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Library doors open in an up draft of promise. I saunter past screens of computer mayhem to book shelves of comforting distraction of liberated reading. Words rattling on pages of saucy fiction or on the white edges of mystery. Perhaps the poised intimacy of Austen's novels or hard packed history suits me? Select (possibly) the measured merit of Poetry Or a Shakespeare\Dickens' volume that lifts the veneer of living and invites me into a ruined world. Pages that seem to turn themselves in my quest for meaning. To read Whitman in seclusion for fear of being ridiculed at home. Or to seek a narrative arc of oddities, of what's unfamiliar taking me in a different direction percolating like coffee brewing to discover the ravaged past as a variation on what's present. Book stacks that ooze the richness of culture, unwrapping what's striking. My private universe a welcomed exploration like a bird uncaged in freed solitude in the quiet of spaces. Poem revised October 20th, 2020

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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Date: 10/30/2020 7:53:00 AM
It's so true, sometimes we need a refuge from the craziness of this world, I forgot about how important libraries are, so true the touch of a book cannot be replaced by electronic devices, feels much more authentic. Very nice write Brian I am enjoying your writing!
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Brian Sambourne
Date: 10/30/2020 8:02:00 AM
Hello John You've made my day. Many thanks. This poem also received an NA in Souper contests. But still I write on. Book stacks do provide passages of discovery + comfort. Thank you for reading my work. Be well. Brian