a new me

caught, my cold intake
breath ice-dripping
stomach under floorboards
and all my ghost
could whisper to me:

burn the trees

looked to face of whitely-pale
and obsidian eyes
(god i worshipped her so
with all of who i was, and my axe)
she gaped her lips of oh & said:

burn the trees

i’m sorry, my love, i’m sorry
more ice fell from my face
and she placed her hands
just under my useless cheeks
she sang just for me:

burn the trees

so i got up
brushed myself off
(the dust had built stories in me)
went outside - the sun!
been so long,
so long, this warmth

i smiled
for the first time
in years
& walked away
from it all
with my lighter in my pocket.

I was given the beaded purse by a friend on a birthday in middle-school. The inside is felted with black and the outside seeded with scintillating reels of a green and blue bead. The beads spin inward to form a gaunt, bodiless black face. Though these are all needless and background to its eyes. For the eyes belong to the purse and not the face; an effigy carried in my coat-pocket. With the years, the beads have strung from the fabric, collecting in small pools but the eyes remain- top-heavy and ugly. The eyes have seen and been on each night excursion, ripped of its travel-card clad to its chest and the coins and the keys, and I often wonder what do they think? Do you object? Would you leave? Eyes pooled in the bottom of my pocket. 

A Poem in His Pocket

Title: A Poem in His Pocket

Author: @seekret-fanfic

Prompt: No prompt, but inspired by the poetry of Goethe (shout out to @larkistin for accidentally inspiring this)

For: @lockewrites writing contest

Rating: All ages

Warning: No warnings. 

 (Note to @locke-writes: I realized after submitting that I could blog and tag you as my submission, so excuse my presence in your inbox as well as here…)

Originally posted by minidodds

To know someone here and there who thinks of us and, though distant, is close to us in spirit – this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.

He’d imagined her perfume, the heady smell of gardenias in bloom perhaps, her smile so incandescent it would put the sun itself to shame.

They’d been in touch for months, discussing a patient who’d been transferred to his care, but there was an ease in their exchanges that made Chilton’s heart pound whenever he read her words. Even in the more clinical discussions, she had a grace in her descriptions unparalleled.

Chilton had never met anyone like her.

Technically, he’d not met her, but that didn’t stop him from finding himself attached to her presence, even if it was only in his inbox.

That was all supposed to change tonight. They were attending the same conference, and agreed to meet for cocktails after the conference activities ceased.

Chilton had navigated the day making inane small-talk with even smaller minded colleagues, a task he usually despised. He’d managed with far less annoyance than usual, though, reminding himself that it was worth every effort to arrive at the end of his day.

It was but a toll, like a coin given to Charon to cross over from the land of dead to the living.

But there Chilton stood on the chilled city street, stygian sidewalks void of color and life, feeling as thought he’d gone in the wrong direction, doomed to live out his days among the walking dead.

He’d waited at the bar for nearly an hour, watching the door, hoping every time he felt the cold air rush in that it would suddenly warm at the sight of her face.

But she never showed.

He should have known. Things had not gone his way for some time, and on a much grander scale than something so mundane as the trials of his love life, or lack thereof.

The piece in of paper in his hand, the words of Goethe he’d hope to be an expression of his own feelings, crumpled as he shoved it in his coat pocket.

He continued to walk along, making his way back to his hotel at an unhurried pace, the rhythmic sound of his cane tapping the pavement almost hypnotic, that and a distant car alarm a sort of strange discordant lullaby.

“Dr. Chilton?”

The voice calling from behind startled him from his dispirited reverie, and as he spun toward the sound his cane slipped across the wet pavement. He stumbled, grasping at an iron railing leading up to a nearby brownstone, but he was unable to prevent himself from hurtling to ground.

He squeezed his eyes shut as his shoulder made contact with the cold sidewalk, opening them to see a pair of red ballet flats in front of his face. As he rolled from his side to his back and regained his focus, he saw the owner of the shoes squat down beside him.

“I’m so sorry! This is all my fault. Are you okay?”

Chilton slowly sat up, the woman grabbing his arm, sitting close as she seemed to examine his face. It took a moment for Chilton to recognize the ochre eyes staring back at his as the ones he’d seen in pictures online.

Dr. Riad.

His email companion. The woman he’d become so fond of from afar.

And the woman who’d stood him up.

Chilton pulled his arm away and made his way to his feet, Dr. Riad grabbing his cane and holding it out to him. He smoothed his coat, and straightened as best he could, attempting to act as though he wasn’t mortified to have met with her in this way.

“You missed our appointment, Doctor Riad.”

