Best Bookish Poems
MALT SHOP
I’d been in the place -
The usual booths lots of them
And a soda fountain –
But not right after school
Not that I’m such a flaming intellectual
But the bookish didn’t hang out there
And then
Some of us had jobs
No It was the personality boys and girls
For whom school was a prelude to the malt shop
Here you could be seen and heard
Heard over the noise you were part of
The nerd need not show up at the malt shop
The booths were both confessional and
possessional
With room for four two boys two girls
Nerdy had no girl no room for him
I suppose every school has a no touch clan
Four or five royalty who really know how to
play
They will not inhabit the malt shop
It’s too common for them
So where did I fit in?
I didn’t
Didn’t go to dances
Didn’t know how to smile just right
Did I want to go to the malt shop
Smile laugh
Flirt with the girls?
Of course I did!
Dave Austin
Categories:
bookish, youth,
Form:
Free verse
(ALLITERATION)
Cows milked: mitigated mooing in the meadows then
Weaving on the warp, some workaholic women
Harvest of hapless halibuts on hooks
Bookish book-worms buried in books
A palomino and a pony patter on the paving
Hucksters and hawkers hawking every housing.
Ravers out on the razzle raising a raucous razz-ma-tazz
Beavers busy building beaver-dams but about it quite blasé.
Doves cooing in divine chorus
Frogs frisking out of focus
Horoscopes are hocus pocus.
Tidal waves of tsunami treacherously tread
Sea-anemones scattered upon the sea-bed.
Geraniums genuflecting in jungle-like gardens
Hunters wary of wandering wild-life wardens.
All this when I ventured about videotaping
Nature's much nicer even with no landscaping
These are direly different scenes from different parts of the globe
Perhaps like a space probe's kaleidoscopic poetic probe
( this poem has every letter of the alphabet except x)
Categories:
bookish, imagery, poems, writing,
Form:
Alliteration
Education
the light of our life
A gift of academic rife
Education
the key to a bright and
rewarding future
A glue that joins our
dreams like a suture
Education
A path to divine success
A smooth drive to our
greatness
Education
gives our thinking a
different appearance
And helps drive away all
our ignorance
Education
It leads us to the path of
prosperity
And gives our tomorrow a
sounding security
Education
the process of teaching and
learning
Which will help us in our
future earning
Education
shaping our true character
is the motto
Leading to a successful life
it is the major factor
Education
The progressive discovery
of our true self
And exploitation of the
potentials of oneself
Education
a better safeguard of liberty
than a standing army
A life boat that see us
through our days of stormy
Education
A torch of academic
brilliance
And package of inner
resilience
Education
the key to unlock the
golden door of freedom
And stage our rise to
stardom
Education
A life sustaining material
Without it we can’t lead a
life which is congenial
Education
not all about bookish
knowledge
But it is also about practical
knowledge
Education
makes a person stand up
on his on toes
And helps a person to fight
with all his foes
Education
A fundamental foundation
For any country state or
nation
Education
A thick line between right
and wrong
A ladder that takes us to
the height where we belong
Education
Mother of all profession
That helps acquires all our
possession
Education
Is our right
For in it our future is bright
Categories:
bookish, education,
Form:
ABC
With a golden circle of life
People swimming in ice
More sheeps than migrants of fife
Supple, jolly faces speaking so nice
A place so safe to reside
Viking's tongue so rich to hide
Lovers of books, elves in skirmish
Folklore of nooks, shelves of the bookish
Old democracy, noble Parliament
Delightful delicacy, nourishing not feculent
Old Norse, historical and eloquent
Language of the adepts, minds so evident
Thirteen days before Christmas
Thirteen Yulelads moving around
Thirteen nays for spoiled isthmus
Thirteen Santas with ice cream in mound
Land so free, with ice run so deep
In veins and blood, rich in culture they keep
Ten drops of drink, fun for free
Iceland in wink, pun marvels with glee
Categories:
bookish, imagery, inspirational, journey,
Form:
Other
Villanelle: Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Words which sound to native English speakers as gibberish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
The poet hears a voice probably his own loud and clear
As he scribbles words English dictionaries list and cherish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Can the fine feel of a language’s rhythms and cadences cohere
In the non-native speaker’s bookish learning albeit feverish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
When a Malaysian-Chinese poet whispers into his dear’s ear
Lines he has learned for exams from native speakers of English
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Post-colonial poets simulate voices buried in psyche’s rear
Words they utter in tutored voices under authority of the English
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
To whom does this poem belong if it stirs not far from here
The voices that bred these words all swirling around dervish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
bookish, england, language, poetry,
Form:
Villanelle
Death, existence, come and go,
Like a tidal undertow…
Waves that toss us, winds that blow,
Raging storms and biting snow,
Hunger, anger, joy, and woe,
Hellish heat with burning glow…
Saints and sages ‘in the know’
Quibble bookish quid pro quo.
