Best Hardcover Poems
Was round about the 60's
And I a budding teen
Was influenced and touched
By a program I had seen
Rod Sterling was the narrator
Of a series quite well known
With weekly visits to a world
Named the "Twilight Zone"
And to this day one episode
The best without debate
Has taught me 'bout the frailty
Of Man against his fate
A short meek man from Queens, New York
Henpecked by his wife
Found his joy in reading books
To assuage a bit his strife
Voracious was his appetite for
Tomes and all that's written
Yet blind without his glasses
He's as docile as a kitten
In the vault under his bank one day
While making a transaction
The world above was subject to
A nuclear reaction!
When he surfaced to the top
To view the mass destruction
He found that only he'd survived
And came to this deduction
No wife! No rules! No one to shriek
Or tell him what to do!
Only stacks and shelves of books
To read, peruse and view
Paperbacks and hardcover
Pamphlets, primers, scrolls
The whole damn New York Library
With him at the controls!
Then as he pictured life
In a world with voices hushed
He bent his head to grab a book
His glasses broke..........................
All crushed.............
When spines of hardcover are marked with ink
upon their pages, old cedar drifts on
through brownish sheaths wrapped in pulp, distinct
with plots and main characters long forgone.
And my thoughts journey unto realms untold
entering regions from another time,
along a nook, books perch on shelves grown cold
yet, I linger on quotes, both raw and sublime.
The lamplight from the room glistens inside
to spark turn of scenes, a climax, an end,
while endless gasps roll on night’s ebbing tide
until the heroes’ plight I now befriend.
Near the door, Grandma calls a bit louder
in her library, we somewhat allow
flicks of reading, laughing; and just out there
meal is served . I leave this haven, for now.
--------
In The Library Contest, Isaiah Zerbst
8/12/2015
a lot scribbled on
last page of past diary
next one hardcover
January wind
Dodging electric wires web…
Kite sprang in to sky
There is my beloved, sitting under the Sun,
Tenderly is how the wind, embraces her waist,
Bitter because he cannot carry her away.
There is my beloved, sitting under the Sun,
The sea is calling her, swiftly striking the shore,
she will not go with him, just hearing his hearsay.
There is my beloved, sitting under the Sun,
She keeps her face behind a green hardcover book
avoiding the caressing of an intrepid sunray.
There is my beloved, sitting under the Sun,
If the moon had a face, wouldn’t she also be shy
hiding on her bosom the smile I admire today?
My Lady of the Aisles walks so headily between the texts.
Her switch is but a libracation,
Within the words laid down and spread before Us.Such passion there was found in reams. A first edition, pressing, hardcover of what we dare not say.She came at once that very moment as I came to understand.The same turgid truth of mine inside her as we felt the Joy of Next.
A single strand of sunlight dappled gold.
Straining points of tautnesss ,such wicked thoughts kept abreast of learned intercourse amongst these torrid tomes.
My Lady of the Aisles turns each page of Mine with barely a concern.Of these throes of rows and rows in each of Us discovered things . We found on higher shelves.
She reads Me like a dirty book while I take the time to read her full; completely.To such a climax; there are no words to tell the truth.Of what the shushings all about.
Anglo-Saxon rulers were interned in the Orford castle.
Its polygonal edges secure the town's harbor from dazzle.
Many tallies of feral men caught in fisher webs hassle.
In 1826, Joseph Turner intended a hardcover poetry book.
On his trip to England's East Coast, he was led to the fort look.
Turner drew it with a pencil tracing.
He used a deep stain on a blue rag to add raging.
Orford's fort was veiled by red twilight in a verse hard coating.
Written: February 04, 2022
http://collection.imamuseum.org/artwork/49383/
A Strand (1069) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
the sunrise of your sacred love,
paints the hollow desert in my mind,
scattered grains of windblown thoughts,
frozen remnants from another time,
your liquid brush scrape shards of pain,
from deep within my dark terrain,
and like a scarlet phoenix I rise again,
I climb your thighs,
and stroke your breasts,
I kiss your luscious, tender lips,
drink your luminescent eyes,
and dive right in,
such a surprise.
I didn't realize,
that your love would be like this,
you've raised me from a dark abyss,
and placed me deep within your heart,
I'm warm, content and gently smiling,
lost forever,
in your love beguiling.
