Best Bookshelves Poems
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
never passed.
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
In my dreams, I hear whispers and echoes from abandoned books
Begging for attention, from their old bookshelves and cozy library nooks
Ghostly pages full of dust, some damaged from water leaks and mice
Genres untouched for decades, fiction, cookbooks, self-help and advice
I decided to try to find the old, abandoned town library, left dilapidated
Rumored it's haunted and unsafe, waiting to be a tear down as stated
It was gifted from a rich family, and cared for until no more descendants
The town couldn’t afford the upkeep and feared the rumored tenants
As I drove down a long country road, I could hear whispers of welcome
I spotted an overgrown gravel road with a faded and worn Library sign
As I read the sign, the colors sparkled and came to life for a brief second
I quickly blinked and the sign remained faded and drab but still beckoned
I walked to the library, hearing voices echo as I saw the oak wooden door
The granite steps were clear with an old gold skeleton key on the floor
I bent down to pick it up, once I held the key the library door opened
Books flew off their shelves, pages echoed as if their words had spoken
My alarm awakens me from my deep slumber as I remember my dream
I wonder if this new town has such a place and what It could mean
I grab the newspaper and there it is, the old town library is for sale
I smile, I now know what my future with the old library would soon entail
Looking through the bookshelves, a homemade book, he chose
Found trapped within the pages he came upon a faded red rose
Flatten down with care now faded in colour, more so in its scent
Memories such of a time, so long ago that to himself only it lent
It came from a happy home; a home, cherished made with love
Every crevice packed with loving items, as fitting all like a glove
With a garden full of noises with songbirds they did forever sing
On these evenings roll calls scents from the flowers so often ling
All crafted; by a man to perfection, all made to the one he loved
Not once another person, nor idol to his wife, did ever set above
There was nothing he wouldn’t do; to him it was a toll well spent
To share with his fair maiden; who was to him, truly heaven sent
Their home a range of seductive aromas as a good woman baked
As scents of fresh green grass cut that he meaningful then raked
A garden, and a home once filled with laughter as children galore
With a hollow sadness, wasn't that some sixty-five years or more
Silence befalls this home, now except for, the creaking of the gate
No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate
The old man; now restful in his chair, the book between his hands
Memories as forgotten now remembered he now fully understands
His weary sunken eyes slowly closing; are about to open no more
Over the rooftops, and, beyond the chestnut trees his spirit soars
No more idle down songbirds as the evening now draws to its fate
Silence befalls this home, now except for, the creaking of the gate
Indiana Shaw . . . -_-
Harmless guest
Underneath Zoom chair
Some small creature fleeing in confusion
Ah ha, a brown lizard, harmless four-legged guest
Hiding and scared, aren’t you?
So am I
Please do not visit me in bed tonight
Mi-casa-su-casa
prey on insects and spiders all you want
and Thank you
for house cleaning service
Mi-casa-su-casa
Enjoy this big playground
hanging out in small covered spaces
under any couches, chairs, desks, bookshelves, or tables in the house
Closets, vents, baseboards, cushions, and potted plants
unlimited places to hide
One early morning
A two-legged guest picks up his underpants
Surprise!
A four-legged guest skydive dropping onto the ground
fleeing in amusement
Daughter of the Sandman
War-story woman stands astride
the country now,
book-store tour bleary now,
author hands aching
from signing the $20.99
paperback professing her father’s
Marne Corps Desert Storm glory now.
Book-tour daughter
lays inside the hotel room now,
calling her shattered dad
across the gulf,
calling the shaking-hands dad man
“Geppetto” because,
when she calls,
he is always in the workshop basement
of her childhood,
still struggling with band saws
against protesting wood.
War-story woman asks the first-draft
question that has tied down
her mind, even during
her best-seller tour,
for so long now:
How well did she write the smell
of a burning man?
The sanding-dad Geppetto,
exhales against his labor,
says that her words were enough
to peel the covers from hard-backed
leathernecks in the Kuwaiti desert,
circa 1990 -
seethes through his teeth,
says how he can smell
the roasted beef of muscle,
sulfur stink of hair,
sticky-sweet spinal fluid
spiraling up
like a black-cloud desert jinn,
how her work makes him
proud, but that, now,
he must hide in his workshop,
in his work,
in this room,
to honor his writer daughter
and build his bookshelves
even wider.
Narrative works
Of literature by
Various authors of
Erudite standing
Line my bookshelves.
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Old textbooks from my past major,
Reveal something about myself
(Never read again, I’d wager).
Attached in place by hidden tacks,
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Paper mache’ Mardi Gras masks
(I never really wore myself).
Gardening books share the top shelf
With outdated references;
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Indicating preferences.
Genealogy, mysteries,
Fantasy tales of dwarf and elf,
And science fiction histories--
Gathering dust on my bookshelf.