Artful seekers high and low
Chase illusions to and fro,
Board their boats and row, row, row,
Partially-illumined, though…
Ever-present, apropos,
Where true wisdom waters flow,
Those mind-opened practice, show
That enlightenment will grow
From the lotus seeds they sow
(Equally for friend or foe)
Of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
Mortals here on planet Earth,
Do we see a being’s worth?
Know the gateway to be free?
Realize where lies the key?
Ancient Buddhist scrolls unfurled,
Let us sense our inner world,
Walk around within, explore,
Enter through the Dharma door…
Lost will find what’s gone amiss,
In despair, in want, or bliss…
Humankind at precipice,
Life itself abides in this
Single all-embracing phrase!
Sounds profound, astound, amaze…
Who recites it sings its praise,
Dark of nights and bright of days…
Utterness Dharma
Wholly revealed!
Sentient karma
Lastingly healed!
And we plod on… fast or slow,
With the work in progress, so
As to render what was heard,
Each and every golden word
Of the Oral Teachings by
Nichiren… that is, we try—
Plus some Buddha Writings, more
Handed down from ages yore,
Many from the olden store
Still as timely as before—
Thus to offer, help bestow
This Nam-myoho-renge-kyo…
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
[For Martin Bradley and Gerhard Lenz]
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo means to devote our lives to and found them on (Nam[u]) the Utterness of the Dharma [entirety of existence, enlightenment and unenlightenment] (Myoho) permeated by the underlying white lotus flower-like mechanism of the interdependence of cause, concomitancy and effect (Renge) in its whereabouts of the ten [psychological] realms of dharmas (Kyo).
[ See... .dharmagateway.org/harley_poems. ~ Poetry with a Buddhist Theme ~ by Harley White ]
Categories:
bookish, desire, destiny, inspiration, life,
Form:
Verse
Like an artist with canvas, paint, and brush,
how then to illustrate (for you) in words
and in rhyme the throes of a bipolar rush?
For bookish and reserved, but manic, nerds
(like me), when I'm touched I'm inclined to gush
all over myself (for the pretty girls,
who'd blush like brides on their first wedding night;
as I flirtatiously finessed the twirls
of their sex-starved libidos with delight).
Yet the morn welcomed me with news of disgrace,
for I had acted the Lothario
with a Gorgon of a maiden:—whose face
was that of the Medusa's, the Gorgo!
To think, that I was so glad to escape:
seeing her with sober mind, I was agape!?
Categories:
bookish, hyperbole, irony, mental illness,
Form:
Sonnet
Have you ever noticed the way you always fall inlove with the wrong people.when you are chatting wit yo friends and they ask you what yua dream guy is like and you reply that he is a little bookish,romantic,he bits you wit flowers and writes you poems,he's goodlooking bt nt in an obvious way,he talks wit yu and isnt intrestd in only wan thng,he doesnt luk at other gurls,he calls each nait and yu can talk fo hours,he likes the same music,food and books,he is perfct and all yo friends are nodding,buyout of the corner a player,he is smokin hawt,he doesnt read,doesnt write poems,cant talk fo hours,doesnt belive in flowers,hates yua favorite food and yu hate how hopelessly in love yu are wit im,hahaha.yu ar nw in so much pain knowing yu gave yua heart to a guy ful of thug passion....going thug is my thing fo if yu cant love learn to flatter thats what juicy j taught me..n i dnt mynd telling yu so...love is like a violin,the music may stop now and then,but strings remain foreva wich i luck..n remembr wan thng anyone can be passionate,but it takes real lovers to be silly.i dont nid to b silly..lets mit to the next level.
