Things I Find When I Clean
Halloween has marked the day
-rest of The Holidays are on the way
Clear some room it's been requested
For out-of-towners to be nested
They only stay over night
Then as soon as it's bright
We'll be off to The City by The Bay
Favorite spot of mine I'll say
Things I find when I clean
Things for years I haven't seen
Stacks of books to move
I can get rid of some I'll prove
I throw thoughts onto what I can find
Written on scraps the contents of my mind
Then folded between pages
Of books I havn't seen in ages
Things that came out of my head
Written while sitting on a rented bed
In The City late at night
Under a single light
On guest letterhead envelopes my notes
Of things that matterd important quotes
Also maps and an old resturant ad
Reminds me of being very glad
As do the books I have to clear
Going to a book sale I fear
No room for anything new
Unless I'm brave enough to recycle a few
It's like-
Parting with friends
Even ones heavy with dust
-back to my notes
Folded maps stolen menus
A parking ticket paid I hope
Even a room key/card
A borrowed bookmark I forget to return
All now in a small pile
After the old books are cleaned
Of stuff that that would only confuse
New owners that will have to
Cope with my margin notes
My guides of where to look
For related stuff my reactions
-But I disgress-
My book shelves were sagging
No room for the books on the floor
Soon overnight guests will be coming
Thanksgiving and shopping trips
From friends and family up North
Looking for a place to stay
Overnight
When the traffic is light
We're forty-five minutes
To the Golden Gate Bridge
Waive at walkers stretch our necks
Gawk at all the sailboats
Sliding across The Bay
They're day-tripping too
Our car has it's own crew
Each ready to unfurl
Catch whatever wind is up
It's hard to hold our vessel
On the Waldo Grade approach
They're so anxious to join the fleet
Anxious to throw anchor at shops diners
In their favorite spot
Staying on course takes all I got
I've also thought of being 746 feet up
Above the water in a tower of the bridge
I can feel the pull on my keel
Wanting to join the boats
Out on the water looking up
That's also where I want to be
On my way out to sea
Wind pulling or pushing
I don't care
Along for the ride
I would like that view too
Instead of looking down at them
To be able to look up at the Bridge-
Taking time to find reasons
To make new notes
Find new books to refill
I'll be seeing things
To write about-
Tourists at the railing
Looking down at all the boats
From the deck of The Bridge
While it carries their weight
Supportiong too our rolling vessel
Letting us cruise on
Imagining
While on our way
To The City
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Related quotes
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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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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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
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Sonnets : On Books
What wealth of knowledge, Books have stored for us?
What precious time, some writers sacrificed?
When libraries lend Books without much fuss,
‘Tis sad why readers don't get much enticed?
What use are Books when only kept in racks?
How sad to see them acquire cob-webs?
'Tis sad when Silver-fish consume Book-stacks;
And Knowledge too has its high tides and ebbs!
Books are companions to man's progress;
They serve to guide a man to live aright;
Books are like dolls children with love caress;
They help a man in darkness to see light!
Book-cost is nothing compared to value,
They are true friends of men; give respect due.
poem by John Celes
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And The Money Kept Rolling In (And Out)
Che: And the money kept rolling in from every side
Eva's pretty hands reached out and they reached wide
Now you may feel it should have been a voluntary cause
But that's not the point my friends
When the money keeps rolling in you don't ask how
Think of all the people guaranteed a good time now
Eva's called the hungry to her open up the doors
Never been a fund like the Foundation Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on in rolling on in rolling on in rolling on in on in
Would you like to try a college education
Own your landlord's house take the family on vacation
Eva and her blessed fund can make your dreams come true
Here's all you have to do my friends
Write your name and your dream on a card or a pad or a ticket
Throw it high into the air and should our lady pick it
She will change your way of life for a week or even two
Name me anyone who cares as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
And the money kept rolling out in all directions
To the poor to the weak to the destitute of all complexions
Now cynics claim a little of the cash has gone astray
But that's not the point my friends
When the money keeps rolling out you don't keep books
You can tell you've done well by the happy grateful looks
Accountants only slow things down figures get in the way
Never been a lady loved as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
Eva
When the money keeps rolling out you don't keep books
You can tell you've done well by the happy grateful looks
Accountants only slow things down figures get in the way
Never been a lady loved as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
song performed by by Madonna from Evita Soundtrack (Part 2)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are Old Now.