(from the chapter "Divinity of Woman" in Love's True Home, now available online in
hardcover, paperback, and as an e-book)
http://srigawntufahr.com/
Books...
hardcover, paperback:
inspiring, alluring, fulfilling.
Buy one at your book store, or get one at your public library:
fascinating, thrilling, educating.
New, old...
pages.
This is how I write,
Take pen in my hand
Black Mont Blanc
Open small hardcover
White paged
Museum sketch book.
Don’t think much
Words come as ink flows.
Outside,
Clear night sky
Full moon light
5:30 AM
Lunar eclipse
Will be memorable.
People are like books.
Some are big, some are small.
Some come in a set, and some
Are standalone.
Some are new.
Others: used.
Some hardcover, and some soft.
Some, we know we will never read again
Yet we keep them for the memory.
Some we are sad to let go of,
But know there’s always another waiting out there to be read.
The one thing that never changes,
Is that they are all books.
Inspiration clamors: demanding attention, in need of expression,
possessing my thoughts on this cold winter's dawn.
"Overcast morning!" Wind chimes ring out, a whimsical message,
orchestrates music, played to the rhythm of an odd melody.
Snowflake whirl; dancing about, vivacious children, blanket
with romance, noting the beauty of their frozen domain.
Eternal winds...forever to wander, in search of a dwelling, echoes
from nowhere: "Obscure is the meaning of this mystical song."
Year of the winds, that blow through my mind.
You leave me to ponder, upon melodic rhymes.
Blowing with fury, as you speak from the trees.
Then growing silent, just a wisp on the breeze.
Year of the winds, in the mornings I find.
Your blissful whispers, like a mystical chime.
Kissing me gently, with the waking of dawn.
Touching my spirit, with your beautiful song...
Daniel Ray Farley
Once Upon A Rhyme/Year Of The Winds;
Chapter IV Season of Solitude
ISBN: 978-1-4327-1045-3 Paperback 108 pgs.
ISBN: 978-1-4327-2920-2 Hardcover 116 pgs
By request of the author: "Once Upon A Rhyme/Year Of The Winds"
is no longer being published as of 02/2010.
Every Night You Come Home Smelling
Like her tenderness, when i ask i become the
Guilty and you the innocent "okay am sorry
Let's drop" and with a cheeky smile you head to our room .
Ancestral ghosts appear to me every night
"he is lying"they assert , i hear them but i
Do not listen .nay i know they are telling the
Untruth, they were not there when you asked me out.
This feels unreal i do not believe the newspaper
That they are selling me , i won't even think of
Buying it , but the cover page seems so real
The front page is made of a hardest hardcover
But still i won't buy it , i don't have time for such.
Even the wind has the tendency of lying to me
These days,No! ! I can't take this anymore love
Tell them yourself to stop since my voice is thin
All of you stop lying. The ways of the untruths
Is not right stop or you will kill someone,
You weren't there when we first met
You do not know us
There must be a good Justification for the
tenderness smell of her
But unloyalty is not one of that i trust him
My doubts level can never reach my love and trust
Level so once again shut up
Open up the Veuve Clicquot
Only the best will do
I don't like faux anything
When it comes to you
Real Irish sweater
Real hardcover book
Real thoughts in letter
Real Martin Brooke
Real chateau, Lake Annecy
Only the best will do
I don't do faux anything
When it comes to you
This new year
I tuck you away
Like a sweater I no longer wear
You whose squiggly ink
occupy hardcover journals
I cherishingly placed
on a wooden bookshelf
You I've outgrown
You a place I no longer go to
You who are fading with time
Leaving only faint lines in my psyche
From where I draft new ideas
You the ghost of last year's thoughts
The newborn baby looks with its wide eyes
When the dear mother moves away, it cries.
The mom's aura fills smiles and makes it well.
"Love weaves a mysterious magic spell."
When the child babbles, the father gets thrilled.
Cuddles it in his safe hands and gets chilled.
When the child toddles, the dad makes a yell.
"Love weaves a mysterious magic spell."
Grew heroic as a freedom lover
wants to come out of parents' hardcover
Passionate dreams in which he wish to dwell
"Love weaves a mysterious magic spell."
Wins his love and becomes Mister Perfect
Leads his family with all self respect
Turns to His agape love and bids farewell
"Love weaves a mysterious magic spell."
LOVE WEAVES A MYSTERIOUS MAGIC SPELL