Books line my bookshelves, dog-eared with love.
Hardcovers, paperbacks and a few leather-bounds.
Some classics, some romances and poetry abound.
Rummaging in used bookstores plays out in my mind.
I'm always seeking out those special finds.
I'm drawn to the unique old musty, heartwarming smells,
Especially the leather-bounds marked with old age.
Feeling the crackling pages, seeing ink on faded white.
I've been known to flip through pages and breathe it in.
It's the sensory experience, a connection with the past.
I curl up with words and they curl around me.
Wrapped for rest with a real book in my hand.
It's the actual presence of my most treasured books
That brings the ultimate pleasure than its digital reads.
It is the physicality of a book I believe.
Tall as they come, this man is 1 metre 85,
A basketball player inspired by the 2012s,
To compete in disability sport so to thrive,
At the high jump, his practice bookshelves.
Loughborough students encouraged him,
To work on his basketball leaps by trying,
To high jump. He was so taken, no whim,
With the London Paras, he was pertaining,
That he became a T44 athlete for team GB,
To qualify with PB of 2.06 at Bedford in May;
2013 also saw him in the IPC, Lyon to see,
Where he took silver, loosing to Poland, ok.
2014 IPC Europeans in Swansea, Wales,
And he got another PB with 2.15m, a WR,
Which would’ve won gold in London sails,
But he had to accept silver, Poland did bar.
Jonathan lives in Reading at the age of 28,
But was born in Colchester well fine, fair,
With a clubbed foot, a week right knee fate,
And muscular imbalance thru his body, lair.
Why does this light inside scare me?
I'll lock it down tight in the hopes to spare me
the separation.
I want to live from a higher vibration,
revelation and wonder,
but fear of isolation drags me under,
steals my thunder and dims the glow.
All this creation and nothing to show.
All those notes played just for the wind,
those shapes that stayed locked in my mind,
those words stuck between pages on bookshelves in sheds
or lost between faces so stuck in my head,
good as dead and going nowhere.
There's magic when you learn how to share,
when you don't care,
lay yourself bare and trust.
Tear down your walls and scream if you must
but scream it true
from the depths of what it means to be you,
step out from the queue and show it.
They can't do what you do and they know it
and they'll stop for a moment without even knowing
why they're touched so much by this love that you're showing.
Growing by giving, living by sharing,
loving by trusting and not caring
what the others may say.
Thoughts of this fade away when you just play
unafraid and unaware
of some deep recognition in their stare
of this shape, hitherto unseen
of a heart now open,
a dream within a dream.
It was the late 18th century and Abegail was twenty-one years old,
She was about to be married soon to an older man of thirty-four;
Her family was considered middle-class yet they owned a lovely home,
A gothic residence and nestled within was an large dusty library.
Abegail had a deep love for books and she found a secret way,
A passage was hidden by bookshelves to a labyrinth of books;
Women were discouraged from reading, it would damage their mind,
She should concern herself with needlework, marriage and music.
The library was full of books of all descriptions, some just old,
Some were rare and some just interesting with fiction stories;
The books took her to far off places and to tales so romantically sad,
Abegail loved the aged and yellowed volumes with tattered pages.
Sometimes she would just walk around touching the volumes,
It was an impressive collection with books in wooden shelves;
A place of acquirable knowledge, of deep discussions with her mind,
She loved to snuggle up with some books and just fill her brain.
Oh the library was utterly gorgeous to Abegail with its collections,
And not just with books but musical manuscripts and photographs;
She found old diaries of her ancestors and was full of book enlightenment.
But, tomorrow was her wedding day and motherhood and wife her fate.
______________________________
August 1, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Abegail In The Library
Copyright Protected, ID 15-696-539-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Inspired by the painting by Auguste Toumauche
Dans la Bibliotheque or In the Library
For the contest, In The Library, sponsor,
sponsor, Isaiah Zerbst
Second Place
when dad left us,
each night praying for the love it would take
to fix my parents marriage.
i would pray for the kindness
i desperately needed to face my siblings
and my mom.
now i know my words fell on deaf ears
and god is but a fancy name for nothing.
cried when i didn't know what love really was.
i still cry over the idea of love. true love.
when my family fell victem to death's domino effect
i knew real love was buried six feet deep.
this is why i cannot cry over you.
i should be sorry, but i'm not.
i should be scared, but i'm not.
nothing can hurt me quite like love.
it's not found in tulip fields or bookshelves.
when he died, my aunt couldn't stop trembling.
papa told her she couldn't shake forever,
but it has been six years now.
if i squint hard enough i can see him
sitting next to her at family dinners.
hand on a quivering knee, as if she sees him too.
love is a six year shiver that never stops.
it is not something you wish for.
love is love is love is love is pain.
love is nothing but death's hand on your shoulder.
