Beyond the relics stance tainted feigned glory,
the achievers had gifted us their puzzles,
speckled based best in their field of theory,
like Baia hot baths, can't stomach its guzzles,
aloft or cavernous, or in a quarry,
like those Pyramid guys fuss up their fuzzles,
as rock piles escape while history depicts,
the bookshelves leave those green stains with those quick picks.
Millenniums, centuries, decades, plus years,
anthropologists helped by benefactors,
busy in their research before disasters,
like Baia downed in Naples Bay, off its shores,
letters for funding by their alma maters,
reach prosperous grads where old money outpours,
and achievers will have their dribblings published,
skilled wins the Nobel Prize as greatly cherished.
Bookshelves
My bookshelves filled with
books radiate
chive mood swings.
My quill scratches here in this cold, musty, dark room
with it my papyrus scroll. We are all of us entombed
Last night, echoes of coming fright, impending Doom
Once more, another step forward for all to hear BOOM
Humanity has always sought to cheat the Big One, Death
For it cares not to ease the heaving of our last gifted Breath
The thought leaves us much more than alone. Leaves us bereft
So we cheat with glee, we lie with ease, stare intently the Theft
Ask Alexander. He left us dozens of Alexandria's to be revered
His deism, a shield to hide behind while exploiting being feared
The Pharaohs in Apex flights of sarcophagi to the Stars they steered
They sought to dwell atop Sirius perched on the labour of all peers
Last night, whispers of Men aspiring to download us, themselves
Into a Matrix? Where towering Olympus is to now house bookshelves
For the entertainment of our Great Grandchildren in fantasy with Elves
We will be there to open, each a Pandora's Box whirling kisses of Farewell
Across the years, 400 plus, my stories endlessly play out their parts.
I played not on painted stage, but I knew the human heart -
I captured, with quill and scratch, the passions of laughter and tears.
I held up a mirror, in doublet and verse, to things unbound by years,
like the weight of grief, the lightness of love and the serpents of ambition.
The music of verse, the lilt and fall of words, hold a strange enchantment,
brief spells where fools, princes, witches and kings shared a selfsame planet.
Though my bones lay in hallowed ground, the stories I spun linger yet.
They've played out, in age after age, on a thousand, thousand stages.
It’s well done, If I say so myself, to live on, in millions of minds and bookshelves.
.
.
*Written for a history poem challenge: to speak for a historical figure
Spiritual dragons – the ones that kill
reside and wait impatiently for seeking fingers.
Hobbits eat breakfast mushrooms
in a leather-bound shire.
Small books on overly large religions.
Poets and their random works
all in a row.
The shelves are long but not lengthy
I lack the space for unnecessary reading.
I write now,
I write inside invisible books
they open and shut every day like mouths.
Few read the words that tumble out,
but the news from my bookshelf
is encouraging.
I need to categorize and order,
not alphabetically ranked by authors
or subjects
but by how much I have yet to comprehend
and need to read again.
© Now
Home invasion
IKEA, the Swedish furniture giant
Is invading your home
Wherever you go homes look the same
all in pine and is a blend of office
and living room
A mother has put her daughter to bed
she sits by a computer and works
(No men in the IKEA world)
No books clutter the space, bookshelves
are for ornamental use a place for toys.
on the wall some friendly print
purposely abstract and tedious
There is no individual taste in a picture
of hygge, a unipolar world, will we drive
a Tesla next?
Harmless guest
Underneath Zoom chair
Some small creature fleeing in confusion
Ah ha, a brown lizard, harmless four-legged guest
Hiding and scared, aren’t you?
So am I
Please do not visit me in bed tonight
Mi-casa-su-casa
prey on insects and spiders all you want
and Thank you
for house cleaning service
Mi-casa-su-casa
Enjoy this big playground
hanging out in small covered spaces
under any couches, chairs, desks, bookshelves, or tables in the house
Closets, vents, baseboards, cushions, and potted plants
unlimited places to hide
One early morning
A two-legged guest picks up his underpants
Surprise!