His tone was harsher than intended, even cold, as he snatched the cane from her hand. But no colder than the lonely walk back to his hotel, no harsher than the hard ground he’d just been lying on moments ago.

Her eyes cast down as she dug through her coat pocket, revealing a neatly folded piece of paper which she held out to Chilton.

“The address of the bar. My phone was dying so I wrote it down.” Chilton reluctantly snatched the piece of paper, squinting as he tried to make out what was written. “The jokes about a Doctor’s handwriting prove true in my case. It seems I didn’t read my own note properly and waited for you at the wrong place. The bartender was kind enough to let me charge my phone while I waited so I was able to discover my mistake, just a bit too late. When I realized what I’d done, I headed to the correct place but you were already gone.”

Chilton was feeling a bit foolish for being so curt with her. It had been an honest mistake. One that she’d obviously made an effort to remedy.

That was more than he could say for himself. So busy wallowing in his own disappointment he’d only now stopped to consider how she might have felt, sitting in the wrong bar, waiting for him to show.

“It was an honest mistake,” he replied, attempting to soften his tone, to recover from his prickly introduction.

“One that could have been prevented had I been more organized. It was the one thing I’d been looking forward to all day.”

Chilton felt his mood lifting slightly, her words confirming that she had been as eager for their encounter as he was. Perhaps the toils of the day hadn’t been a waste. Just maybe their evening was still salvageable.

“The night isn’t over yet. We could still go for that drink.”

“I’d like that.”

Chilton pulled his phone from his coat pocket to look up a quiet spot, one made for close conversation, but as he did, the crumpled poem fell to the ground.

He only noticed it had fallen when Dr. Riad was retrieving it from the ground.

He wanted to object, to snatch it away, but instead he stood frozen, waiting for her reaction as she finished scanning the words.

“Dr. Chilton, the man with poems in his pockets.” Before Chilton could make an excuse, Dr. Riad smiled and recited, “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.”

Chilton felt his shoulders relax slightly, relieved of what he was certain would be an embarrassing moment from which he wouldn’t recover.

“Well, I’ve got poetry covered it would seem, I imagine music will be playing at any establishment we find for a drink, so we are only in need of a fine picture to drown out our worldly cares.”

“That’s simple enough. A mental snapshot of whatever beauty we stumble across should suffice.” The Doctor linked her arm in Chilton’s and smiled at him, her smile more luminous than he even imagined. “Lead the way, Doctor Chilton.”




Chilton took a deep breath inward as he silently repeated her name, catching the scent of plumeria from her hair, and smiled, knowing he wouldn’t have to stumble far at all to find beauty, not with Eden on his arm.

chicano anti poetry

thinking ive elevated
all the unknown unrated
poets of the south side

simply discrediting
the use of an apostrophe

ant on the floorboards
poems in pockets on benches
busstopping up

plebeian pledging
with a lot of resolute prowess
an unencumbered outcome

of man in his jeans
in daydream dissertation

Divided into six themes—The Gods, Love and the Body, Warfare, Monuments, Objects and Apparitions, and Antiquity—and with works from Virgil to Natasha Trethewey, the Pocket Poets anthology Poems About Sculpture reflects thoroughly on that art with “the longest memory.” “We might call this book a history of the world told by poets looking at old stones,” editor Murray Dewart writes in his introduction, and Robert Pinsky, in his foreword, favors an even simpler description for the collection: “a good idea.” Marianne Moore looks at Rodin, Thomas Merton eyes the Buddha, and, in the poem below, the great devotional poet George Herbert (1593-1633) imagines his living body in a tomb, to better acquaint himself—as we so often do before stones—with his mortality.


While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I entomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last, Therefore I gladly trust

My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble put for signs,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

More on this book and author:

Easy To Forget Me

Summary: Dan is a poet oblivious to the world of relationships, Phil has commitment issues. They become friends with benefits. But Dan finds that over time, one of their benefits was never truthfulness.

Part One of the ‘Up At Night’ albumfic series!!

Genre: AU (Friends with Benefits / poet!dan)

Warnings: Mentions of sex (and scenes of pre-smut), swearing, a lot of angst

Word Count: 13k

Read on ao3

Keep reading

Pockets of soot, chimneys that need sweeping—I have found a home in them, against the black dust, white dust, rose dust, climbing up ladders in the dark—they go away and, well
swallow me up
in the light, I am squirming
on the operating table.
The birds grab my wrists
say “stay
still we don’t want you,
you’d be no good
for dinner”, dig their beaks
into my stomach, pull up
worms, I
ask for them back
but they have no time now—time disowned me

long ago and I
have forgotten how to live
by it, clambering
around the woods in a clock;12
-mice chewing at the door, 7
-angels plucking
out their wings with pliers, 9
-shovels on the run,2
-pieces of chalk and
a whole lot of
brambles pushing against my feet,
I am being carried
by the things that bleed me,
and without blood
I am free.

