not
simply pocketing green
backs (banknotes, legal,
tender, money, et cetera), but now bean
older, and displeasing lee not so lean
when just a slip (pre) youth decades ago
yea, that would be
when I hapt tubby a teen
with nary a concern,
nope not even to preen
myself much to the dismay
of my late mother, nay
no idea why lackadaisical, illogical,
and antithetical bee hay
vee yore prevailed, but more to the point
rarely when young and naive did stray
thoughts besiege my mind,
that LX vintage sketchy,
shady, and seedy gray
area bothered concerning,
hounding, pestering and fill lay
mignon noggin ready toboggan
any price you say
for this staged coached blarney
finding this mortal questioning... ray
zing meaning, purpose,
and underlying importance, gestalt, design...
of life more so today
meaning since recent past
also taking stock of
accomplishments from way
back, and feeling stymied okay
at a loss to delineate
any rhyme or reason
to shout hip...hip hooray
quite the contrary, which following
admission might appear cray zee,
but aye decry barely
living capped off with oy vey!
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
i only dream of the past
the moments of indiscretion
i grasp at the illusions
pocketing wisps of smoke
i pray for nothing i have
lost faith in good faith
although rationality is just
as bad just as artificial
i hope that every little
thing is gonna be alright
but every little thing is
is just one massive thing
i wish to maintain the
frenetic the hot ears and
head the constant movement
that synthesizes purpose
i want to embrace death
hold it close and quiet have
it whisper in my head as i am
gently ripped from the fabric
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Babbling buffoons and quarreling quacks
Fill our sacred halls
Achieving nothing, pocketing revenue from failure
For whom do they stand, other than themselves?
Nobody, I have found
They walk like robots, programed to eat their young
Born under one flag, yet we die alone
We are America
Until we are in need, then we are one
We are one
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
All I need
is a jeep
no money no nothing
restless nomadic beast
world changes
on wheel
minutes to days
I am no more me
flying away from cage
roads
leading to no end
capturing a mesmerising horizon
to the glowing sunset
Trees on sides
run with me
applauding
as I speed up the chase
pocketing the sun
to lit the night
golden by the rays
Manisha
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC