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.
5 October 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 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
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014
How Wonderful It Is . . .
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
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017
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.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
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
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!
April 26, 2016 for the "What I Would Give For A Nook And A Storybook"Poetry Contest of Eve Roper
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
Now published at tankajournal.com
Inspired by Chris'tanka contest ~Now, for the contest :)
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014
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"
Copyright © Laurie Ginn | Year Posted 2009
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.
Contest: "What I Would Give For A Nook And A Storybook"
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters; turning
Amid my spindrift Soul wherein loves tumult rages....
Crashing through this pulsing heart that knowingly craves her ~
Aneath these turquoise tides, which tear burnt pages?!
Washed upon the shore to feed the pyramids pyre
Torn from destined books carving ancient time....
Spirits chanting dreams while dancing in the fire
Captured by the flames of oranges burning; loves sublime ~
Sunrise, now gathering blue horizons to kiss the wrested nights
Waning heavens waving a million reflections left, glittering deep inside....
Astringent embers touching tranquility while as floating through the rougish sky
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters still, only to subside!?
Torn from destined books carving ancient time; this
My own Aphrodite....
...."My, Beautiful *Star Light" ~
Copyright © John Rhinem | Year Posted 2011
You know me as a poet, and writer of poems rhythmic,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language to share,
my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
Few beyond this safe harbour have read my poems,
I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
my poems are my treasures that I keep hidden,
fathomless is the pain.
My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.
And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on,
I am fascinated in the architecture in my city.
Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
admiring gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
with my cats.
I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers;
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewellery and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me- I am quite happy, although quite internal,
and I do love and need my silence.
July 30, 2015
Submitted to Contest 260, Brian Strand, Fifth Place
Submitted to contest, 100 In A Row #1, PD, Fifth Place
Submitted to contests, All That I Am, C. Puddifoot, Seventh Place
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
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.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015
Does the past really matter?
Does it set you free?
I’m absorbed in the sin,
That is surrounding him and me.
Lost in the curiosity,
Cold to the touch.
Drenched in the poison,
With my dignity in his clutch.
Feeling like I was cheated;
I chose the evil instead of light.
I traded in the sunshine,
For what lurks in the night.
I disobeyed his orders,
I gave up security to be unsure.
I went against the warnings,
Gave into darkness instead of remaining pure.
Once my bed was made of soft grass,
But now it is made of stone.
Was plump from all of the luscious fruit,
Now I’m starving to the bone.
My curse is one of circumstance.
The punishment a crime,
I’m stuck inside this dampened cave,
For the rest of time.
My world came crashing down,
The grief has not subsided.
My heart broke completely,
When my sons collided.
My misery a token,
From the abandonment I earned.
Upon the time spent in sorrow,
There was a lesson to be learned.
Have I found the moral?
Only in time we shall see,
For all I did was eat an apple-
From the Knowledge tree.
Copyright © Alyssa Waters | Year Posted 2013
My neck crooked backward,
I stand between the stacks
feeling the weight of centuries,
the distilled wisdom of minds
who graced the earth with golden words,
words that pace the pages -
vellum, parchment, fine and common papers;
words, cordoned in lines, confined,
yet powerful tools to set one free,
a roamer far from home,
beyond time's reach.
The light filters through high windows
downward to where I peer with squinted eyes
teasing out a jewel -
a title, an author, an adventure, a friend.
The air is charged,
the static of adventure,
heartfelt journeys of a hundred thousand writers,
their souls etched upon the pages
for ones such as I to stumble upon decades,
The elements of books -
leather, cloth, paper and ink -
infuse a rich elixir,
a mind expanding potion,
companion to best wine and oldest friendships
© Faye Lanham Gibson, August 11, 2015
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015
On the land of miracles,
Took place a miracle,
Missile man of our country was born.
People's president he was known,
APJ Abdul kalam was his identity.
Paving a path for young generation,
In the field of science and technology.
He inspired young minds.
He is no more on this earth,
But his soul hasn't left his motherland.
Freedom, strength and development
Were his dreams.
The day he was born,
He dedicated the day to learners.
The spark in his eyes,
The smile on his face,
And the confidence in his attitude,
Inspires me and every indian.
I am proud to be an indian.
Copyright © AHALYA NAIR | Year Posted 2016
Crazy wind whispers
Into the ears of ‘champa’
A light scented Indian flower
Trees are full of them now
Your love in each and every bough
The breeze is cool
Because it is spring
Because it is south wind
Because everywhere is hue
Because it is warm with you
Blue hills and green plains
My room at sixes and sevens
Red bellied wood peckers drumming
Rhythm in feet nimble
Your twinkling eyes with dimple
Our roads are tremendously red
Ashok Palash and Gulmohar
They call it flame-of-the-forest
Love in red supreme
With you in extravagant dream
Books in eloquently colorful blurb
Beauty steps in every curve
Invitation in every nerve
The spring below and spring above
Your healing love
Goes away alas the days
Of dance in soul in warm sun rays
Goes away your ocean gaze
Life in a twilight haze
Your beautiful craze
Ah if I could have turned the clock
Holding your hand in a Gulmohar walk
Only our hands and feet would talk
Around the clock arm in arm
In your beauty and charm
Alas that is not to be a thing
Our time is as short as the spring
March 18, 2016
Butea Monosperma or Palash is a species of Butea native to tropical and sub-tropical parts of India and Asia.
Saraca asoca ( the ashoka tree, literally ‘sorrowless’), belongs to the Caesalpinioideae subfamily of legume family, of Indian sub continent.
Gulmohar or Delonix Regia, grown in many tropical parts of the world, called FLAMBOYANT in English, is a striking sight for its vivid red/vermilion/orange/yellow flowers and bright green foliage...Wikipedia
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016
My Grandpa was inimitable… uncommon.
He could make a story out of a passing wind
and have me crying, giggling like an imp--
this God-given knack could spin yarns of myth
that even my siblings rasp with bulging eyes ,
mouths wide as a crater, entranced from
delicate plots soaked in mystery.
Every trail was one step away from anticipation,
but a story was a story, the larger the better…
how could a pirate turn into a lizard
or a starlight emerge as a queen?
It didn’t matter what the tale was about,
for between, “And then” and “Later on,”
my gasp was sucked deep into
another world beyond my own knowing.
Oh Gramps would pull out his violin
while we both serenaded the clouds,
unmindful of Granny’s holler
from the kitchen. Somehow, no one
had the power to wheel us back to reality –
not yet: Not until he passed on in his sleep
at 68--- my young adult-heart ravaged, minced.
I wipe these vintage books he left for me,
a scent of faint cigar drifting among earmarks
which likely mesmerized, invigorated
those he entertained around his theater-stage…
and I , a dear audience, was the special one of all.
Broken Wing’s Contest: Old jewelry or Just old things,
or Old, Old Poems
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
and so you dust the book that's me
right off the shelf called LOVERS
You have found the others not to
be as enthrallingly intense
caressing the gilded pages,
you take a moment to admire me
through the layer of dust
with eager fingers you try to pry my cover
I will not let you open me again
those lines of love and rhymes of passion
encrypted with your name
will no longer be available to be read
consider this book, archaic
Put me back on the shelf
for I'd rather gather dust
then be poured over
by your careless fingers...
fingers that have traced other lines
eyes that have viewed other plots than mine
Leave me alone
for my mysteries were beyond your understanding
a book not for the novice in love
but for the mature
read the other volumes
more slender than mine
devoid of depth of meaning
devoid of passionate climaxes
and intricate subplots
Come back to me
when you hold me as a sacred volume
of love and life
the only sacred writ to fit your needs
then I will open my covers
and let you devour
the secrets of my essence
the mysteries of your universe
you will need no other book
to live by
to learn by
to love by
except this unabridged volume
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016
Lord I came to you empty handed.
No prayer book today.
I ask myself what shall I pray to you
without the help of compositions
written by people much better than I?
I know you do not really care
what I recite from books,
especially when such prayers
are quickly read not meditated,
with distractions all around.
For my mind keeps wandering
on inconsequential things,
or very often concentrated
on frivolous supplications for me.
But now I am at loss.
What should I pray?
Let's see Lord if I can think.
For look, this world is evil.
Please forgive our hardheartedness.
Do not look upon our wrongs,
but rather receive our good.
In this respect O Lord,
I offer you your Son,
His tattered body on the cross,
His royal blood shed to the last drop.
I offer you His Soul and Divinity,
in atonement of our sins
and those of the whole world.
For we are all your children Lord,
and without your help we are mere failures.
There Lord, I can say no more.
Please accept my offering.
And may I hope next time
I won't forget my prayer book?
Or should I?
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016
A Brothers White Production
Skipping through the tall dry grass
memories of childhood flood back
the summer of youth a distant cry
as mudlarks face an early sun
On my back in the grass, as I read
stories of kings and knights
wind caresses my hair, whispers
an almost forgotten song
Dragonflies circle above in the sky
mesmerised by their flight
I am transported far back in time
lost in these pages I now breathe
And I am a boy again, plastic helmet
cardboard sword; brave and strong
we run around fighting each other
and invisible low-life enemies
Dragons appear in front and rear
Swooping down breathing fire about
But they are no match for us
as we slay them one by one
Those days, where grass was our universe
where friendship lasted a lifetime
and we would forever stay young
-deep in our hearts we always will be-
August 16, 2017
Copyright © White Wolf and Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
I took a book out of the library
where it must have stood amidst
its brethren for 25 years, unused,
unborrowed-- I know this because
its pages were crisp, never bent
by a greedy reader, and yellow
from time's effect, a drug that
ages books as it does readers....
