Dusty books lay side-by-side
like aged soldiers, still ready to march.
Except the war of the shelves is not physical but mental,
and the battleground resides in ourselves.

Studying students retreat with sighs of surrender.
Tests are no longer a measure of knowledge,
but a measure of life lost to professors’ orders,
glued to rows of chairs with rigid backs.

In the past, this was a place of wonder
where children dragged their mothers by the hand,
longing to discover adventure and mystery
when imaginations spat out images of pirates and princesses.

Now, the aisles of books bring despair,
just more work in a world without play,
where we treat text like landmines of ink
rather than the golden treasure that words used to be.

But the soldiers on shelves still march on,
still full of adventure and mystery,
waiting for ally hands to grasp their spines,
caress their pages and drink in their words.

She and her library were an endless love affair.

I remember my primary school
which was all large hallways and shiny shoes

library
which was all popsicle stick projects
and a round reading room

after hours and finding a book about art.

I showed it to Mrs Romano
who was fat in a pleasant way and wore round glasses

and she said “Picasso?”
and
i said
"yes."

A picture is worth a thousand words:








You're a library.

As I sit on this desk,
I'm in hurry...
To finish studying.
To finish this test.
To prepare for tonight.
To prepare for tomorrow.
This cycle never ends.
And I begin to worry.
I fear for my life.
I am aging.
I am changing.
I am growing.
But I look up to see little people in bright yellow and marvel red.
I see children.
They smile.
They have energy.
They are curious.
They have hope.
Oh, how glad I am to see these tiny moments.
I love to watch the future grow
And reminisce about those days.
As an adult,
I am their future.
But soon, they will be my future.
From youth to elderly,
We will revert back to our original figures,
To our old selves.
Where we sleep all day.
Where we have no cares about our schedule.
Where we can only fix the past and try our best to create a better future.
That's what this cycle of life is all about.
To think that I figured this out in a library...
I guess it's true what they say about books.
They are more than words.
They are the stories of our elderly,
the desires of our youth,
and the lessons learned of our fathers.
We are one.
I have nothing to fear.
I have no worries.
My future is in their hands.
A generation filled with hope.

I have always noticed
That while this city is filled with females
The library is filled with men
Middle-aged; average, maybe less
Sitting at computers
Afternoons
Weekdays

Today I saw them, for the hundreth time
I finally realized
These men have nowhere else to go
Some of them, maybe
But nowhere they would rather be
They're looking for jobs
To feed their families, themselves
This library is their 9-5
No qualifications necessary

I sit in the Bates Room
Surrounded by green lamps and wood tables
Books line the walls, and the gray clouds do not let the sun shine in
The image of academia, the most scholarly of steeples
A man sits across the room
In a navy hat and gray sweater
Book open in front of him
Exactly halfway through

He dozes off
Time and time again
The security guard wakes him up

People walk in and out
Taking pictures and admiring the architecture

I wonder what he's thinking

So much information
So many stories
why one extinguisher?

Scribbling of pens
The smell of paper
People wonder
Why I stay there
In my sanctuary
Of quiet and calm
Typing away
At my old battered laptop
The words flow freely
The thoughts do not
This has no rhythm
Nor any rhyme
But I like the way it is
Just fine.