The Poet's Significant Other - for Mary and Todd
On the shelf above the crackling fire,
the day’s work over, shadows swaying and flickering
across the room, in the firelight’s glow;
here is love abiding
On the shelf above the crackling fire
a few slim books, some of them poetry, some of them signed;
open them and the world spills out
tumbles laughing and crying, shouting
like children home from school with stories;
like grandparents reminiscing over photos with a smile;
like the last of the night’s pillow talk
one already eyes closed, the other treasuring thought
On the shelf above the crackling fire
two bookends hold the books in place
pressing lightly against each other
as two lovers walking through a door, a gate, from here to there
one bookend’s image we know well
familiar to us from the books
How little we know, of that other bookend
without which, without whom,
there might not be these books, lightly pressing
on the shelf above love’s glow
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
The afterthought
The afterthought
~
The poetry section in the library, an afterthought
A little over fifteen books thrown onto a shelf
Amongst books of quotations and how to write
Books about books and sporting anecdotes
It seems poetry here is consigned to obscurity
A disappointing assessment of literature
A few of the named greats, a few anthologies
The favourite love poems, poems on war
A three quarter shelf collection if at all
Perhaps it’s a sign of the times changing
Modern life being unable to relate anymore
To the notions and thoughts of poetic lore
The pace picked up so long ago
The gentle stroll now a sprinting run
No more stopping to smell the air
The need to be someplace doing something
Everything else consigned to the shelf
Like a mirror reflecting the new world
The poetry of life has become an afterthought
poem by Matthew Holloway
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All of us can think of a book... that we hope none of our children have taken off the shelf. But if I have the right to remove that book from the shelf -that work I abhor- then you also have exactly the same right and so does everyone else. And then we have no books left on the shelf for any of us.
quote by Katherine Paterson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Four-Foot Shelf
'Come, see,' said he, 'my four-foot shelf,
A forty volume row;
And every one I wrote myself,
But that, of course, you know.'
I stared, I searched a memory dim,
For though an author too,
Somehow I'd never heard of him,--
None of his books I knew.
Said I: 'I'd like to borrow one,
Fond memories to recall.'
Said he: 'I'll gladly give you some,
And autograph them all.'
And so a dozen books he brought,
And signed tome after tome:
Of course I thanked him quite a lot,
And took them home.
So now I have to read his work,
Though dry as dust it be;
No portion of it may I shirk,
Lest he should question me.
This tale is true,--although it looks
To me a bloody shame,
A guy could father forty books,
yet no one know his name.
poem by Robert William Service
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Surprise in Japan - Our Rattling Plates
earthquake
teutonic plates rattle
our plates
earthquake
rattling our nerves
the plates on the shelf
softly rattling
to an earthquake
our plates on the shelf
ratting plates
our seismic
detector
rattling plates
oh it is the earthquake
bothering us again
Ring of Fire
every now and then
our plates rattle
rattling plates
a belief in fate keeps
my heart calm
rattling plates
i put my life in
the hands of god
Japan is on one of the most siesmic proned region of the world called ring of fire. In our apartment, every now and then, the plates we stack one over the other on the shelf would rattle. When the earthquake was
strong enough, they would jump off the shelf. It was a surprise to me at first when I heard our plates rattled every now and then especially at night.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Book Borrower
I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.
Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.
But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.
My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be damned forever.
poem by Robert William Service
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Walking Through Fire
When you set a match to your heart
Fueling it with bitterness and doubt
Thats a blaze that once it starts
No amount of tears can put out
I know youre scared
But no ones spared
When you play with matches
Youve got me walking through fire
Youve got me walking through fire
Maybe youve been burned by lovers
Maybe youve been scarred by the pain
But baby Im not like the others
Drawing moths to a flame
Spite is like a spark
Crackling in the dark
Consuming all it catches
And youve got me walking through fire
Youve got me walking through fire to get to you
Youve got me walking through fire
(walking through fire)
Youve got me walking through fire
(walking through fire)
You can see the toll its taking
You can feel the faith its shaking
You can hear the heart its breaking now
Baby Ive burned by the fever
Ive been scorched by desire
But baby Im not your deceiver
Or your eloquent liar
Your jealous heart is tearing us apart
And turning love to ashes
When youve got me walking through fire
Youve got me walking through fire to get to you
Youve got me walking through fire
Youve got me walking through fire
Youve got me walking through fire
(walking through fire)
Youve got me walking through fire
(walking through fire)
As the flames shoot higher
Youve got me walking through fire
(walking through fire)
Walking
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life is short
It seems you forgot, our life is short.
