Deals in a bookstore are the steals
I hoard on bookshelves—dull old stories
I borrow from a boring book.
Look at my life—an open book
That begs for life support and steals
Each day, each night as hum-drum stories.
I worry that my forty stories—
The high-rise building of my book—
Are just as cheap as all my steals.
My life steals stories from a book.
The eyes are the gateway to the soul
But hers was a hell I never expected
A tragedy so deep, I couldn't help but fall
A cut so deep, I couldn't pull the knife
A love story so tragic, it became bestseller
But I still couldn't stay away
I got so entranced that her name was synonymous with mine
I couldn't help but stay.
I kind of feel like my pen is missing me,
it’s freedom was rich whipped cream.
Indulged, I licked each of my fingertips
so sweet was the time spent creating.
It’s freedom was rich whipped cream,
the perfect words were carefully picked.
So sweet was the time spent creating,
they say a daydream can’t last forever.
The perfect words were carefully picked,
I had time to let every stanza steep.
They say a daydream can’t last forever,
something inside of me wants to try.
I had time to let every stanza steep,
becoming what they were meant to be.
Something inside of me wants to try
to be the voice of the next bestseller.
Becoming what they were meant to be
indulged, I licked each of my fingertips.
To be the voice of the next bestseller,
I kind of feel like my pen is missing me.
"There are souls like stars that dwell apart."
Quote by _ Spencer Michael Free (1856-1938)
My life changed when my sister died on my birthday,
I was five years old dazed, adrift, and lost;
everything was in disarray,
my little girl soul tossed.
I was very confused,
so shattered, tattered and scattered;
my child voice stopped speaking- it just refused,
I was in a maze feeling alone and battered.
I went to live with grannie and grandpa on their farm,
my thinking was troubled, puzzled, clouded;
the farm animals worked their charm,
life was full and crowded.
I saw life through a book,
and became a storyteller;
lost in make believe in a cozy nook,
I dreamt- I could be a writer ... a bestseller.
Yet, my life has always been haunted by the past,
disorientation has not been far;
but, I write poetry quite vast,
I write each wound and scar.
You are the author of this book
The words, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters
Write well, and fear and procrastination do unhook
So this book, your book, can dwell hereafter
Write with intent and purpose
Make sure to use a good pen and paper
Remember to hone the body with an excursus
Make certain your print is emboldened with no taper
A masterpiece that is colorful, loving, bold, and clever
A true page flipper, a reader's delight
Like Hemingway, but your way, a New York Times bestseller
Write your book with veracity and with all your might
So write, and write very well, my lad
Tell your tale like Canterbury, as did Chaucer
Let your ink indelibly imprint the world pad
Go ahead and cast your best words because, in this book, you are the author
There is a new best seller book you really ought to try:
“10 Steps to Living Endlessly” by Ida Wanda Dye.
the rain that drowned the sidewalks
dampened down the night-time heat
creating steam through manholes
from the pipes beneath the street
and set against this backdrop
of a vibrant city beat
swarms of taxis stung the air
with horns stuck on repeat
as a writer sipping coffee
staring from a café seat
wrote words for her 'bestseller'
based on when two people cheat..
"..married strangers and a storm..
arranged a covert meet..
..ran towards each other
in a way such lovers greet..
they kissed beneath umbrellas
in a manner so discreet
then stepped inside a restaurant
to flirt, laugh, love and eat
her big blue eyes melted his heart
her smile was wide and sweet
and he was rich, tall, cool and calm
and swept her off her feet..."
...but before the lovers' story
made it to another sheet
the writer came to from her thoughts
with the chapter incomplete
her big blue eyes and sweet wide smile
felt somewhat obsolete
on the poor, tall, cool, calm waiter who
brought change with her receipt.
Once Sariputra was attending a sort of book event: a dozen of young writers, men and women, met up on Wednesday of every week and read each other texts upon an actual literature. Sitting across a very open, a very red dress which sounded like reading something out of a story in a fantasy world, Sariputra was thinking about the void.