Categories:
bookish, fantasy, feelings, funny love,
Form:
Epic
Sunlit curly blond hair, icy blue eyes
Horse shoe crabs, sundials, cloudless skies
Rolling Stones, Dean Koontz and Mathematics
treasure hunting, pizza nights, schematics
fossils, meteors, tulips, strawberries
complex creation physics and theories
Sea breezes, ponies, quiet dreams
Plotting and planning your life schemes
Memories linked to the songs you hum
Trapped in your heart to beat like a drum
Chatting fingers, friends, long wavy hair
Sharing time and space with those who care
Mountain drives, lakes, snowless nights, roaming hands
Your mind and your world constantly expands
The hopes and dreams that you still wish
A boyish dork some call bookish
Midnight loving, long pillow talks
James Bond watching, languorous walks
Tim Tams, wine and fire light
Eyes that gleam as souls ignite
Whisper white sands shifting beneath your feet
You live your life to a different beat
Bonsai trees, stargazing and jars of treasures
just some of your many intriguing pleasures
Surfer boy who daydreams but loves me true
The gift is the joy in you simply being You
Categories:
bookish, friendship, love,
Form:
Couplet
Summer, mere another season,
Synonym to never ending emotions.
Emotions when linked with fun,
Well, do there exist a perfect explanation?
That calm fancy swimming pool,
She does try to amaze me.
"But I don't find you cool enough"
That's all I tell her daily.
"So what is it that amaze you?
What is it, that you never miss?
Is it something really that special,
Like a teenage love's first kiss?", she asked.
Special! It never describes her,
She is way beyond that.
Something far more beautiful,
Than lady Rosy's pretty hat .
So what is about her,
That makes you feel so attached.
What do you do with her,
That leaves you this amazed?
We play catch the ball,
We play hide and seek.
She actually is pretty cool girl,
cool enough for a bookish nerdy geek.
We then sit somewhere,
When we are tired to run.
Talking about a hell busy day,
Is just an another level of fun.
She just talks and talks,
Her words, they never end.
You know Peter? That naughty little parrot,
Even his sentences do tend to end.
Listening to her bubbly chats,
My head placed on her lap.
The best possible way to rest,
Sleeping with the beats of her taps.
Annette, That sweet beautiful baby,
She is my only human friend.
I am proud to say that, I am a puppy,
Mr. Raymond, she calls me, her only non-human friend.
Summer, this beautiful emotion,
I hope it never ends.
I always wait for it, her summer vacation,
To celebrate the summer with my friend.
Categories:
bookish, animal, best friend, friend,
Form:
Light Verse
The hottest lines - one after the other I devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like a toasted flower.
The ink runs from the corners of my brain,
Oh God, have I been eating poetry again?
I made the mistake of swallowing one set of rhymes when
The librarian appeared, putting on her necklace chain
Reading glasses while looking down her nose.
Her eyeballs rolled, her head shook out her woes.
Tearing off another page with her walking toward me,
She was about to release the dogs - I had nowhere to flee.
She stomped her feet and began to weep
As I crumble the next page into a heap.
She backed away as I snarl and I bark,
Crunch, crunch, crunch - swallowing all the way to the question mark.
Finding her nerve she approaches me with a moan,
Then I watch in amazement as she tears off a page of her own.
Folding it up in the palm of her hand, she smiles
And growls and shoves the whole page in while
Pulling out another book from a hidden pocket of her dress.
We sneak off together into a hidden recess.
The hottest lines - one after the other we devour
Salty - sultry - tasty - juicy sweet like toasted flowers.
The ink runs from the corners of our brains,
Oh God, have we been eating poetry again?
With baited eyes we snarl and bark,
Chomping with joy in this bookish dark.
Categories:
bookish, addiction, adventure, art, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
Categories:
bookish, autumn, boy, dark, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
When mum would talk to other folks about her family,
She’d always speak particularly proudly about me …
Of how I’d gone to grammar school, my bookish ‘steel-trap’ mind.
To hear her, you would think I was a boon to all mankind!
It should have made me happy to have such a super Mum …
So why did I feel sheepish, and fat, and gross, and DUMB?
Why could I never say to any person how I felt,
Or tell them how I wished the ground beneath me would just melt?
