Soft lyrics billow from the next room,
Wrapping their syllables around my body.  
Drenching my skin in warm, buttery tunes.
Floating behind the words on the page,
As I watch the stories unfurl from my book.
Sometimes I forget that I’m reading,
I can see everything as clearly as the island
From my beach on a still July morning.
My eyes stop seeing and my fingers
no longer turn the pages,
I am part of the tale.
Engulfed by the stark poetry of being alive.
A passive, invisible witness to the lives of the characters,
As they run across my mind and live onwards in my imagination.

I read a book that reminded me of you

It reminded me of the days I wished to find a way out
To go through a door that would lead me somewhere else
somewhere better

I never found that door

And you never got better

I wish you had

Textbooks in a heap,

the pages held together --


by dog-ears only.

People read stories,

the travel maps of the world --


travel maps of lives.

Forever new books

by new writers, for a dream --


they are immortal.

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?