There is no time to beg or extort for support.
Learn how to live yourself.
Take a book from the shelf and…
Delicately leafing page after page
you will find a wood sage.
People are like books,
some of them are good,
some of them are bad,
some of them are just mad,
some of them are not sassy,
they look more glassy,
they are not gassy,
they are classy
like books on the shelf
waiting for a warm hand.
Milliards of people are on the Land,
each one needs the right hand
so that to open it like a book and read.
If you manage to do it
you’ll succeed to learn a lot.
Remembering that life is short
you’ll learn how to burn the useless things,
how to leave the one without a gun
who troubles brings,
how to live with those you adore,
And… much much more.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Romance Of A Book
Reading a book, you're hit by romance,
No matter the subject matter,
You can read and read,
And every book is different,
Some stories are more pleasant than others,
While some are funny, but most are serious,
For the romance of a book,
Is in everyone's heart,
No matter their age or height,
Whether male or female:
It is all relative and I devour,
Each and every book,
I can read the classics,
Or even a heart-warming romance,
I just get through so many books,
I love every storyline,
Not so much the gory parts,
But the cleverness of the fictional detectives,
And those rock stars that roam the stage,
For a book is something that will never age,
No matter how many years on the shelf,
And stories can be shared with everyone else,
Yet everyone has their own views,
And books can be lifting when they're feeling blue,
For people have been reading fiction for centuries,
But, of course, not all books are fictional:
There're the historical books, interesting,
Even if a reader is just passing through,
And we can all learn something from the history books,
And let's not forget the autobiographies:
Many a man and woman fascinating,
Having lead unique lives and having had special loves,
And there is a romance to these people,
For they walked the same earth as everyone else,
Yet brought something strange and special to the world,
Like a scientist making a new discovery,
Or a rock star penning a hit song,
And all these things are which make books belong,
I haven't met anyone yet who finds books boring,
Because books are not boring: they are fascinating,
Unique, special, strange, romantic and enjoyable,
And every reader's dream: like hitting 'play' on a record,
For this is the romance of a book.
poem by Paula Glynn
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I have a shelf of comfort books, which I read when the world closes in on me or something untoward happens.
quote by Anne McCaffrey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Campfire
There's something ‘bout a fire and the mesmerizing glow
Of its dancing, flick'ring embers that does enthrall me so
A soft and gentle fire slowly glowing in the night
Soothing, calming, warming. It is such a pure delight
The best time for a fire's when the flames they have died down
And the crackling and the popping all have ceased
All the flurry and the groaning, all the hurry and the churning
All have gone, and now the fire is at peace
poem by Neil Milliner
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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Books are like imprisoned souls till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.
quote by Samuel Butler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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This Is Music
I stand accused just like you
I stand accused just like you
For being born without a silver spoon
For being born without a silver spoon
Stood at the top of a hill
Stood at the top of a hill
Over my town I was found
Over my town I was found
Ive been on the shelf too long
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Ive been on the shelf too long
Got my things and now Im gone
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Hows the world gonna from take me?
Got my things and now Im gone
Hows the world gonna from take me?
Finding myself used to be hard
But now I see the light
If love is a drug
Finding myself used to be hard
Then I dont need it
But now I see the light
If love is a drug
Ive been on the shelf too long
Then I dont need it
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Now its time to hear my song
How are you gonna take it?
Ive been on the shelf too long
Sitting at home in my bed too long
Ive been on the shelf too long
Now its time to hear my song
Think the words without the song
How are you gonna take it?
Never had a way to go
Tell me now Im taking it
Ive been on the shelf too long
Ive been on the shelf too long
Ive been on the shelf too long
Think the words without the song
Ive been on the shelf too long
Never had a way to go
Tell me now Im taking it
Weve got a lot of living to do
Ive been on the shelf too long
Theres a door in my mind thats open wide
Ive been on the shelf too long
Come inside come inside
Ive been on the shelf too long
Jesus never saved me
Hell never save you too, and you know!
Weve got a lot of living to do
Ive got a little sticker on the back of my boot
Theres a door in my mind thats open wide
This is music
Come inside come inside
And now I see the light shining bright in my eyes
If love is the drug then it aint for me
Jesus never saved me
Well music is my life
Hell never save you too, and you know!