I see you hipsters in rustic coffee shops with pictures of Marlyn Monroe and contemporary art,
the girl in all black with a black beret to make her look more avant-garde and red colored hair that was obviously bought from a drugstore. Strolling through the downtown streets wearing swedish backpacks that are a statement piece for impracticality for they are not large enough to hold textbooks but are meant only for small sentiments of music and poetry. Their fishnet stockings that only go up a little past the ankles to be seen out of the tops of Doc Martens shining against the sips of a blue moon witbier brew. Drinking lacroix which in my opinion tastes like a substitute for watered down alka-seltzer or more like sprite without flavor. Listening to their radiohead and pink floyd and nirvana in a fervorous rage against conformity or simply riding a chill wave through the early 2000’s. The boy with his colorful button downs buttoned all the way to the very top- which is somewhat strangulation because I have tried it myself. Where they occupy their bookshelves with paperbacks of Jack kerouac and John Green while looking for Alaska on the road travelling through paper towns. I see you modern day rebels wearing your frown with a fedora or newsboy cap which never looks as good as you think they might because newsboys no longer exist like that. Beanies that hang off the back of your heads while you wait in line for your frappuccino to condense. Hanging from the ceiling are small cactuses and crystals among bouquets of dried roses and daisies. Flowers and succulents are to be cherished like baby from dirty dancing who never gets put in the corner along with the Buddha and Billie Eilish although no one ever really went through with the eightfold path because it took too damn long and besides Kurt kobain turned out to be a saint anyway.
In a green skirt wave to tables, in a yellow skirt wave to chairs, but in a white shirt sit in bookshelves humming away and swinging legs and arms to the beat transcribed by tomes, biographies, encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses. A smartbook is not a smart book as it cant cook and therefore complaints should be made to the appropriate recipe page. A real page turner is not a yearner nor a learner for urns carried before steak in a fire is the epitome of a musket in a dazed glazed gin soup. So pass through the sheets, unravel the pjamas and stare out of the window. It is wise to count the clouds today. They are playing hide and seek with the rain, sleet, and snow. Always in a morning dew a frog can be seen dressed in fine attire sipping a curdled brandy from a seventeenth century cradle cup. And now it is time to go to cavern leap. It us amazing fun. In any clothes it can be done. Even in mis matching garments. Gaudy blessings hop hop hop. But no shop. For all is made from what is in front. Surprising how the inner formations of a house survive really. For missing a brick or two. Or a patch gouged out of a rug. That will surely be selling for lots of money at a craft fair if displayed as an item of esoteric mystery. Clap then. No no no not that loud. For you may disturb the sugar lumps sitting in the tree. They are the tree dwellers and deserve much peace and solitude too. A breeze bring a baton to the bayonet bank. And all is bought to bring bums and bombs. Shelter not a small shrinkable rat. And take no travelling topiary tree to a tropical themed disco. For discovery of emblems is often quite condensed in a triple harmony of a woodland dress. So go throw a spoon at a dart board then. Hahaha now whisk that chocolate pudding to a puffed out passing pastry. Hahaha now eat. Xxxxx carborundum Z. That was the latest from the p y q who was reporting from many tunnels. Z
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Moon drips are like gigantic slides and cloud surfing is very very exciting particularly when shoved with a broom. Base jumping off smaller spheres can be hazardous and mind the cats on the way down. They can pickle. It is often wise to omit zero shine to a coat. As many layers can spring around. Touching all areas. Yet stagnant in none. And all the time the warbling sounds. The jeering molluscs. Suited in rows. Caterpillar women with beady eyes. And large bulbous land based porpoises. Well, they will never get to create a pretty picture on the sandy ground. Such is the rationalisation of the purple winking frog who hops over global obstacles with a swoosh. Reverb is not an easy option so never swing back carrying ten cups of tea. Merely a cataclysm. In catacombs. In chasms. And often in pans. Pinnacles of diamante peas can fall. And tomato ships will arrive in a tray boat. Winds whipping windows wildly wildlife xxxx and treatment of a small disc shaped fish. *** chicken chicken peck peck peck ha ha ha whilst pock is neither a sunny synonym for it is a wondrous concoction of sound. *** level not a bun nor a beard nor a bread. *** and now swim in 900 metres of juices from a tree. Xx treasures unknown and unforeseen....*** ha ha ha question not a queue xxxx basins baby babies booming baboons boomerangs books bookshelves beads...*** prana prang xx piranha pyramids *** trepidation of tortoises xxxx pig presentation *** ha fortifications *** 83% of a dust particle *** physiology *** deliberation. Z.z.z. Boom. *** in a mild temperate climate a calling cattle moves. Xx momentous x z z z x
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