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Poem

He finds himself surrounded
and bound by countless books
with eyes that stare and dare him
to devour every morsel where he looks

at words-paragraphs-and-pages
perched on overburdened wooden planks
throughout his mole hole of a bedroom,
his sanctuary-den in which he
lives, hides, thrives and gives thanks

for the restless urge of writing
yet finding reading more enticing
as the battle of his ageing
raging mind ensues, like two
lovers dancing in the dark, 
each hoping to make their mark
before the night is through.

“Theology” by Sheed, is what he thinks he needs
but Socrates and Greek mythology
have keenly caught his eyes,
before touching any titles however,
he pauses briefly to wonder why:  Why not
a little Shakespeare, some Dickinson or Thoreau, why not
give astronomy, cosmology or psychology a go?

But then what of Tolkien's "Hobbit" and
"Fellowship of the Ring;"
"The Lost History of Christianity" and Buddhism
could make him sing.  
Reading has a way of opening his mind
but he can't seem to think away
the urge to write
against the rising of the tide
as he picks up his pen
and his fingers begin
                               to fly.

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