"This kind of openness does not mean emptiness, - he thought, - particularly, if to take into account "the plunging V-neckline and Empire-line midriff inset in satin with pressed pleats that cleverly accentuates a lovely bustline*". The narrative, in an obvious way, buys its acceptability by its substantive emptiness. If here a form is a simply emptiness and an emptiness is a simply form, should it assume that they both could, say, provide assistance on morally sound bestseller technologies where I have left a void, or waste of a dream, or explain why naught is naughty and why a perfect look matches a perfect emptiness".
The next reader was a girl in grey. Alas, her glasses, zits and her baggy turtleneck was eloquent testimony to her talent. Sariputra sighed and started to leave.
* Unknown glossy magazine.
At the crowded book store
People are lining up
Eying an autographed copy
Of a newly released bestseller.
Enthusing front of the line
Are the scholarly readers,
Critics, and the like:
Aspiring headline makers.
Some have read the reviews,
Some know author's bio.
Staging erudite conversations
Are members of book clubs.
Showing off signed copies
Are those of a special class.
They've just the spot
On their antique book cases--
Reserved for appearances.
February 1, 2019
Placed first in early February 2019 contest by Brian Strand
The wind blew so hard, I fell out of my tree
Not literally my friends, but I did start to pee
Inspired “Yellow Waterfall” by I. P. Dover
A bestseller the whole damn world over
Back to the blow, sure had to duck some debris
You'll get rid of your old shoes,
and buy new ones.
You'll be heartbroken,
but fall in love once again.
You'll lose an important contract,
but get your break with millions of dollars
from other business deals.
You'll make a mistake,
but become wiser.
You'll make a low sale of your first novels,
only to hit the bestseller list.
You'll cry in hurt in your soul,
but happiness will soon be your home.
You don't have to worry;
things will unfold themselves,
and sort themselves out, as they always do.....
I recall when I was a little girl,
and my grandma would tell me old stories;
her voice made my imagination swirl,
I often wrote them in my diaries.
She was our family storyteller,
and now it is me who tells of the past;
those old stories could be a bestseller,
that and her jewelry- to me has passed.
I have no daughter but I have a niece,
quiet to my old stories she listens;
and it is her, that I give the odd piece,
jewelry although old- bright it glistens.
A new storyteller when I have died,
and she wears that jewelry with great pride.
___________________________________
September 12, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/Old Stories and Jewelry
Copyright Protected, ID 16-828-562-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the Sonnet 4 Contest,
sponsor, Eve Roper
Second Place
Bona fide Book of Life --
brings out God's love for man,
binding people worldwide,
building up broken lives,
besides being the great
bestseller in the world --
Believe and be transformed!
-------------
17.8.16
I'm hurt....
I was clumsy as I walked,
only to slip onto a hard ground. No
one could see me hurt or falling.
Everyone else was still walking,
minding their own business. No one
was looking sideways, down or up;
they walked as though they were
being programmed by an invisible
controller.
...but you....
You witnessed my fall and impact
with the ground. I'm sure it felt really
good to see me slipping,
after I stepped on your tears.
I made you cry;
your tears made me lose
my musings for writing. The
sound of the door banging
behind you as you left,
deafened my soul....
You were my muse,
my life,
my meaning...
Now my book sales are no more
in the New York bestseller....
You roll over my head and I rise from the dead
Buried in a blanket of cold sweat in a grave on my bed
I’m a broken line of thought that remains wet to smear
A step into the unknown, the start of a line to everywhere
I prepare my fingers for the untouched whiteness
My handwriting will bear witness to my uniqueness
A single word explodes and overpowers my weakness
To never finish what I’ve started and render me useless
I never know where your ball will lead my foot
You dangle a carat and of course, I take a bite
An aspiring writer looking to write a bestseller
I crack a tooth on the fake diamond you bury me like a pallbearer
Today’s news headlines come pouring down my eyes
Why report on a report, you only echo their cries
I light a torch to see past the obvious nightmares
You draw blood around my ankles to give me lasting scares
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