A four-legged guest skydive dropping onto the ground
fleeing in amusement
old bookshelves dwindle
one page holds all ~ big swindle
new hardback kindle
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Bookshop Poetry Contest
10/3/2021
Syllable counter PS 5/7/5
Out of the bowels of the apartment come
the trivia of the past.
Old receipts pushed to the backs of drawers,
faintly accusatory,
records of money and passions spent;
Yellowed paperbacks made unseen
when new ones double-parked on the bookshelves;
Clothes swallowed by omnivorous closets,
CDs in cracked cases tugged into shadows,
gadgets, trinkets, and
other mummified delights
re-emerging dustily into the light
from the tidy rubble of a home.
Not like photos, those records of big things
making up the official, abridged version of a life,
these are the messy memorabilia,
leftovers from small doses of happiness,
each a reminder of
a moment in time when we were lifted
from the rut of days, and
cheered,
solaced,
or moved.
Now all assigned to the “OUT” pile,
to be shed
before the movers come.
Through the mist of the night, a candle glows
Dimly over the bookshelves in his den.
As the pile of papers on his desk grows,
He dips his pen into the ink again.
Although his mind slowly begins to strain,
His work is more rewarding than it seems.
As the scholar keeps exhausting his brain,
The longest hour drifts into the moonbeams.
While the frost on his windows gently gleams,
The candle on his desk is extinguished.
He hopes his work will make him distinguished,
As the pages keep swirling through his dreams.
Throughout the night, he rests from his reading,
And awakes with new hopes of succeeding.
© 2020
~ Tribute to Kibbutz
Sde Eliyahu ~
45 years vanished
my heart yet beats
for the tiny farming village
my purest, unsullied love
the people mostly gone
who helped me find myself
their still-life photos sit upright
on tear-stained worn bookshelves
Sunday Haiku
Dust on bookshelves
tells of life lived, stillness
Spanish bluebells tolls
Among old olive trees
flowers as yellow as butter
distance is hurtful.
A framed photo
mother hangs on a wall
wordless she speaks.
A white coffin
her face was in harmony
beautiful the peace.
. for public domain
Hidden on bookshelves
in Great British Halls,
where one thing's another,
or nothing at all,
Truth is well written,
but not spoken well
widely, for few
rarely read well.
It takes time to read well,
but who has the time,
between work, sleep, and prayer,
sips of Scotch or some wine?
No mind, no mind. Truth will out.
Barristers and Eggheads
are always about,
and we, adoze in our bed,
to our comfort we are wed
more than to our city and state.
And if it all should crumble?
Don't worry, it can wait.
Fell into a dream on a summer’s day
In the middle of a meadow, with sticky fingers
orange marmalade toast next to me slopped onto grass
Wonders happened almost instantly
It was not a rabbit-hole but something better
A tunnel practically hidden by a circle of sticks
Coming to get me was my grandmother
I had not seen her since sixty-four
I found myself tumbling and rumbling
Dipped into an empty cavern
You are killing me I whispered.
I felt her arm on my shoulder as I tumbled.
Grandmother and I landed in a magical spot.
A dream place I had only seen a few times.
Giant bookshelves with Pippi Longstockings books
and treasure maps! I was in heaven.
Have I died? I asked my grandmother.
No, darling, she assured me.
You are merely soul dream walking.
In the morning you will be back in your bed.
I am disappointed to say she was right.
For it is in dreams we get to visit our loved ones
And only there; I never wanted to wake up
But of course I have.
The Genie-us crawled silently out of the old clock,
and climbed up the bookshelves at night
The Genie-us then read from the pages forbidden,
feeling shame with a lusty delight
The Genie-us returned as the sun came up,
crawling inside the tall clock in the hall
The old pendulum again swinging, the chimes reset
—until darkness anew comes to call
(Dreamsleep: April, 2020)
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