when i step into the room
i could have told you
but you are the one always speaking
'the king can do no wrong'
i look at the pile of books
silent damn books
i am following your footsteps
into that
hateful anonymity
when time brings us all here
we are told
we have not really done anything great
the books of our lives
will be consisting of empty pages
you were so engrossed in speaking
and i am lost in my
boredom
i was thinking of those that have not arrived here
those who have also given
hope like me but they are still in some unknown places
i turned off my cell phone
this time i must confront the void
into speechlessness
into my failures
for what i have not done
before i left the room i took one book
it is not that the king can do no wrong
there is no king.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Picture-Books in Winter
Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a little child entering a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written these books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books - a mysterious order which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects.
quote by Albert Einstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marilyn, Jim And Kim
MARILYN, JIM AND KIM
Working at Barnes & Noble in City Place,
books, c.d.’s and gifts filled the space.
I was a bookseller and liked books a lot,
I helped customers find books, I gave it my best shot.
I worked with Jennine, who sold books like you never seen.
My managers were Marilyn, Merry and Mariam Volk, I never complained to them or bulked.
I kept busy putting books away, I loved to watch kids in the kid section play.
Kim is married and has another child, she helped me get my books in the store for a while.
I worked with Luz Cruz, her name rhymes with Blue’s Clues.
She is a really great bookseller, she works there till this day,
she always greets you with a smile and has a kind thing to say.
Only Luz is the last employee left from my crew,
unless Kao is still there working very hard too.
Page who helped me do readings with stories of make believe,
she went to Fort Lauderdale, while Jim in receiving went to Boynton Beach.
Brave, the manager at Boynton Beach at the time,
short listed my book “Sarah’s Special Birthday” from online.
Now it was fun experience while I was there, happy memories I can share.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on November 10,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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03-26-2010*** The Heart of A Writer's Studio
What pulls me to horde
Old pencils new pens
Newspaper clippings
Books magazines and my notes
My home office has
Stacks of papers on the floor
I have or plan to
Go through and organize
The room scares my wife
She tries not to look in
She knows it'll take a shovel
And a dumpster if I die
There are orrginal first drafts
Several revisions
There's works-in-progress
I still have to decide about
She see no progress
Only the mess
That continues to grow
If they're organized it doesn't show
As long as my stuff
Does not spill out
To the rest of the house
We have a truce
Kinda like North and South Korea
Kinda like the Jews and Palisatinians
I'm glad my window does not face the sea
That's where she'd push my stuff and me
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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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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Henry James in the Heart of the City
We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.
Nothing would surprise him.
The beast in the jungle was what he saw--
Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . .
He fled the demons
of Manhattan
for fear they would devour
his inner ones
(the ones who wrote the books)
& silence the stifled screams
of his protagonists.
To Europe
like a wandering Jew--
WASP that he was--
but with the Jew's
outsider's hunger. . .
face pressed up
to the glass of sex
refusing every passion
but the passion to write
the words grew
more & more complex
& convoluted
until they utterly imprisoned him
in their fairytale brambles.
Language for me
is meant to be
a transparency,
clear water gleaming
under a covered bridge. . .
I love his spiritual sister
because she snatched clarity
from her murky history.
Tormented New Yorkers both,
but she journeyed
to the heart of light--
did he?
She took her friends on one last voyage,
through the isles of Greece
on a yacht chartered with her royalties--
a rich girl proud to be making her own money.
The light of the Middle Sea
was what she sought.
All denizens
of this demonic city caught
between pitch and black
long for the light.
But she found it
in a few of her books. . .
while Henry James
discovered
what he had probably
started with:
that beast, that jungle,
that solipsistic scream.
He did not join her
on that final cruise.
(He was on his own final cruise).
Did he want to?
I would wager yes.