I am free, I am free.

All the sparrows
pushed out of their nests, “it’s time
to leave, to fly"their mothers say
free”,they say,I
have no wings but
I’ve always been more at home in holes in the earth anyways
let me fall, let me fall
let me fall,
I am free.

Buildings collapsing under pressure; snow globes with nothing to hold, I pushed myself out of one once and I am still covered in cracks. Glass that doesn’t break, windows
that stay open, even when you beg them to close—shadows
are only vicious towards their own, shadows are only chewing bone, shadows are only

flesh and berries;
carvings in the sink;
apples stolen;
I have climbed as far up as I could, turned myself as small as I could, scattered my body parts
across the dirt as I could.

Turn myself to stone;I have snakes now. Turn myself to wood; I splinter. Turn myself to water; I drown.

I don’t want
the power
to put out fires,I set them
I catch ashes, I
collect ashes, ashes
tell me
where to go
with my pocket filled with soot;I
live in it—swords
and cups, cinder, coal, charcoal,
against the inside of chimneys

“get rid of that animal won’t you”

—  infested folk infest; River Alwyn Moss
Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day! This is a day dedicated to the awesome art of poetry. To celebrate this poetic day carry a copy of your favorite poem in your pocket and share it with others. Share it with your coworkers, friends, family, and anyone else you think could use a little poetry in their lives. And then let us know what poem you decided to share and if anyone shared their favorite with you.

The moon followed the car on those long late night drives to the supermarket
Wearing off the boogieman in faint light
Being carried to bed,we were ready to take on the world with a tight chubby fist
While the other grips a grape juice box

Sharpie marks on the bathroom door rise with our height
5 foot 3 inches, November 2010
And there I remained
But we didn’t stay so courageous
Logic left the boogieman on the expressway
Along with mermaids and dreamcatchers, birthday wishes and lemonade stands

Wake up at 5 am right where momma left you
On the couch
Pull the cushions over your head to drown out the harmonized lullabies of early morning traffic

In 5th grade I remember starring down the full length mirror harshly
Shower water drips from my curls
Pitter patter on the hard wood floor where the towel pooled at my ankles
Asking myself something girls will for years to follow

Am I desirable ? Am I pretty? Will they want to hold my hand?

8th grade a boy pulls me into his lap in my best friends basement,
That means I’m wanted

9th another shows me off to his ex to make her jealous
That makes me pretty

16 years old, a college boy chooses to waste his time on me
The epitome of niceties,not the necessities,but enough for him to pull me close and hold my waist
Lacking the fondness or innocence I craved I pretended it was my hand,
But I was wanted all the same

Until I wasn’t

These people making homes under my skin where they danced on the ashes of the bridges they’ve burnt to keep me at bay
I broke down like block towers
When you raise yourself on someone’s company loneliness becomes detrimental

Their opinions of me spilt like ink across my autobiography
Staining all the chapters of when I thought I could be loved

Looking to my reflection I’ve become a caricature of myself
Was there ever anything good here?

Tear apart this being
Lay out new soil from which I will reap flowers
What they lack in beauty will be made up when they are intoxicated off its scent
Thorns will protect me from any touch

Replace these arms with tree branches
So I may put the moon back in the sky
With the stars to form a fortress
Wearing off the creatures which beat out the boogieman years prior

Singing under lunar gleam
Nursery rhymes forgotten by a generation
Brought up on others affection
“ I am whole without being wanted ”

—  “My moon and their affection” (via pocket-poems)

i could write about how i fell in love with the stars in your eyes and the promises in your skies, but words aren’t enough for the heartbreak you put under my skin. the cloudy nights in your hands i touched without words, the sunny moments you broke in my palms. i have letters of unspoken words in my pocket now. carrying them a little bit weaker, for each mile i walk. silent. no more. silent. no words.

are there little crumbles in your pocket now? lost sentences hiding in your coat. forgiveness and silence packed inside of one. the skin is clean, but empty. the nights are lonely, but heavy with ghosts.

i could write and write, but you wouldn’t understand. i wouldn’t understand. i have stars and words in my mind. but i’m losing the sunny moments.

can you hand me the letters without flaws or spelling mistakes? the spoken stories we didn’t fail at. i know they happened, i remember them almost clearly sometimes.

i could write and write about you… and i guess i will even if i shouldn’t.

—  tina jaxén // pocket sentences