A lot I could say about my bookshelf:
In a way like my half-understood self.
A first-time user should seek my half help
Against a blind book search and its yelp!
Supports the cruel weight of three thousand books:
Fat ones except Camus’ that it brooks,
Golding’s moderate-sized up to ten
And Hemingway’s made to stand like brave men!
Wood that clearly woos the works of laureates,
Notwithstanding, kept spaces for Harriet’s,
Able to secure them from clinched finesse;
Never much in shelf owner’s non meanness…
Shelf that says ‘Yes’ too to Science Fiction
The Best-Sellers for their winsome diction;
War novels that claimed a whole compartment
Some headache to Romance Apartment…
Then, Travels and Autobiographies:
Fine ones picturing Great Lives like trophies;
Frame that made sure it quartered the classic
For to have not done so the Quite Sick…
The flawless apt I want to often lick
And side-talks suppress in South Africa’s click;
The brownish shelf as tall as Hulk Hogan
Had my body organs joined as organ.
Categories:
autobiographies, career, creation, education, integrity,
Form: Rhyme
Classics, mysteries, autobiographies, adventure stories and everything else
Filling this terrific library from side to side, floor to window, ceiling to top shelf.
It is a book reader’s dream, until the entire concept gets bumped out by technology.
Now all of our favorite books can be uploaded on our tablets, a fine use of lexicology.
Categories:
autobiographies, books,
Form: Rhyme
Grandpa Rabbit sat deeply down into his cozy afternoon chair.
What to read? He had so many selections. Would it be a mystery?
He loved biographies, autobiographies, spy novels and another genre.
So many books from which to choose; he was in heaven thinking of it.
Grandma Rabbit smiled, knowing her husband well.
He would be asleep before he reached the third page.
This was part of the joy of being retired.
He could take a snooze while others painted and delivered eggs this year.
Categories:
autobiographies, retirement,
Form: Prose Poetry
Maya
Truthful, enthusiastic, prolific, kind
People will never forget how she made us feel
If you do not like something, she said, change it.
An American poet, singer, poetess
She published seven autobiographies
Pouring her pain out to help others.
Helping us to do the same
Angelou
Categories:
autobiographies, celebrity, poetess, tribute,
Form: Bio
You went to your universities
rehearsing your autobiographies
and
we are still as different as
chalk and cheese
I suppose you'll know
a chemical symbol
for those,
but
I wrote the writing to spend one more night in
her arms,
she left the light on to write me a love song
and
you don't need a degree for that.
Categories:
autobiographies, education, life, love,
Form: Rhyme
Do you know that everything comes alive?
i am alive
are you?
or else i wouldn't be here to write
i am sitting here wide eyed
my words they come alive
spreading across empty paper
i can write about animals- they are alive
how about oceans, lakes, and resouviors?
and the people in autobiographies asleep in their own books
the sky is alive too
with roaring airplanes, clumsy birds, and an insect or two
my mind is alive
on fire in fact
thinking too much about what is alive and not
too much to write about
not enough space or time
so for now i must let the animals all sleep
and the people who i am thinking about
also the mountains, hills and valleys
and the food i am about to eat
what a silly poem to write
but for someone reading this
i"m sure you are awake and alive!
Categories:
autobiographies, funny,
Form: Free verse
Stories written stories told
Words described to be hold
Ideas transformed onto a page
A fantasy released from there cage
Belief in a plan from beginning to end
Where once myth became legend
A theory was born into tragedy
Autobiographies and memoirs became history
Was the hypotheses of record enough to quell
Maybe the conceived cliffhanger will become a sequel
Where the interpretation of adventure lives after the start
While the book of knowledge remains forever in the heart
Categories:
autobiographies, introspection,
Form: Rhyme
The first day of school I had not yet come to grips with what being a senior was. To me, this was just another year and another grade level. One day, when I was on my way to school, it hit me that this was my last August and my last September not only in this academy, but in high school. This was my last leg of the race and my last time making memories here. A new beginning of my life is waiting for me not in years, but in just a few months.
©2013 Honestly JT
Note: My English teacher gave us an assignment to start writing about our life experiences so that one day we could possibly have autobiographies of our own.
Categories:
autobiographies, august, farewell, growing up,
Form: Prose
Unsatisfied with this history lesson
turn for the worse
stuck on the skyway again
with recurring dreams
of a shaggy three-headed orchestra
do you remember?
from whose foaming mania
we deciphered regal symphonies
and ghost written autobiographies
while lamenting the inevitable fall
of those sonic philosopher kings
who crawled from the moss laden architecture
of the new old republic
murmuring dream commands
to the coolest nerds on the block
like those mild-mannered maniacs
who captured a New York pier
as Verdi cried beneath nameless silhouettes
of eager open windows
I was there
do you remember?
for the magnificent arrival
of a disintegrating memory
recalled only upon realization
that we left a perfectly good century unfinished
By Art Wright
Categories:
autobiographies, memory, music,
Form: Free verse
I'm only happy when I'm sad, she said.
When people say their glad,
I get mad because,
they used the word glad, she said, we laughed.
The things she said, I guess,
wouldn't seem important.
If you asked if she knew Shakespeare, she'd say,
when I was born he was already dead.
She liked autobiographies because, she said,
they were books about history,
written by people who were there.
She loved the new testament,
because of what a mess it is, she said,
how great it was that Jesus gave,
gave such a big storytelling gig,
to his four buddies who couldn't write a lick.
That Jesus must have been a piss,
to hang out with, she said.
Important or not,
I didn't want to miss a word,
whatever she said,
I never waited to talk, with her,
I was happy to be,
just listening.
Categories:
autobiographies, happy, inspirational, jesus, life,
Form: Free verse