Short Bookends Poems

Bookends of a dream
  —the beginning and ending of tomorrow

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)...

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Some think that the word poetry
should be tossed upon the shelf,
and wedged between two angry bookends: 
'what' and 'ever'....

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Living within the bookends of time
those feelings unturned
each page a new rhyme

From cover to cover the verses conceal
the moments most precious
—my truth to reveal

(Dreamsleep: August, 2021)...

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Running the Hall
first, it depends
who they'll call

tripping those bookends
unleashing them savages
having your companions

between losing-it challenges
nothing-less assuring all
check and balances...

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You can’t catch up to history
its ship no longer sails
Each chapter prisoned by the wind
times trilogy airmailed

To search within your destiny
the moments turn to gold
Where bookends fall and freedom reigns
—beyond the past retold

(Dreamsleep: December, 2022)...

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Is morality an end point,
or a journey to begin

Are right and wrong just bookends placed,
or what then lies within

All Ethical persuasion,
to attain or just desire

Whose end result will never come
—enflamed without the fire

(Haverford Pennsylvania: July, 2019)...

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It's all your fault
 Charles Mortington Parsons
 Designer of landscapes
 Extraordinaire
 That no one has a sense of time anymore
 
Green lawns appear
 Instantly overnight
 Tall trees grow
 In a morning or an afternoon
 
Mother nature
 Stacked tastefully
 Between terracotta bookends
 And it's all your doing
 Charles Mortington Parsons...

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Many memories have I beheld
all present and all knowing
a loving family I protect
within these walls, years flowing.

Alas, the bookends of time
came crashing down  this night
devils danced in wicked winds
evoking scorching screams of fright.

Now suffocating, a flaming pyre
I perish, obliterated by fire.


Written on 1/13/2018...

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She was often better
but never good
Her virtue tainted
misunderstood

Her nights a mystery
each day in shame
The rumors spreading
each one to blame

The men who knew her
that man who left
Impassioned bookends
of time bereft

She was often better
 yet often worse
Each day repeating
—tomorrow’s curse

(Dreamsleep: May, 2023)...

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The ink on my diploma
still wet
I lived on my grandparent's farm
for the summer
Their day began with roosters crowing and 
ended at sundown
In between those two bookends of the day
cows were milked
crops were tended
chickens were fed
hay was cut and baled
real people creating real food
for real people


[Imagist form]

Written 13 Dec 2020...

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Most of our lives are lived
in an in-between world…
yesterday and tomorrow the bookends
to what has happened
and what is yet to come
ordering the mayhem in an artificial attempt
at unity and control
escape becomes an option for the very few
who no longer believe in the prescriptive banner,
the forecasted promise,
the dogmatic challenge
—or the printer’s ink

(Dreamsleep: October, 2020)...

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I've got these two friends
I'll describe as my bookends
holding up the library,and
the pages in my head

Like rainbowed archways
such colorful personalities
our day to day exchanges
engage to inspire me

Two pots of gold
how fortunate am I
to have and to hold
such friends in my eye

Even at a distance
their presence is felt
without further hesitance
your warm friendships,I melt........

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Stepladder up to the ceilings

Held with high reasons and feelings

The bookcase


Volumes of joy and pure leisure

State their case as printed pleasure

A bookworm


Shape a life into linked chapters

Mind and soul as truth extractors

His bookmarks


Many things he can’t quite discern

Unfinished business much to learn

To bookends


Legends fiction subconscious streams

Myths fantasy and vivid dreams

Of booklore 



01st May 2020...

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Evil’s Bookends


Sept 8, 2001, 7:30PM
The limo arrives
the concierge opens the doors
to a clear cool night in the city,
a first Broadway Play.
A cell phone call, a Playbill
tucked between a broken pencil
and a pair of bifocals.

Sept 12, 2001, 10:35AM
Sirens blare
amid grey-white ash.
A cell phone rings,
torn Playbill flaps.
Broken pencil,
sightless glasses,
crushed in the grip
of mindless madness.



9/30/2014
Submitted for Craig Cornish
Chopped – Poetry Contest...

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