I look back with love and sorrow
at them both--
dear teachers--
but she shines like Miss Liberty
to Emma Lazarus' hordes,
while he gazes within,
always, at his own
impenetrable jungle.
poem by Erica Jong
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We Built This City
CHORUS
We built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
Built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
Say you don't know me or recognize my face
Say you don't care who goes to that kind of place
Knee deep in the hoopla sinking in your fight
Too many runaways eating up the night
BRIDGE
Marconi plays the mamba listen to the radio
Don't you remember
We built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
REPEAT CHORUS
Someone's always playing corporation games
Who cares they're always changing corporation names
We just want to dance here someone stole the stage
They call us irresponsible write us off the page
REPEAT BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS
It's just another Sunday in a tired old street
Police have got the choke hold oh and we just lost the beat
Who counts the money underneath the bar
Who rides the wrecking ball into our guitars
Don't tell us you need us 'cos we're just simple fools
Looking for America crawling through your schools
(I'm looking out over that Golden Gate bridge
Out on a gorgeous sunny Saturday I've seen that bumper-to-bumper traffic)
Don't you remember (remember)
(Here's your favorite radio station in your favorite radio city
The city by the bay the city that rocks the city that never sleeps)
REPEAT BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS TWICE
(We built we built this city) built this city (we built we built this city)
REPEAT TO FADE
song performed by by Jefferson Starship
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books
books after being read
become nothing
but things
books unread
are treasures of gold
undiscovered
beneath your feet
books unshared
are thoughts unspoken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shades Off
(ian hunter)
Where do you go when you've somewhere to run
But the time isn't right and there's things to be done
And you're trapped half-way up, you don't want to go back
So you keep going on - compromising the lack
And you see the green fields as you travel on by
And you look at the things you'd forgotten to try
And you wish you were young and you wish you were old
For the songs always sung and the stories been told
And you thought you were different but what did it mean
For you tricked yourself trying - life's still unseen
As it is, as it was, as it always will be
Will you find out at all what it is to be free
See it never was easy to live with a head
So i kept to the back room and i live there instead
What comes from the front-room is only for "friends"
I have a bay window but that's where it ends
And it's here i see pictures and my madness is clear
And there's no longer logic so therefore no fear
And i'm almost dead with uncontrollable light
Sometimes when i've written a song - it's alright...
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gathering Dust
The books on my shelves
are now gathering dust.
I will get back to them
for I know I must.
But not just now,
can’t think of them somehow.
Their pages won’t solace me.
Their words can’t turn my mind.
For my mind just wanders
to you, I find.
Books need concentration,
not a vacant stare.
But other people’s stories
don’t take me anywhere.
If I outlive you
maybe then I’ll dust.
I’ll slowly try to read again
for I know I must.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Marilyn, Merry and Mariam
Working at Barnes & Noble in City Place,
books, c.d.’s and gifts filled the space.
I was a bookseller and liked books a lot,
I helped customers find books, I gave it my best shot.
I worked with Jennine, who sold books like you never seen.
My managers were Marilyn, Merry and Mariam Volk,
I never complained to them or bulked.
I kept busy putting books away,
I loved to watch kids in the kid section play.
I worked with Luz Cruz, her name rhymes with Blue’s Clues.
She is a really great bookseller, she works there till this day,
she always greets you with a smile and has a kind thing to say.
Only Luz is the last employee left from my crew,
unless Kao is still there working very hard too.
Page who helped me do readings with stories of make believe,
she went to Fort Lauderdale,
while Jim in receiving went to Boynton Beach.
Kim is now married and has another child,
she helped me get my books in the store for awhile.
Now it was fun experience while I was there,
happy memories I can share.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Alone isn't forever
Once upon a time.
There was girl all alone.
She ordered everything by phone.
All of her potted rose bushes stood in a perfect line.
In the middle of her living room grew a big fury pine.
She trembled everytime she opened the door.
She was not scared to be poor.
She was a writer afraid to explore.
Her books and keyboard were an escape.
Even so the stars still reminded her of hope.
Her books look like wall paper that surounded the room.
The dust has no time to scatter any gloom.
All the windows show off the sun light.
The candle is only used at night.
She typed at the keys until her hands went numb.
She could not write a single line.
A larger fear was beginning to form in her mind.
Her work without experience was blind.
She decided the voice of fear was dumb.
Small steps took her out to the mail box.
Out of the forest peered glowing eyes which made her scream.
Her fear went away after seeing it was just a fox.
Another day brought an email from a friend.
His family needed help on the Island.
A big storm blew their house away.
She bought a ticket and sailed on that day.
She helped them build a Victorian house yay.
She is becoming an amazing writer.
She is now able to brave any adventure.
The end.