autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
The complex secret of life
is simplicity itself:
you're born, you live and you die.
It is a well-thumbed book with
incomprehensible text
which you borrow, you read and
then pass it on to the next.
a higher purpose
celestial highway thumbed
eternity in focus
"war and peace"
when i was
hanging
from
a cliff
note
by
a thumb
i thumbed
through one
or another
of another
of another
and
read
what
i
had
already
wrote
A catalogue came in the mail
Of places I could visit,
Descriptions of the journeys
Both exotic and exquisite.
The trips were educational,
For travel and for learning,
With some possible connections
To new friends upon returning.
The itineraries beckoned –
Every country you’d consider
If you had the savings ready
And the time that you could fritter.
So I thumbed through all the pages
Of the places for exploring,
But for now, my home has more appeal
Than anyplace for touring.
Mister Jack Horner’s
Shop on the corner –
His specials were cakes and pies.
While inspector was looking,
He thumbed in the cooking –
Now his shop is a Starbuck’s franchise.
Written on May 14, 2023 for the “Mother Goose Grows Up Poetry Contest”
(Growing up “Little Jack Horner”)
It was never exactly pinpointed
for only the African Crowned Eagles knew of the twisting paths
to its misplaced place.
In that crystalline chamber, upon that gold dusted floor
were found much thumbed volumes of all Nietzsche’s
works,
a penguin in a glass bell,
a twig cut from the tree of Life one million years from now'
A windblown leaf but only the wind that blew it.
a silver cuspidor, a ancient helmet made of Pittsburgh steel,
a Neolithic moonshine still,
a copy of the illustrated Karma Sutra,
several debunked words of wisdom from Aristotle,
an Olmec Letter Opener.
and a stuffed tufted rat.
The find has been carefully transported to the Smithsonian
where neuroscientists are trying
to solder together all these missing links.
The NYT has declared these odd finds
to be ‘Russian disinformation,’
but ‘Bokonon’ the mythical poet-sage of the Republic
of Never-Never Land
has blessed each artifact and declared them
to be far too strange not to be absolutely true.
the thumbed cat hungers
fried onions and pineapple
sweet and sour puss
Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.
Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.
I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages
The girls are angry
but not with each other.
Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous waft of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.
They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.
Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
we coo and smile together.
The they return to their world
and I to mine.
When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.
Washing spins on.
My friend of purple shades of beauty
green thumbed with spring eyes
herself a spring flower in bloom
withstanding the storms of life and mind
too bloom with such vibrant colors of life
a beauty that spans her mind, body and spirit
an inner light that blinds those that stop too see
My friend with her purple shades of beauty
she has rooted herself within my heart
ever enlivening my life in many ways
spring flowers and butterflies come alive in my mind
thanks to this friend of mine
by Marcellus Wilinski
Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.
Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.
Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.
Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.
I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.
Old Mrs Jenkin clapped her hands with glee,
so pleased she'd entered contests listed 'free' -
she'd won a prize, the first she'd ever had.
Although not into books, but still as glad,
she read the title, thumbed the pages then,
and blushed at pics of naked gals and men.
The Kama Sutra wasn't quite her thing
(though placing first had made her spirit sing).
it wasn't something for the vicar's eyes,
but Mrs Jenkin's buried with that prize.
written 4th June for Mystic Rose's He gave her a book contest
He had this place
a shed to shed skins in.
At the burnt-out end of day
under a naked electric light
he sat to empty his mind
of all issues,
all the well-thumbed memories
that brought him no joy
or gain.
The light bulb began to swing back and forth.
He began to count the gentle swings.
As he watched
the swings gained strength
swung faster.
He lost count,
then he lost himself,
The hut disappeared and returned
as night shed his soul from his shell.
The body for a while
still counted
steps it would take no more.
Issues and memories
littered the floor.
Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.
Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.
I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages,
sweat and lay down
under a fierce fluorescence.
Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous sound of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.
They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.
Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.
Washing spins on.
The coffee cup, cracked,
the newspapers, stacked,
the teaspoon, tarnished, well used.
The bills neatly piled,
the kitchen, Delft tiled,
the face, time worn and bruised.
The phone in the hall,
for no one to call,
the pendulum clock still ticking.
The photos, well thumbed,
jam stained and crumbed,
old wounds, in need of some licking.
Words said in haste,
that left a bad taste,
the slam of the door like thunder.
The pain of separation,
a cardiac laceration,
two people, two lives, torn asunder.
And now the clock scolds,
as the wrinkled hand holds
the only letter received, scrawled in haste.
Of the need to be free,
and how it must be,
when two hearts disagree, what a waste.
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