Best Books Poems
He read her like a book
as her wistful words poured forth
from deep within the pages
of her tender seeking soul.
He lay mesmerized
as her paragraphs spoke
softly to him, luring him
so deep into her soothing spell.
He gently held the precious volume
in his searching hands
while memorizing each and every line
that danced across her parchment pages.
He perused her thoughts
so deep into the summer night,
word by word, as he sought
to understand the secrets of her soul.
He caressed the palish pearly pages
as her wistful whispered words
tenderly touched the fantasies within his mind,
fulfilling all his dreams,
until the light of dawn began to break.
On this summer night
he read her like a book…
again and again.
August 1, 2022
Poem of the Day - August 3, 2022
Placid rain gently kisses unblemished windows
as leaves fall in an Autumn breeze.
In the distance cinereal clouds congregate,
converging upon the city's royal citadel.
Oblivious to the storm, adrift in cultural fiction
she sits immersed from the ambience
of the scent of new leaves.
Hypnotised - tranquil words enchant her mind,
as her eyes nonchalantly embrace each paragraph.
Her heart is at peace, relating to each character,
some that make her smile - others that displease her.
Jealous winds blow abundant rain,
like bullets shooting against her window.
Attempting to distract from her infatuation,
but her spirit is an unconquerable fortress.
The world is forgotten to her,
as her soul performs the role
of her favourite character.
Observing to learn through them,
so she can learn about her self.
The final page,
the last sentence,
leads to watery eyes.
For the peace and beauty
she experiences in books,
she does not find in life.
Simple Musings
Silent One
5 October 2017
If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my heart
Maybe then,I would abhore this soul
which spreads freely through each verse
Maybe then I would impress you
with my intellectual grammar
and sophisticated words
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
I Love . . .
to snuggle in my bed, no one around,
the purring of my cat the only sound.
And whether near a window streaming light
or with a lamp nearby me late at night,
I hold within my hands all boredom’s cure,
for I’m embarking on a magic tour.
I might be visiting a queen and king
while on my way to find a hidden ring.
Dark knights attack. Before the tale is done,
I am a hairy hobbit on the run!
Fear, though, is addicting. Oh, heart be still!
I’m chased through pages of a book. The thrill!
So many kinds of places I can go.
So many kinds of characters to know.
To ancient times on any given day
I might end up and then be swept away. . .
a slave girl who is yearning for the chance
to be set free and even find romance!
At other times, I’m in a mystery
or in a crazy person’s mind I’ll be!
When lost in a good plot, I just can’t wait
to finish up and know my hero’s fate.
To live another life I only need
to open up a book and start to read!
Written Feb. 20, 2017
Now used for Maureen McGreavy's What I Love Poetry Contest
They stand, silently,
shoulder to shoulder, upright,
save one at the end, leather bound
who slouches, James Dean fashion.
Six with blue covers, gold blocked,
uniform, like Trumpton Firemen.
All wear their heart on their sleeve,
honest and trustworthy,
patiently waiting
to be picked by my mood.
A tome selected, opened,
the smell of old paper, as if
it had been holding its breath.
Whispered greetings as the leaves turn,
flickering candlelight warms the words,
and in my mind
they dance.
A book that I plucked
from an antiquity of books
filled my nostrils
with a smell that I will always know
and always love.
This love cannot be explained,
but neither could any indifference.
At the back of the hall,
distant from and opposite to
the comical speaker's rostrum,
behind rows of chairs filled
with the attentive and the obliged
and the hands raised in angst
to express righteousness
and cleverness
(look at me ! hear me !),
I, too, would be righteous
and clever some day
(wasn't that clever ?),
but those dusty old books !
And who could forget God's hand ?
It thrust earthword,
its sword gleamed
a split second before cleaving
a wicked man in two,
skull to groin,
a dusty old book
among dusty old books,
explored with petrified daring
by fingers so tiny they're forgotten.
A platoon of books competing,
all to be explored in turn,
some more readily than others,
all old, all dusty, all so rich in scent,
none to be forgotten,
never to be forgotten.
5th July 2020
Around midnight, in the library I found myself drawn,
to these shelves haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
as a rare, late October storm brews beyond the pane,
bringing life back to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker.
To these shelves, haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
my fingers grasp a book from under the dust and webs,
bringing life back, to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker,
it's well-worn, leather spine just waiting to chill my own.
My fingers grasp a book, from under the dust and webs,
while autumn winds rustle leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
it's well-worn leather spine, just waiting, to chill my own,
my head, sinking further back into the velvet-lined chair.
While autumn winds rustle, leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
candlelight flickers dimly across the tattered old pages,
my head sinking further, back into the velvet-lined chair,
where the ghosts of Irving and Dickens will not let me sleep.
Candlelight flickers dimly, across the tattered, old pages,
I, unable to recline, with the shadows thrown by the fire,
where the ghosts, of Irving and Dickens, will not let me sleep,
residents of the dark welcome, and wait to be revisited.
I, unable to recline with the shadows, thrown by the fire,
as a rare, late October storm brews, beyond the pane,
residents of the dark, welcome and wait, to be revisited,
around midnight, in the library, I found myself... drawn.
In the library, at last I am freed
from others’ wishes for what I should read.
Book after book I most gladly peruse
with all these free hours I now get to use
finding books that I love; not just books that I need!
