Bookstores were my life’s mooring
Where my spirit felt both shy and effusive
Shy, bashful, a girl wearing her heart on her sleeve,
Effusive, flowing about the pages – impulsive,
Resisting the urge to plow through the words
Without indulging in the crisp scent of this new novel.
A San Francisco Haiku Quartet
Oh San Francisco
Beat poets Ferlinghetti
North Beach was our city
Hushed conversations
Rich coffees and biscotti
Smothered in rich fog
Our French cigarettes
Then under table footsies
Moonlit hills our home
Cable cars singing
Golden Gate from our window
Heaven and stars..ours
{In Memory of Ralph}
May 4, 2020
2:30pm PST
English Haikus
Looking For Treasure
By R.e. Taylor
I want to go out
Spend the day treasure hunting
No, I don’t need no map
Don’t need no “X” marks the spot
I will find it all on my own
I want to search the backstreets
The alleyways where no one goes
Maybe find an old bookstore
Not one of those mass-market stores
No neon light or organized shelves
I want books on the floor, on pine shelves
And someone who understand books
Their the ones who should be running the place
And I sure don’t want me no Stephen King
No Anne Rice or Dean Coontz
I want me some Douglas Adams, Louis L’Amour
And for sure some Agatha Christie
I will keep looking for that bookstore
Searching day and day for years
I know it’s there
It has to be
I just have to find it.
Bookstore, Musty Galore
Allen's Old Gold Discover,
SecondStory Pages of Glory,
Kelmscott Shelves Soar & Hover,
1st Editions Scarce Recovery,
Fore Edge Paintings Lover,
However It's Cheapo Papery,
Provides a Comfy Nest Plover,
Finding Fresh Author Flesh Scary!
Going Broke Buying A Great Cover,
I'm Not Waiting 'til Old & Hairy,
Grazing Tomes is Similar to Clover,
Diet As Extant Goodreads is Nary!
My family came to visit me in the bookstore…where I was working the other night
I greeted them as they came through the door… with a smile broad and bright…
And as they gathered round me…I paused to take a look
and think about how a person’s story…is somewhat like a book.
Each day we add a new chapter, new pages, new paragraphs…new lines
and I was glad on this day…to add their pages into mine.
When they departed…when the door closed…with their visit at an end
my mind wandered to other memories…other pages we have penned.
For isn’t that the beauty of a family…the host of memories we’ve made…
memories we look back on…memories that never fade…
And isn’t that the beauty of a good book…you’re excited to read ahead
but you can stop anytime you want and return to pages you’ve already read.
And you realize this book you’re writing is about much more than just yourself…
and you hope when your final chapter’s written and your book is laid upon the shelf…
when others choose to read it…in a different time…a different place
the memories within its pages…will bring a smile to their face..
Clay saucer
clay pot
potting soil
striped triangular stone
tiny green bud
tall bamboo stalk
fleshy green leaves
held in place by
patio umbrella crank
sits on latticed
black round wrought iron
table at Bart’s Books
Ojai, California,
quiet, peaceful,
so serene
till a bookstore-hating baby
screams.
A brown man with a full beard passes
I continue to read.
A young white man--handsome--
stops and sips at the fountain directly my left
An old women, wearing a winter coat with leopard print--wealthy looking--
hobbles by
A middle aged women--indeterminate--
walks slowly by
I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke
I say a quick prayer for her
I continue to read.
In the bookstore; need a gift.
Choices do abound.
Spend an hour in the aisles,
Looking all around.
Hard to tell what would appeal;
The present’s for a baby.
Though his shelves are empty now,
Each book elicits “Maybe.”
So I stand there, skimming through
The shiny cardboard pages,
Wondering if this or that
Will be one that engages.
Finally, I make a choice
As patience starts to dwindle.
All I hope is that as yet,
He doesn’t own a Kindle!
Sitting in the café, of my favorite bookstore,
Writing poetry for my book
I find myself staring at words, close my eyes
And let the words just pass me by.
People walking past me, wonder what I do
I continue writing as if I knew.
They seem to think I concentrate
When all the while I hesitate
I’m looking for some inspiration
Interest and communication
Inspired by some motivation
To help me write with dedication
But all I do is fall asleep.
Picking up my pen at last
Returning to the words that passed
Is what I want to-do
Sitting in the café, of my favorite bookstore,
Writing poetry for my book
I find the inspiration needed
In the words of the poets on the shelves around me
If I told you I loved you would it come from a novel?
Creating fantasy on a page of unrealistic thoughts and romance.
Sometimes mere words add no reflection to what sleeps inside...
And to articulate such a memory of love in the middle of uncivilized war I would every day fight tooth and nail for your smile.
But hopeful words do not make you inspiration instead they show your immaturity.
Love isn't created in a bookstore....
Yet every page is more soothing then the most loveliest of lullabies.
Almost like a melody connected to the heart strings of mankind back before he knew of sin.
So pure..
Wish you could read this with me then maybe you wouldn't think my affection for you was silly...
But then again I found you between the lines of society.
And not once have you turned to my page.
Robert Burton-
Paper thin
Frail to the touch
Time passes
It cracks
And rips
Stripped of beauty
Left with age
Dry and worn
Sorrow upon the fingertips
Musty smelling
Spine broken
Missing pages
Wisdom remains
Deep within ink
With each new reader
A new lover
Caressed and full of hope
A new adventure
As the pages turn
Listen for the its breath
And its growing heartbeat
you read the times
or books on your mind
or do you just look
at the signs
do you seek much more
you no where to go
not the picture show
go tot the
BOOKSTORE.
As I pass the Bookstore,
I can smell the parchment of opened books.
The colorful covers call me forth.
The stories continuously call my name.
The poetry asks me why I’m not there.
My poems chide me to hurry and sally forth.
Here my need to write attacks my soul.
As passion over whelms my heart,
I scurry home to do my part.
Maybe someday my dreams and talent,
Will tear down the barriers so I too, can display my art.
Written 5-03-2011
They trade you one for two,
Within the same price range,
Their formula won’t change,
And later when you’re through
You’ll swap them for some new.
But when my life is done,
Will books I’ve written be
Recycled, mindlessly,
Will there be even one
Collectors hunt, for fun?
They trade you one for two,
Within the same price range,
Their formula won’t change,
And later when you’re through
You’ll swap them for some new.
But when my life is done,
Will books I’ve written be
Recycled, mindlessly,
Will there be even one
Collectors hunt, for fun?
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