When Alfred left me
It was not my fault, I had no shoes, and the police stopped
asking why I had no shoes
since it was none of their business
I naturally told them to off.
I was handcuffed and put in a police car,
which was more cooling than the asphalt
It was October in Albufeira, which can be warm
I thought this was a perfect movement, a father defends his son
But Alfred, who refuses to be my father, had gone home
I was left to explain this ridiculous case,
luckily the Portuguese
The police force felt sorry for me and let me go.
The next day, I bought a pair of sneakers in a Chinese shop
Alfred was wearing my costly upper leather
Come
Sit,
Spend time
Taking good care
Of the friends you have,
Holding space for memories of books.
Come hither and read your favorite books together,
Enter the library of ideas
Following your heart,
Allowing stillness
And
Delve.
A sultry maiden moon watches
hours of leisurely reading illustrious literary works
dreams of fiction become possibilities
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
I awoke from a dream --
well, let me start again:
My thought was that I had
awakened. Yet, I rose quite
mistily -- with ghastly figures
hanging in the air, moving
to and fro, in possessed manner.
Swat at them, I could not. My
arms would not lift, my hands
seeming porcelain objects. Residue
stillness, long after the model
had expired, and the artist had eaten
his last moistened bread meal.
The volume of Poe, lie open
on the bedstead, where it had been
wearily placed, just before my
dozing. Strange, the last page read had
been altered...and the name highlighted
for death, was now my own. Could
this deranged volume and I have
mysteriously, mystically changed
realities? My name began
to burn, uplift from the page, the savage
apparitions swarming to tear hungrily at the
fleeing image. My soul drowning in drool.
Reading is good and easy
As is loving a pet
Without a noisy jet
Or even Picking a ripe tomato
Deciding what to read
That is what’s hard
As are waiting for the first tomatoes
And avoiding the eye of the wind
Sometimes something seems hard
But is really very easy
Including reading learning
And reading as well!
Sizzling thoughts
baked in burning skulls,
sliced and served
in salvers white,
before starving minds!
Tell me, when we meet with a smile,
Tell me of the fondness for love.
The taverns of the city have long vanished,
Tell me if you can bring wine to my lips.
Roses scattered on the paths you can gather,
Tell me if you can piece together the broken me.
Each moment has passed in trembling fear,
Tell me if you can become the final hope.
We usually move ahead without looking back,
Tell me if you can call me home again.
Even your presence feels like a punishment,
Tell me if I still live within you.
This mirror has already shattered,
Tell me if your eyes can still make sense of it.
---
The books left
Flying out
All the words sliding
Leaving the pages
As the books took flight
No words left to describe the night
Fluttering with stiff covers
Pages falling/fading with the light
Fires took our history
Books removed to twist the news
Rewritten by barbarians
With which we are smitten
Cannot lose
The books left
All our words gone in spite
Only ashes remain to light our night
stacks and stacks of books
filling up Aunt Edith’s home library
the nephews and nieces laugh at them
They are old-fashioned, antiquated, useless
Some of these missives were read over and over
Cherished like an old friend with each reading
Others never made it past page two
Boring and dull, deemed useless, put back on the shelf
Upon Aunt Edith’s death these books are stacked.
Ready for an enormous bonfire. The relatives sing while they burn.
Edith watched them enjoying her books from her seat in heaven.
Too bad they never looked through them where she hid her money.
If I had a time machine, I would visit Samuel T Coleridge
My favorite poet of all time, the author or Kubla Khan
"The wailing of his demon lover” sticks in my mind
Delighting me every time, especially today, May 1st, 1803.
As I was speaking to Samuel, his pal William Wordsworth would drop in
They would ask me if I wanted to write a ballad with them.
I would be thunderstruck with happiness but too shy to do it
However, I would clap in rhythm as they created
Wordsworth would talk about his deep love of the
“Beauteous forms of the natural world”
I would be amazed by their vocabulary
They would both blow my mind out into the hills
I would set my time machine to 1858 next.
To visit Jules Verne, one of my favorite authors.
I would ask him how he thought to create
Around the world in eighty days and twenty leagues under the sea.
Amazed that we still speak of him in 2025,
he would have a zillion interesting questions to ask me
I would set the time machine to year 1868 next. .
My last stop would be to visit Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women.
I pray every morning I’ll be blessed
I’m not yet…but I’m trying….
to understand when we ban books in schools
before we ban guns
Why we’re more afraid of our children learning
Than we are of our children dying.
A hush of gray descends, the world outside a blur
Of weeping glass and dancing leaves, a gentle stir.
The scent of wet earth and cooled pavement climbs the air,
As warmth from a steaming cup soothes away all care.
In her hands, a porcelain hug, the tea's floral grace,
Sweet steam whispers against the skin of her face.
The book on her knees, a weight of stories untold,
Its paper scent, a comfort, a history to hold.
The rhythmic drum of rain against the pane,
A soft, percussive melody to wash away the pain.
Each drop a tiny echo of a memory long past,
A life unfolding, too beautiful to ever last.
A sip of warmth, a bitter-sweet and soothing brew,
A taste of all the moments she has ever been through.
The cool ceramic on her palms, a solid, gentle feel,
The world outside is fading, but this moment is so real.
She closes her eyes and listens to the low hum,
The quiet symphony of the world she's come from.
The taste of tea, the smell of rain, the warmth within her soul,
The past and future merge to make her present whole.
I had glorious plans for my life.
Warm ink transforming blank pages,
destined to be a best seller!
I felt specially bound.
Printing press cranked out
a glossy-colored cover,
my name plastered
in bold black letters for all to see.
Signed inside by my creator
I only rested on the bookstore shelf
for three bitter hours
before someone adopted me.
Held gingerly each night by gentle fingers,
eagerly offering my very soul
until snores dropped me
on soft, disheveled blankets.
Word by word and line by line,
page by page, and chapter by chapter.
Night after night, I was dynamite
till shut tight.
Is that all there is?
I've slept for ten years now... in a box,
in a cobwebbed corner of a cluttered closet,
dressed up and no place to go.
I'm suffocating!
untitled chapter
in my life’s journey
~ stuck on hold
Submitted on August 29, 2025 for contest 1407 UNTITLED HAIKU sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
A book by the fireplace
warm welcome for the arrival of autumn
~ quiet evenings of blessed solitude
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Specific Types of Books Poems
Read wonderful books poetry on the following sub-topics:
children, death, life, love, heart, wedding,
and more.
Definition | What is Books in Poetry?
Poems Related to Books
album, booklet, brochure, dictionary, essay, fiction, lexicon, magazine, manual, novel, opus, pamphlet, periodical, portfolio, publication, textbook, writing