Bookshelf Poems | Examples

Bookshelf

Biographies of different kinds
Orwell with Atwood, intertwined
Old books, new books, a thousand rhymes
Keeping their words, holding those lines
Singing caged birds, sit whistling chimes
Histories, mysteries, marking time
Every volume, fixed on my mind
Lexicons, for a world we can't find
Fact versus fiction, yours and mine.

Bookshelf Brags a Bit

Bookshelf was bragging a little bit
Plants love my shelves!
End table had a hissy fit.
observed by three elves.

Why do you brag like this? She angrily said.
Irritated because her orchid plant was terribly dead.

Bookshelf had a bit of a secret too.
Plants that loved him were the ones that do….
Like living in the shadows, no sunlight hue.

He did not help End Table, for she was not that nice.
She stuck out her drawer tongue, not once, but twice.

An Ode To My Bookshelf

Custodian of nostalgic memories,
I cannot help but glance at it everyday,
for it holds in its fold nearly forgotten stories,
that in the distant past used to make my heart sway,
now awaiting the urge within my soul to recreate 
and so relive the charm of mystical echoes,
that here and now I may again celebrate
highs of yesteryears as also the lows.

What at first grips my fickle attention,
are not books or photo albums stored therein
but rather thick layers of dust that cause tension
and so the trusty bookshelf welcomes my break-in,
hoping that I may learn from error of my neglect,
reforming lethargic habits and pick up a book
and by doing so, at least offer some respect,
even if it ends up as but a cursory look.

Oh worthy storehouse of knowledge,
I applaud your ability to serve with verve,
judging me not irrespective if I acknowledge
the comfort you provide, which I doubt I deserve 
for although many a friend has come and gone
your stoic presence in my life is reassuring,
to elevate my mood if I become forlorn
and so your presence is my mooring.

23-February-2023

Write an Ode Poetry Contest 
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser

Bookshelf

woah! look at that bookshelf,
it's split into three sections,
how convenient,
there's a politics section, a sports section, and a fiction section,
some of the books look quite interesting,
I'd steer clear of the Hillary Clinton book though,
she can go die in a hole,
(maybe that's a bit harsh. I don't personally know her after all.)

Ghosts of the Album

Like spider silk woven into human form.
gliding in the air as it moves and beckons.
grasping the metal of an old light pole.
Head turning and seeming to look at me.

I ask, if you ever came back to us again,
how annoyed would you be at the traffic?
Would you enjoy our precious cellphones,
or perhaps you'd find them an abomination?

Smiles will shine like noon if you returned;
excitement would make the heart flutter;
but you're a crispy voice of soft whispers
indifferent to feeling, or even breathing.

Whether lost kindred fallen in a great war
ghost of the battlement, forever on guard
kept alive by the memories and pictures
in the album on my Grammy's bookshelf.


3/13/2021
I Remember Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Malabika Ray Choudhury

Endless Bookshelf of Emotions

Deep inside you will never find.
The darkest moments inside your mind.
Like a thousand books of emotions.
A mind full of love pain happy sad potions.  
As we Try to talk before you walk. 
But as we grow it is all erased just like chalk.
The tears the hurt the pain.
All attached to you like a mental chain.
 all your glowing spirit that grows inside 
But with only yourself to help guide.
How do we change are deepest thoughts?
all we feel are our emotions caught.
Plant the seed in the minds garden of happiness. 
But all we grow is so much sadness.
We search are hearts and mind Digging an endless hole.  
To never find your one and only true soul.
Your mind and feelings are Forever punished by yourself.
My thoughts lost on the never-ending bookshelf.

Bookshelf Breakout

The ancient cracking bookcase stuttered
Books trembled upon the shelves,
Then scattering across the rug bound floor
Where they took up new residence.

Those left in the bookshelf
started to rock back and forth
hoping to join the colonials on the floor.

Taking Down a Bookshelf

The authors
blink only when looked at,
they recall for you
a story, perhaps a tale half-read.

One book lifted,
pages fly between thoughts,
a few scrapes of knowledge 
peck and preen again.
Phrases return
demanding still to be displayed
though rarely used.

There are mystic scriptures
that hover between
fiction and non-fiction.
I imagine temple beasts 
still guarding them.
I overreach,
shake this collected tree of knowledge.
Books fall, some like stone, 
some like fluttering birds.

I am ankle deep
in the printed word and its aftermath.
Some will go to the thrift shop,
some to the garage,
a few will stay between bookends
surviving these winds of change.

Today I have time to admire
the dance of sunlight on bare walls,
the transpiring poetry 
of blameless space.