And loved by me
Ive got a little sticker on the back of my boot
Im gonna move on the floor with my sweet young thing
This is music
Down down down we go till we reach the bottom
Of our soul with this is music
And now I see the light shining bright in my eyes
If love is the drug then it aint for me
Well music is my life
And loved by me
Im gonna move on the floor with my sweet young thing
Down down down we go till we reach the bottom
Of our soul with this is music
song performed by by Verve
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Minnesota 2009
Alarm goes off it’s 3: 30 am.
I have to get ready for Kinkos again.
I leave in car with my closet friend Ev.
off to Minnesota for we are in Wisconsin,
traveling on highway to Cities with the word Twin.
He drops me off at Kinko’s which used to be open all night,
this was in the year 2009.
I’m busy drawing cartoons for my children books that glow,
I color in the illustrations with colored pencils layed out in a row.
I become friends with Kinkos employee,
she helps me make color copies for free.
I hurry and design to books with butterflies,
books are about Melodie and Sarah who become princess that fly.
Now that same year I have a show,
it is at bookstore named Barnes & Noble.
Kinko’s friend gives me her wicker chair,
I have buy costumes and make dolls with a flair.
I even have friends mail up birthday crown,
I give out “Sarah’s Special Birthday” flyers all over town.
It was a good turnout for the birthday show,
children wore blue costumes with wings a glow.
A lady buys a costume and 2 books are sold.
Butterfly books are finished once I get home.
Photos of Barnes & Noble where not shot by luck,
they were expertly shot by my friend Chuck.
Barnes & Noble photos on website to this day,
to show memories of transpired that day.
Reading was on Harry Potter, JKR Rowling birthday.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 28,2011
www.puppetpoems.com www.purplepoems.com
www.christinasunrise.com www.suzaechevalier.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Wallflower
I remember when I was young,
the wallflower I used to be.
I would sit and watch
others gaze into each other’s eyes,
seeing the passion burning there.
All the time I was thinking,
will this ever happen to me?
Many times, I tried to excerpt myself,
and for my effort
received questioning stares.
Who is this weirdo?
Where did he come from?
It was a frustrating time, for this wallflower,
who on the shelf would remain.
I had no chat up lines,
only a pen and pad,
everyone who looked at me,
must have thought that I was mad.
I’d go to a party on the odd occasion I was invited,
sit in the corner on my own.
No one would talk to the odd man out.
Therefore, I would leave,
just the way I had come,
no one on my arm,
for that lonely trek home.
All the time I wondered,
is this the way my life is going to be.
A wallflower on a lonely shelf.
Shyness is an awful thing,
and it is very lonely.
For friends seem so very few.
I found out much later.
That I just had to let myself go.
Much to my surprise in doing it.
I was no longer a wallflower on a lonely shelf.
poem by David Harris
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With Kafka.
Kafka would have liked
the way you said that.
You kept his books on
the shelf next to those
of Burroughs and Joyce.
You like the painting on
the book’s paper cover.
Paperbacks are cheap
and soon worn out,
Thornton used to say.
He liked hard covered
books, first editions if
he could afford. He said
Kafka was too morbid
for you. You need a lighter
read, he said, something
that doesn’t mess with
your female head. You
take down the Kafka and
read again where you read
before, the whole drama
unfolding, the printed words
bringing a different world,
and ghostly by the window
with steady stare, Franz Kafka
in silence just sitting there.
poem by Terry Collett
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I Know I Have A Copy Somewhere
Wherever you may choose to look
You're guaranteed to find a book.
Perhaps a murder mystery.
Anthologies of poetry
Reference books and picture books.
Books on witchcraft and black magic
Tomes on almost any topic.
Some by authors long since dead.
Books which try to look ahead.
Books of every shape and size.
As I have come to realise.
Enough to start a library
Though jumbled up haphazardly.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Perhaps A Brandy
perhaps a brandy....
the shovel still caked with dirt,
the body restless, turns and groans.
the shade o'er the window
yellowed by mold,
the frail hands of the clock
do not move or whisper.
the scent of love,
lingers and stutters.
the fireplace empty,
the books weep on the shelf.
the old tree fallen
just outside your window,
the barking of dogs,
the prayers of rust.
children without faces
carry the box into the night...
the hoot of the owl,
another mockingbird dead!
moonlight, perhaps a lie,
even the stars remain distant.
nothing dressed in wrinkled clothes,
squats by the fire,
humming an ancient tune.
the spider's web reflected
on the oil tinged dew,
tastes like love remembered!
perhaps a brandy?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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