As a reader I

would like to buy with each book --


reading time as well.

Somethings last longer when kept in cool dry places
and I for one have found the perfect resting place,
surrounded by plenty of taken up shelf space
where I can store up my strength, and sit contented
in this inspired, quiet space, amongst the bookcases
where we are encouraged to slow our pace
in the long-lasting embrace of Carnegie’s generous bequest.

Yes, we’re blessed with quiet, at least for the most part,
apart from the softly voiced query and help at the desk,
apart from the dad reading aloud and reading time’s louder address
to cross legged, momentarily suppressed younger guests.

It’s quiet apart from the regular swish of the obliging doorway
swinging wide its welcome followed by
the vital wipe of wet feet on the new red mat,
punctuated by the unsnapping of buggy straps
and empathetic mum to mum picked-up-from-last-time chats.

It’s quiet apart from the regular slap of scrabble tiles,
clicking knitting needles
and the long considered placing of a jigsaw piece
accompanied by a contented creak
of a chair as someone adjusts a numbing *** cheek.

It’s quiet apart from the buzz of book clubs and poetry recitals
exchanging much treasured lines and long loved titles.
It’s quiet apart from the beep of books returned or issued out
under the arms of rested readers, no doubt
heading home to their own cool dry places,
reading lamps and carefully positioned comfy chairs.

It’s quiet apart from the spoken thankfulness of readers young and old,
each enjoying spending time within the fold
of this, our beloved Hanwell Community Library.

My boyfriend (Peter) and I went down to New Haven Harbor today.

Let’s face it, we’re surrounded by oceans,
and most of them are downright inhospitable.

I live near the ocean, (pointing) it’s right over there.
I love the ocean, tripping over whenever I’ve time to spare.

The way I’m fawning over it, you’d think I know it well.
But I really only love its edges and undulating swells.

It’s like a book that I’ve judged by its cover,
a beautiful stranger taken as a lover,
or a pie when I’ve only tasted the crust.
I love something, I suppose, I’ve barely even touched.

Peter says that black, inky “outer-space” is a low-viscosity liquid,
another, even vaster ocean that’s more dangerous and rarely visited.

The air that we breathe is an ocean - our own, vast, atmosphere -
in it swim creatures too small to see, but to the naked eye it looks clear.
It flows, eddies and swells - birds swoop in it so you can tell.

Of course, the ocean has issues - it's hardly news - corrosion, erosion, sharks and drowning - and the way the ocean lets the moon and air push it around.

What I love most is its motion, and how it reflects the sun and the moon.
Did I mention that hanging-out by the ocean makes for a pleasant afternoon?

could she be a literary pope,
signs on the pages arranged
into a Latin-like custom, out of ether
into that virtually diminishing world,
hands-on experience traded for nothing
but practice of high hopes to evolve,
making a difference that simple, effective,
measurable enough to reach.
instead could she dream of something real,
cold, sharp, plausible; stop saying to her
practise only what you preach

it's not a church therein
aching for some sanctuary
since she's on a steep *****.
with some bookish praise still echoing
high-brow bigotry far away
in messages too slow,
she knows only to be in the moment

there pages may feel shame,
money might talk loud,
augmented hands carry powers,
about to be contemporary gods.
could she be told a book is just a book?
shaking from within,
shaken to her core,
a lurking reality:
numbers of them biting the dust,
appeasing, retiring into nonsense
and whatnot,
they revel in everything

People are like books. Each is different but has a story to tell; a story that can be seen and known by opening their pages, their layers. Each is unique, rich, deep, page after page, filled with life. Each waits to be lifted off from a shelf and into the hands of another; cared for, understood, and loved. But, each book is constantly judged by its cover. The truth and worth it holds - so important, sadly neglected and forgotten. And once someone reads them, some, the unlucky, can be replaced because, in time, the initial value that was once worthy is overlooked. Some may question if they are even worth the time anymore, and that is what scares me, and probably a lot more. As books, we hope to be found by the rarest few. The rarest few that willingly and continually understands you, comes back to you, makes sure you are cared for, remain loyal to you, and keeps you close, even if one day they stumble upon a more appealing cover.

To understand it, you have to meditate on it.
Block out the chaos and white noise.
Some messages lie clear, while others are deep as the sea.
Without proper caution, one might drown than swim with pleasure.
The words that are etched on paper are constructed to make one think, compelling the mind to become active.
Once you’re into it—it becomes more than didactic.
As one focuses the mind—much is revealed!
What is revealed is like grapes yielding wine and olives yielding oil.
But until then the mystery remains sealed.

I used to wish to stop the world with one look,
to make my mark.

Now I just want to curl up with a good book.

my love.
folded behind dog-eared pages
you're a book I've yet to finish
yet before I've reached the ******—
I shelf you with a bookmark
that will never be revisited.