Sad to see so many books
for want of being read
dying on the library shelf
some look as tho' they're already dead
and to think I could devour them all is fiction
I would be fooling myself instead
I've consumed all the classics Shakespeare complete
but science and mathematics have me completely beat
with all the thought authors put in hate to see it go to waste
can't put a good book down once I've had a taste
the silence of the written word
drink in the view something on which to chew
speaks volumes there's so much to tell
literacy is as the Trojan Horse inside my heart the citadel
don't want to see them fall by the wayside
thrown in the weeds on the seedy side of town
not wanted around
dropped in the dump out of sight out of mind
take a look there's so many books check them out
and oh so little time
She's looking for Mr. Right,
While he's looking for Miss Right.
Both of them seeking for 'The One'.
She lives on the western side,
While he stays on the east side --
They don't cross paths under the Sun.
She goes to church on Sundays,
Does good works and sings and prays
"Dear Lord, please help me find the One".
He's in a congregation, the same denomination,
That meets on the other side of town.
So she decided to look
For some kind of 'self help' book -
She did not want to spend any money.
Reading was his best hobby,
And they met inside the lobby
Of the local town library.
They both walked to the section
Of books on self-direction,
And both reached for the same book.
"Go ahead and take it." He said.
"No, but you were here first" she said.
"Why don't we read it together?".
A conversation started -
Since then they never parted -
Mr. and Mrs. Right forever.
If you'd be someone's Mr. Right,
Try to be your very best you.
And if you'd be someone's Miss Right,
The same advice goes for you.
Get an education to be interesting,
Develop a warm personality.
Exercise, eat less, be appealing.
Involve the LORD and visit the library.
Public Library
Fade deep into another place
Public Library
New vocabulary
Stay focused on learning
Pen to paper, observing
With morning coffee steaming
Error to grammar
Comprehension toward knowledge
Sink into an existing book
Quiet place away from home
Learn as much as you can
Sharpen your mental skills
Be creative
Rendered in a story
Write your own journey
Document your life
You might be famous one day
Upon the shores of Alexandria’s gleam,
A Library rose, ambition’s dream,
Where scrolls amassed like autumn leaves,
And scholars spun what mind achieves.
Muse-haunted halls, papyrus gold,
Ptolemaic hands, ambitions bold,
Zenodotus and Eratosthenes,
Measured Homer, measured seas.
Callimachus penned the Pinakes’ art,
Cataloging wisdom, knowledge’s chart.
Hero taught as numbers demand,
While diacritics shaped the poetic land.
Yet history’s tide began its turn,
With exiles forced and scrolls to burn.
Caesar’s fire, a shadow cast,
Yet stubbornly, the Library lasts.
Through Roman years, the dust grew deep,
Support grew thin, the scholars weep.
War and wrath swept ancient halls,
Until silence claimed the marble walls.
Serapeum’s shadow lingered on,
A haven for minds, though nearly gone.
Swept away by decree and strife,
Lost forever, Alexandria’s life.
So knowledge bloomed and knowledge waned,
In Alexandria, wisdom reigned
Until the world forgot its name,
But I'm here to bring back it's fame.
Another chapter in my life
over much too soon
when there's so much more to live
it's just not opportune
but is Anonymous the author
or would it be myself possibly
writing this tale so true
could it be an autobiography
and yet I won't be put on hold
my one and only guarantee
tho' late won't be overdue
when it's check out time for me
for on turning a page today
I came to realise and to clarify
I'm living a story in a book on loan
from the Great Library in the Sky
The books miss our hands.
Dust forms letters overnight—
“Still here. Still waiting.”
What is my ability,
The Gift you've given me?
Apparently it wasn't money.
No matter what I tried to be,
There was never enough to see,
Pass the pile of bills in front of me.
Constantly a place to be,
Never enough time for me,
Draining all my energy.
In a pit of misery,
A person I was trained to be,
Now again my pockets empty.
Nothing in front of me,
Trying to use my ability,
Without being able to see,
Frustration and anger envelope me.
Emotions run uncontrollably,
Into this wall,
I hope I built it properly.
Catching the negativity,
Transmuting energy,
I'm not afraid to be me.
My own university,
The school of adversity,
Diversity,
Where you are me,
A living Library of Love.
Words from Heaven above,
Directly from the ONE,
Who created this son.
A dedicated book worm, ever eager to explore/
Feeding knowledge as if I possess/
The wisdom of the Gods and more/
When I'm down, to a soul of darkness/
I descend, but Books lift me up/
Making me a rainbow's friend/
In the pages, I find solace/
On a crisp Summer night's breeze/
Better than any movie/
Where imaginations seize/
My mind escape, in boundless worlds I roam/
Books are my sanctuary/
My comforting home/
From Ancient tales to futuristic dreams/
Through ink and paper, my spirit gleams/
A journey through time immeasurable/
From dusk till dawn/
In every book, a new life is drawn/
So, here's to the Books, my eternal delight/
Guiding me through shadows/
Bringing me light in a world so dark/
A universe within where I am free/
My Books, my world, my escape, my key/
With ten thousand places to go
And it won't cost me a dime,
Just to walk a block or so ...