Could it have been because I sensed that, under Mother’s pride,
The plain unvarnished truth was, she was never satisfied?
Did she feel that I’d let her down by being fat and clumsy?
Or was it that I loved my Dad more than I loved my Mumsie?
For, truth to tell, that was a fact. For all she wished it other,
I loved my father in a way I never could love Mother.
I do know she was jealous of the love between us two …
She let it slip in ‘chance’ remarks such as “Who’d look at you?”
“Your skirt’s too short!” “You’re much too fat!” and far unkinder slurs.
She saw me as a rival for his love, that should be hers.
She never learned the secret. No, she never found the key –
That he loved me just as I was, not “How I ought to be … “
The tragic thing was, we loved her in just that same way too.
We tried to show it, but poor Mum could not believe it true.
So, after all, it wasn’t me who wasn’t good enough –
No-one could satisfy her, not a soul could measure up.
For Mum had never loved herself: she’d never felt worthwhile.
That was the truth behind the boasts: the tears behind the smile.
She couldn’t let herself be loved. She never could perceive
True love can never be possessed, but it must be received.
I feel so sad to think of how she wasted her whole life
Pursuing love, in such a way all she could cause was strife.
By fighting hard to keep us, she was driving us away.
If only she could let us go, perhaps we would have stayed …
But now I am determined not to make the same mistake.
From now on, I shall give love, and accept love, but NOT TAKE!
Categories:
bookish, motherme, love, me, truth,
Form:
Verse
My man from youth grew
Your life was full of superiority;
You dazzled and demarcated,
Who does not belong must be sacrifice,
And laughter were the mystery of your horror tales,
To all animals not wild should cut their tails,
Freudian legacy that governed the tribe of the bookish
And trickles down to wild youths,
The Mafioso cum in our midst
As he found landlocked in:
This is a, that is b and those c, d, and e,
Alphabetically symbolize the allies
Who seemed not to care;
We washed different hoe-hands
Together into the same potluck,
But I decided to follow the king;
It is an experience, whatsoever or whatever,
Expressed what I looked for,
And clapped a song: immortal invincible God only wise,
In the conclusion of the matter
All that needed done was half done,
And tomorrow packed belongs and begone,
Gone on mission and came back with some spoilt,
The pathetic sweet–hearts you hate to remember
The one there and here and lived with in ransom,
And terribly pity, the one discarded, multi-distressing,
With all diseases in her mouth and in belly,
The executioners used darkness to mask
And covered up in shielded shadows,
With weapons drawn and the meat
Surefooted walked into the trap,
The in humans unleashed the superiority tussles:
A dagger slit esophagus,
Knife carved out eyelids
Axes butchered wrists,
Cutlasses designed gothic gashed all over;
Sliding and growling the pain shoot in his vein,
And tore through him the devastated dream,
Soon it was time to go as he lay
And the juice poured out of the vessel in torrents,
To perish, eyes and mouth agape, surprised;
To the moon looking down terrifying,
O! God we lack and want,
O! God provide us our daily bread,
O! God we are crying for injustice,
Mother cried of crushing, crashing heartbreak for
The lamentation of her killed beloved: 'Jealousy inflamed brawled'
Poor mama, she has not been there
Even when she went there,
In agony, sorrow and deep mourning, merely comforted;
But, Eman story had been contorted.
Categories:
bookish, deathgod, god,
Form:
Free verse
RADIO VOICES
Thirty-three and a half minutes listening to the static;
I'm one big ear! hoping to hear a message
from the other side...
Beethoven has an unfinished symphony he wants completed,
Arthur Conan Doyle complains fiction today is all detective work,
Joan of Arc loves Mel Brooks.
Thirty-four and a half minutes and my patience snaps;
I turn to RTE, the writer Derek Mahon
Is being discussed by a panel.
They've detected importance in his poem
'A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford'.
Mushrooms decaying in the dark,
Holy Joes adrift in a Godless cellar,
Sweethearts who've missed the boat,
Bollards moored in misery,
Death-pale and ghostly.
I would store this poem in a cool dark place
and only bring it out into the light of day
for a bookish friend, a literature hound;
it merits close inspection.
Categories:
bookish,
Form:
Free verse