Absorbed in a story
disengaged from the world
Embryo position assumed
the wonder of birth
Characters larger than life
plot nary a stall
Mother smiles fondly
she, who’s directed it all
hold on,
don’t leave yet.
I still need to grab
the piece of
my heart
that I used as
a bookmark
(A series of Senryu poems)
He got her number
from a friend who thought him cute
freelance matchmaking
His poems of her
sounded more like yelp reviews
—good—but not five star
His texts were a kind
of a boyfriend audition
- he got no callback
.
.
Songs for this:
SILVER APPLE EYES by Kasabian
lamb (feat. Kellin Quinn) by Julia Wolf
My bin is full
Rubbish arrives every day
And takes what time I might have left
To simply throw away.
Its energy is ceaseless,
Its will to be, absurd,
Its essence, non-increaselessness
(though I doubt that's a word).
In truth, what I fain cling to,
And hold my essence at,
Is what I must unsling to,
And simply useless tat.
What I must throw, or just let go,
Upon the rubbish heap,
Is what was me, and I decide,
I need no longer keep.
Reality is never where we live.
We live, wherever we meaningfully live,
Forever.
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.
Written: September 17, for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
***********
I flipped the book with a steady hand,
chapters etched as runes into the sand.
The tale was tangled, the lead crowned,
beyond, silence fell, no closing to be found.
The final leaf had vanished, sly and fleet,
perhaps devoured by some voracious beet.
Or maybe scribes, with quizzacious delight,
slipped it away to prank the sleepless night.
I searched the margins, parsed each crabbed line,
for clues the author left in sly design.
A smudge, a doodle, statice pressed in place—
but no denouement, no triumphant grace.
So now I tell the tale with aplomb:
the villain married, bought a stately home.
The hero tripped, repined, then took a nap—
the dragon joined a choir, and learned to rap.
And if you ask what moral can be spun,
I’ll say: beware a most distant sun.
For endings hide, as frenemy or ghost—
the last page missing always laughs the most.
A library, a ¦¦¦¦¦¦ spot, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Where treasures ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ patiently await,
Forgotten times whispered ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
And hidden gems unveiled at last.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
In this haven ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ we're free to dare.
Optimism fills the air ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
Wisdom the library does provide.
(Blackout of Knowledge to Share by Catherine Pulsifer)
Transparency is like a graduated cylinder
that exposes its contents to view;
When the liquid of clarity shows no obscurity,
the measure marks of sincerity stay true.
Transparency is like a window
that lets the truth beyond the glass be clearly seen;
When the curtain dances across the pane,
it turns into doubt's hanging screen.
Transparency is like a flashlight
that unmasks what darkness tries to hide;
When the hand of power turns the switch off,
though the battery of bureaus stays charged, facts feel denied.
Transparency is like an official receipt
that documents a record for authentication;
When the culprit leaves no certificate of traceability,
no item, amount, or date will show the transaction.
Transparency is like an open book
whose text declares what all have rights to see;
When the crook closes the pages of public awareness,
it covers the volume of its dark secrecy.
I was in the mood
for a real page-turner.
My bibliophile friend
handed me a book of white-knuckle suspense.
"Read this! It's quite a doozy!," she promised.
And she wasn't lying....
I blew off many a phone call,
filed away my to-do lists,
prioritized book above all hobbies,
yadda yadda.....
I was surprised how fast I got to
the final chapter.
Alas, I didn't get to close the book.
Not yet anyway...
A surprise I never anticipated, you see.
Ugh, never have I
groaned so loudly in my life!
Jane knew I'd come to her
confused, demanding an explanation....
"Hey, is this your idea of a practical joke?", I asked.
She guffawed her "Yes,"
handing me
the last page she tore out.
Silly gal, best believe I'll get her back.....
dust-softened hardbacks
line shelves like old companions
ink scent warms the air
pages murmur their secrets
from shelves that never hurry
The fuel, fury and addiction,
stupendous depiction.
I’m magnetized; my nose buried
in vellum sheets. Varied,
the construct of complicated
simpletons located
on cliffs, near harbors, with their ghosts;
misdirecting guideposts.
The injection of crafty twists;
flying ink insists
you sink deeper into its thick.
The turn of pages, a joystick.
Wanting to finish the story;
feeling’s transitory.
Compose a series, Author, please!
Your book ended with tease.
I’ll have eyes on antagonist,
tea with protagonist,
follow breadcrumbs and red herring,
and choose to be daring.
T h e E n d
The old book lies open
as if it finally gave up
trying to hold its spine straight.
A faint mustiness rises~
not unpleasant, just honest.
Someone left wildflowers on the page,
thin stems crossing the margin
like they wandered in
and didn’t bother to leave.
A few petals rest on the sentence
that once meant something important.
Raindrops cling to the blossoms,
small bright beads
that look as though the sky
paused long enough
to add its own commentary.
The words underneath don’t complain;
they simply share the space,
letting the flowers speak
in their quiet, wordless way.
For a moment,
the whole thing feels accidental
and perfectly right~
a story meeting what grows
without needing permission.
I am reading about a poor chap,
by a killer led into a trap.
I’ve been biting my nails
at the ending’s details,
but the last page is missing. Oh, crap!
Gathering fantasies over here
Warm holiday books feat setting near
Stomping crimson red grapes
Imagining romantic fate
Characters dreaming of cupid's spear
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
Books Categories
Read wonderful books poetry on the following sub-topics:
children, death, life, love, heart, wedding,
and more.
Definition | What is Books in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
album, booklet, brochure, dictionary, essay, fiction, lexicon, magazine, manual, novel, opus, pamphlet, periodical, portfolio, publication, textbook, writing