Ode To My Bookshelf Filled With Unread Books

ode to my book shelfs filled with unread books

My house is filled with books
thousands of books
old books mostly
lots of musty classic books
lots of poetry books
lots of how to do it books
lots of history books
lots of thrillers, SF books
so many books
and they  are my friends, these books
calling me to read my books
as if I had the time to read these books
to sit and read all my books
sadly many will remain unread books

poetry super highway prompt to write a poem about something in plain sight

The God's Bookshelf

The poets are the quills of God. The quills
write down the masterpieces that cause chills
along the spine, goosebumps, tears of the pleasure
in godly rhymes that feed into the treasure
of poetry. The quills write down as well
the platitudes, the clichés that, to tell
the truth, are different on spelling only.
The countless graphomaniacs and the lonely
true poets who, I hope, include myself -
you’ll find your places on the God’s bookshelf.

Bookshelf

a home for stories 
blankets of dust on some
the likes of Carroll, Poe, and Hemingway
all within reach of twelve year old me
whose feet were planted squarely
whose mind was planted elsewhere 
in my room just down the hall
from the loving demons of our past

these travels along literary highways 
by fingers that struggled with the logic
behind cleaning your room every day
came to bare in places like 
Aesop's Fables and The Raven

The Hobbit On My Bookshelf

When my parents
returned from England 
   They brought me 
a leather bound copy of the Hobbit
    Now it sits proudly 
on my bookshelf 
   What a fantastic story!
Full of hobbits, dwarves, goblins
    wizards, orcs . giant spiders, 
elves and Beornings
    Imagination is ones' 
key to a joyous life 
  The book has inspired a 
multitude of poets, writers, 
   and yes - dreamers 
   As for myself I feel it 
is an example of wonder 
   which is something we 
are all in need of 
   in these dark and troubled times 
So, friends - re - read the Hobbit 
   rejoin Bilbo and company 
   and take joy 
from the existence 
    of Middle Earth

Bookshelf

So many friends live side by side
Here on my bookshelf
Sweet stature and pride
To help me conquer self.


Over the years a growing pile
Loitering patiently
Anxious to prime fine style
Swiftly and most surely.


My mental diet of food for thought
Is a daily intake
Authored by minds that plot
Feelings and thinking breaks.


So many clever minds live here
In pages that reveal
Finesse and fond good cheer
That fund such grand appeal.


Grace and blessings live with sure poise
To hoist my fragrant days
With consistent sure voice
To fling fine writes my way.


I simply sit right here and pun
The wit and rhymes that spark
With conspicuous bright fun
That lights the unknown dark.


Day after day, deep company
Helps steer my sanity
Warmly, briskly, surely
With wordplay intensely.


Night after night, I seek new light
To help me write new lines
That align precious sight
Beyond that old grapevine.


Who can be lonely here my dear
When candid minds befriend
With lovely thoughts sincere
That touch and thrill and tend.



Leon Enriquez
01 August 2014
Singapore

Breaking Bookshelf

upon opening the door,
i saw my bookshelf had broken,
beat down by the weight of
the barbell which i had 
foolishly set atop &
so, relishing in the chaotic
spill of beautiful
books,
now laying all over the floor
in a mess, 
i wondered why i had ever invested
in a bookshelf to begin with?
thought to myself that back in the
days of school, i had them stacked
up in a chorus of uneven towers,
like that of Hitch, whom anytime he
did an interview from the room
where he wrote, one could
adore the stacks upon stacks that
this brilliant man did pick &
devour from, to weave his 
works---
in rounding up the mess, i took the
bottom shelf
to lay on the floor as the new base for
a chorus of uneven towers
of my own, 
as a tribute out of necessity 
to the man, now gone,
but still with us---
one of those whom i wish i had
gotten to meet,
one of those whose voice still
thunders &
thunders,
against the wrongs of this horror that
we alive,
still call home.

The Croweded Bookshelf

Words leap from the crowded bookshelf
Each vying to be heard

‘Look the mighty have fallen and
Time is in despair-

‘Hark’ the buzzing drones
Battle cries pierce the darkened skies
The rider on horseback flees the night
Chased by the ominous breath of
The winds of change
Destruction and misery our behest’

‘Where is that sweet, still small voice
That calms the troubled heart and
Hand, that soothes the furrowed brow’?

Tears has long been our meat
And gnawing tongues our pain
We writhe in our dilemma
For peace has left

For the pale horse of death now rides
Clippity-clop along our shores
Baying at the darkened walls
And curtained windows
No light to dim in this
Our forsaken hour’

‘Come,’ I hear the voice cries
‘Come over here to my broken side
Shelter a while till the hour is past
My love, my dove, my undefiled
For the menace plague will surely burn
At the light of Dawn
Darkness shall flee
And will never, ever, return.’

© Brenda V Northeast   8th of July 2011

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