The books about science which teachers all feed
our minds with are making my eyes start to bleed!
I think I would even prefer reading news
in the library.
How much more enthralling are aisles that lead
to books of pure fiction! I will not heed
strict teachers, for romance and drama I choose.
Just see, I’ve already picked novels that ooze
suspense! Yes, indeed, I’m doing the deed
In the library.
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Oh, give me a nook and a storybook
there at my mother’s knee.
Or tucked in bed, a pillow at my head
as father reads to me.
To hear nursery rhymes - wonderful times
when Mother used my name
inside a rhyme. Oh, for childhood sublime!
Old age is not the same!
Of Cinderella and a cute fella
I used to listen to.
Romantic the tale where all ended well,
and love they said was true.
But I’d graduate from my childlike state.
Alone I soon would read
less beautiful things, in which a prince brings
no rose; instead, a weed.
Oh, to return to before I could learn
of life’s realities!
Where endings were good I’d go if I could
reliving memories.
In that nook I’d be, my mother with me
where books I’d learned to love.
That would be enough because it’s the stuff
fairy tales are made of!
The many winters I had seen
When once I was a teen
Gathered inside our small living room
Joy and simplicity our faces illume
Warm with laughter at striking stories
Light is the heart and empty of worries
My sisters and sole brother
The treasure of my father and my mother
Mum, our angel of the earth
The springs of our gaiety and mirth
Moving in the magic of her young age
Our hunger for hot food would assuage
Would even bring a piece of paradise
To us, if we dared ask, for any price
Dad, overloaded, would tread miles for our sake
Serene reassuring smiles while so much at stake
The nights echoed holy verses dad used to read
Developing a sense of belonging to his creed
Opening our hearts to the graces and blessings of the Divine
In my veins, a life of a tender love I’ll ever enshrine
*****
Many winters had passed
Still nourished of a so precious past
Confined to the tranquility of the night
The magic box would offer dreams in black and white
Stress and concern evaporated and lost weight
Soft whispers.. suppressed giggles with life pulsate
The quietest of corners I would always look for
My sanctuary, my home made bookstore
Ever my worlds side by side shaping the inner me
No single worry over the one whom I would be
Why would I when I was entangled in more than one story
Preened myself on my pen musing in my world of ivory
My younger sis who of English knew no word
Would grant me her patience and love for what she heard
Love and most of all contentment and gratitude
Deeply remained, the reign of my worlds and my soul food
The cold of winters, now, how can my words perceive
In my realm of poesy what of warmth willing to weave
The winter of our Life which many abhor
My wishes I will have the grace to adore.
(PoetrySoup Format)
. . . To be precisely placed ‘pon your shelf:
between, “Great Expectations and “Gone with the Wind,”
a best seller, “The Notebook, against the latest version of “Vogue”
Take a look
and touch me
Trace verbs *like braille*
observing
each chapter,
I long to be,
a book . . .
----------------
* scribbling *
- - and aching for your touch
Now published at tankajournal.com
Inspired by Chris'tanka contest ~Now, for the contest :)
While resting in my nook, breaths grip
As lampshade marks edges of leaves;
That I wander into the scene
On pages afloat, a tale weaves .
Listening to my restless sighs,
The hero wins a maiden fair
Under the rim of jeweled clouds…
Yet one dark villain lurks, beware!
Though moonlight hides its varnished face
My eyes pursue this raging quest;
And though caught in flamed paradise
Late hour ushers a sleep’s request .
Tucking the book, whispers I hear
Unto rivers of my vivid dream,
Awaiting for morn to touch its ray
To finish lines from a tale, supreme.
Brian's Select 2
I had waited for you seemingly forever
So long did it take before you were to come into my life
But in so many ways you had always been there
Your hair so white more than once people
Said that you glowed
Your eyes blue gray
Soft but piercing.
In the spring we’d plant flowers and you quite the digger
Would never tire of ‘replanting’ oh the control God blessed
Me with that summer
On the porch we would swing and sing until my throat would be sore
And still Id manage one more
Lavender Blue, You Are My Sunshine, Red River Valley
I can still hear the wee small voice
In the summer under the big maple the front walk
Would flood and we’d run back and forth barefooted and splashing
Your face, pure joy, your eyes animated, your smile so wide
And those cheeks I could tweak them right now
Is there any better sound than giggles and splashes
Autumn we would take long walks and picnics down in the woods
And sit on a fallen tree. We’d find ants and worms and spiders and rescue the most
Precious of treasures. Feathers, milkweed fuzz, acorns, so much
Bounty for the taking. We’d bring them home and glue them
On paper or cardboard or make touch books
Winter oh please let’s have snow for winter. Snowmen
And snow forts, snow balls and mmmm snow cream.
I remember the look on your face at your first bite as
If you had just made magic.
We read books by the fire, books and more books
Then you would touch my lips and ask me to
Read one with my mouth, which meant to make
Up one just for you.
You have been blessed with intelligence
You have an uncanny ability to fix things
You’ve never seen before
Your sense of humor can put me away
Until I beg you to stop
You have a sense of logic beyond your years
You will sit on the floor for hours and build block towers for babies
Most importantly my son
You have been blessed for an unquenchable thirst for God’s own heart
At eighteen our time together will be changing but sitting here
I remember the words from a book we used to sing to each other
“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be"
To Noah