Someday I guess all books, both
the virgins and the overly used,
even abused, will be no more: all
replaced by sterile zeros & ones,
and my future self will never again
have the soft pleasure of turning
endless pages, feeling tangible
the words of some distant mind.
Copyright © L. J. Carber | Year Posted 2017
I scanned the shelves to pick a book
That seemed to be appealing,
From those adjacent to my shoes
To those up near the ceiling.
Selecting some that might work out,
I skimmed the first few pages,
For mostly I can tell by then
A story that engages.
A half an hour passed before
I found a prime contender,
The author someone in whose words
I’d happily surrender.
I checked it out and brought it home,
Some reading time in store
But soon enough it came to me –
I’d read this book before!
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2017
Alice in Wonderland
Was my favorite book as a kid
I used to pretend that I was Alice
Having tea with the Mad Hatter
And the March Hare
But now I pretend that I am the Mad Hatter
For my mind is unhinging itself
Breaking away from reality
Till I can no longer recall
What is real and what is a dream
My emotions often get the best of me
But I have learned to smother them
But sometimes like a pot on the stove
It boils over and out
And I can't contain it
My mind is and becomes a freight train
Ramming itself against my skull
At 8, 11, at 1 in the morning
It is constantly running
And it never stops
I can't tell anyone about this
They'll think I'm insane
But what can I say
My mind is my own Wonderland
And I am but just the Mad Hatter
Copyright © Diana Leger | Year Posted 2016
He was debonair, full of flare
charm exuded here and there
but she was so unaware
and she let her heart to dare
poured out love and all her care
But he another love did share
There he stood, there he bled
he knew that she longed to wed
all this filled his heart with dread
for she loved the youth instead
This young rival he must shred
Take her to his heart and bed
Walked in rain then took a spill
Jilted, wilted soon fell ill
to live life she lost the will
Passion gone, there was no thrill
but her heart he longed to fill
His love was the magic pill
The she knew love has no age
his hand turned a brand new page
Now that in love she was sage
Rescued from falsehood's cage
Passion danced upon their stage
No one could their joy to gauge
This is the story of Marianne and Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility. You should watch the version that has Kate Winslet play the part of Marianne. Emma Thompson is her sister. Marianne is in love with the young John Willoughbye, who is dashing and charming. She is passionately in love with him, but her heart is broken when he gets engaged to someone else. Colonel Brandon, played by Alan Rickman, is an older man who is passionately in love with her but doesn't express it to her in ways she expects. However, when she falls ill, he is the one by her side. He nurses her slowly back to health and wins her love. :) This story is written by Jane Austen. Oh how I love the classics. Sometimes it is the steady, deep, unassuming love that is truly lasting.
I've written a poem on this theme with a different twist: Scent and Sensuality. ;) I http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/scent_and_sensuality_474084
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
I’m Huck, and my last name is Finn.
On the great Mississippi I’ve been
playing hooky from school
‘cause there ain’t any rule
that can keep Huckleberry caged in.
I bet that you’ve already read
about the fun life that I’ve led,
how I got a bad foe
that they called Injun Joe
and how me and Tom one time played dead!
I ain’t nothin’ special, just Huck.
In my boyhood forever I’m stuck.
Just one kid needs to look
at the words in Twain’s book
and I’ll stay alive - with any luck!
*My character, of course, is Huckleberry Finn, taken from the novel of the same title, written by a very witty humorist, Samuel Clemens, AKA Mark Twain.
Written 4/20/14 by Andrea Dietrich for the "Become a fictitious character taken from a book (or a movie) ! Free Poetry Contest" of Giorgio A.V.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
In the land where children play.
A boy named Roy would sleep all day.
No matter what his friends all said.
The boy would not get out of bed.
For he was very bored with toys.
The ones for little girls and boys.
He said that they were all the same.
The cars and trucks and every game.
But then one day Roy got a book.
He figured he would take a look.
And when he opened up the cover.
Of books he soon became a lover.
He read the book from front to back.
He read about a boy named Jack.
And all about a silver train.
And then about a place called Spain.
He read about each moon and star.
And just how far away they are
He learned of ancient histories.
And many science mysteries.
Soon he had a big collection.
Of which the boy had great affection.
His favorite thing to do was read.
He learned to do it with great speed.
One afternoon a friend came by.
And asked if he could also try.
To read a book instead of play.
Immediately, Roy said, ‘You may.’
Soon his books were being read.
By Sue and John and little Ted.
That’s how the land of toys became.
The land of books instead of games.
For Francine Roberts' Children in Rhyme contest, by Samia Arroyo
Copyright © Samia Ali Salama | Year Posted 2012