Love Books Poems | Examples
These Love Books poems are examples of Books poems about Love. These are the best examples of Books Love poems written by international poets.
I love old book stores.
The smell and look of old books,
sets my heart a pumping.
At home I have my favorite stops,
checking out each shelf carefully.
When I travel,
I look up stores before I leave home.
My list can be short or long,
with a book or two or three following me home.
This summer I found an old book,
a book jumped into my shopping cart saying,
please take me home.
I have been reading on and off for weeks,
last night I got to the end.
I could not wait to see what was going to happen,
The Last Page Was missing.
You made me to your making
this hideous hide of being
I roam the world
of ice and barren trees
starving
(more hungering)
than food will fill
or sustaining reason
I find myself, by taper light,
a more hollow skeleton
than bones of baren solitude
Chase me, Frankenstein!
Your despondent soul, can still see me
a blot away on a desolate sea,
a stiller ice, an unfathomable sand
I will be where dreams shall see!
Library
Off to bury
Minds, spending time
Reading, soaring to imaginative levels
Harvesting curious ideas, challenging the devil
Experiencing many worlds, action always in a swirl
Around their setting, where the conflict can be upsetting
But when, the story comes to an end, happiness wins over the sin
If not in a hurry, destiny, visit the library, where the imagination will come alive, and cry
A good book is the way, to carry a day, under the sky blue, enjoying fantasies that are cool
I love curling up with a great book
especially when It is gently raining
What it lacks in physical exercise
it makes up for in thought reframing
I can go anywhere and do anything
to see how those different folks live
Or ride in a rocket to the farthest star
full of curiosity just to see what gives
I can take part in a harvest of blue
as the blueberries drip from my lips
Or contemplate if my future destiny
includes sealing wax & sailing ships
I hope to carry all that I’ve learned
in my mind until I have passed away
But lest I forget this important fact
that carpe diem means seize the day!
Here I sit on a big bookshelf,
I am here all by myself.
At night the lights go off,
the dust makes me want to cough.
Each new day the lights go on,
making me wish I was gone.
I see you walking by,
that makes me want to cry.
Oh please do not be shy,
pick me up to buy.
I just know you need a new book,
give me a look.
You will love what you see,
I can go home and we can have tea and brie.
Said the fool
to Hamlet, Macbeth,
the Joker, and every other
lovable madman
Through sand, fractures,
dirt, dust,
and all life’s ambiguities
Something still stands
Good morning bookstore owner,
here my new book is a loaner.
It is a must read,
it will turn your young readers head.
It is about silly yellow ducks not red,
shaking their feathers and counting ahead.
The kids will love this fun book,
fill your shelf so they can take a look.
that a woman,
or any author needs.
It is space for thought
in a world of noise
and nonsense,
chaos, and conflict.
My room, Miss Woolf,
has no walls, and the birds
interrupt, and accentuate
my thoughts, in perfect
harmony and rhythm.
I swept today,
in mid-April
and brought the plants out
for air and light.
They joined me
for a bit of reading
and writing,
while my son
played basketball.
The dribbling of the ball
complimented the cadence
of writing, tonight.
My sister Alex,
who lives a country away,
does not have
a room of her own,
or the space for quiet
consideration.
It is starting to drizzle,
again.
Thank God for Spring,
and the changes it brings,
even when unwanted,
on a perfect evening.
Candle lights the room,
Her heart beats a soft rhythm,
Longing fills the air,
She flits through a poem book
To find sweet words for her love.
SEARCH FOR ME on the dusty bookshelf,
in this room filled with very old books.
I sit here waiting to be chosen,
needing to be read by a reader.
Do you know it is hard to find me?
Old books standing cover to cover,
wait for a reader to SEARCH FOR ME.
I long to be in your loving hands,
and being read by your loving eyes.
I am a bookworm I love to read
Books of any kind that I fancy
My joy is to discover new fun books
My eyes delight reading in the nook
You can go places in an action story
Or books with faces can tell of glory
Some books can be sad woe is me
Or books that are rad like poetry
Discover a book and read open your mind
Have a look you never know what you’ll find
That flutter in your soul when you run your fingers over that unique book cover.
Opening the book, that signature scent flows off the pages, musky just like the library from your memories.
Craving that escape from reality, patiently waiting to be taken prisoner by each character.
You fall so hard; each character is perfection.
That sweet emotional whiplash.
Whiplash of first love and first heartbreak.
The ending comes too suddenly, returning to reality, now your heart is grieving.
You close the book gently and place it on the shelf where it was once.
down on the floor
hands and feet would lift me ~
i was a plane
blew up balloons
she made me animals ~
i was dazzled
taught me stitches
loved skilled embroidery ~
i was craft sown
drew paper dolls
sketched with clothes to cut out ~
i was prized fun
read tales aloud
fueled my fantasies ~
i was book hooked
spent time with me
shared skills and joys with me ~
mama loved me
A lifetime or two in a past far away
There lives for me still, through a thicket of gray
The brilliance of love for the world I once knew
In more than just memories on pictures books blue
The city that cradled my youth and my pluck
The signs and the shops and the fortunes of luck
I tear up at feeling that nothing has changed
That life has not happened and thus rearranged
The streets find me walking again through my mind
As heartstrings are strummed by the sweetness I find
The images ghosted now fall into view
Oh how I love paging through picture books blue
This feels too much like deja vu,
the days and nights of a biblioklept.
It’s what the book-bosomed must do,
taking in every chapter as you slept.
Being such an omnilegent person
it’s hard to run across something fresh.
Reading’s such pure introverted fun,
with each word I want gooseflesh.
I wander to each town bouquiniste
on the lookout for a page turner.
I’m hungry for a clever plot twist,
that story that’s an acid burner.
There is no place I would rather be
then inhaling the scent of this paper.
Serene and content in a lectory
escaping into a wild fictional caper.
I love to go running through my head
inside a space where I have no phobia.
While in reality I am filled with dread
suffering from debilitating abibliophobia.