Takes a few minutes of my time
And it won't cost me a dime
To borrow one library book,
Takes a few minutes of my time
To browse around and look ...
To borrow one library book
Is to open up a great door,
To browse around and look ...
At a place never known before
Is to open up a great door
A thing that I dare to do ...
At a place never known before
Then, o, to walk on through
A thing that I dare to do ...
And need to, o, so badly,
Then, o, to walk on through
And disappear ever madly
And need to, o, so badly
Just to walk a block or so ...
And disappear ever madly
With ten thousand places to go.
I think of my memory as this vast and endless library within my mind.
My library, just like yours, is unique unto itself…
where once an experience becomes a memory…
It finds its place upon the shelf.
This library collects all my memories…every dream, every comedy…every tragedy…
sometimes in prose…sometimes in rhyme…
from the moment my eyes first open…
until they close for the very last time.
The beauty of this library is how…out of the blue…
something can trigger a memory
A song…and aroma…a photo…an old friend we happen to greet….
and those memories fly right off the shelf…
and land directly at my feet.
Other times I’ll search the shelves until I find a memory that makes me smile
I’ll dust it off…open it up…and visit with it for a while.
I suppose one of the keys to happiness…
in all the years of our life span…
Is to fill the shelves of our library with as many memories as we can.
So…when we’re older…as through these stacks of memories we climb….
we’ll never run out of memories…before we run out of time.
the tsundoku trail beckons me,
a promissory path of pleasures to be had,
veiled in the haze of unexplored possibilities.
i take my first steps into the secret museum,
strolling into the forest of forgotten volumes,
each one brimming of worlds yet unseen.
my breast thrums with curiosity,
echoing the eternal rhythm of the psuche:
"what lies missing, these dogeared pages?"
now that my friends, is the mystery..
“welcome to Poetry Soup.”
My parent’s library
Passed time, childhood age, memory, and feelings from my life
I was sitting in front of the bookshelf. Always. Amazing collection
I was twelve, hmm, life is an illusion. Dazzle life, hmm, but reality
The fact of existence passed years, but the books followed my life
Masterpieces of literature, my parents's collection gave me my life
I followed my mom and daddy, I got great compositions; life is love
Mother? Father? I love you. Masters of my life, your mind; literature
A son, a bad guy, remembering you. Always. Your library was my mind
Hmm. Library, in Hatvan, my childhood city, loved past, the garden lives in a heart
Yes, a love, a love from my heart. A city in Hungary, my young life, history
My parents are intellectuals, thank you my parents my life, a son loves you
I can’t be far, from London sent you a virtual card; read it: Love. My parents
My parent's books
I loved all
But I am following
My way
My parents book
In my mind
Maybe a rule
No
Not that
Just memory
of literature
My teacher
from school
I love you
My heart is a library
with books of pain,
chapters of spring
and chapters of rain,
thousands of shelf
and millions of book,
all can explain
how life actually look,
Memorable stories
with happy endings,
some are fairytale
and some are thundering,
books filled with
laugh and tears,
revenge from haters
and love for dears,
But close to my heart
is the poetry part,
lots of poem
and the poet I am,
poetries of love
poetries of war,
some of them
took me so far,
from the world of sorrows
to the dream of stars__
Someone behind me is making noise
His laughter has me very annoyed
This is where security should be deployed
This type of behavior we try to avoid
Sometimes it’s the smell we capture
Our noses send the message
That’s somethings the matter
Drugs and homelessness
Are the main factors
And the public just suffers
The plague of bad actors
What a terrible way to invade our space
Eyes, ears and noses suffering disgrace
The snitch is so loud my tongue can taste
The smell of stinking feet
This odor has replaced
I read, like an open book
All others can see the words written on my pages.
I contain tales, read as secretive,
A hushed whisper that only a handful have seen.
But how many times has this book been checked out?
A sea of white masks, deadpan through the years
So cherished once, now faded, emotionless.
Forgotten both to me, and I to them.
My secrets are secrets no more -
I own my past, without connecting to it.
I am an open book, because who has to connect with a story?
People can project on a tale,
As what better to have in a confidant,
Than a horror story?
Something you can read from the comfort of your bed,
A scary, scarred stream of words that seem otherworldly.
Frankenstein’s monster will never be faced -
So, too, is this failures’ life.
You understand, you say.
You sympathise, you say.
But how can you, when I checked myself out long ago.
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