#bookstore
Oh to drown in the scent of books
And to vividly imagine details in every corner and crook
The musky smell and creaky wooden floor
The cobwebs on bookshelves and the sliding doors
Fingers grazing the hard bookcase
Dust on my fingers from the rims I trace
Echoed footsteps through the room
The letters and dried flowers and the ***** broom
The attic window and ascending stairs
Feather quills on sill and decor pairs
Texts and symbols drafted on vellum pages
As my mind drifted to the little cages
The cages that bore Canary too yellow
That with me gazed at the colors and along grew mellow
Aug 29, 2024
Aug 29, 2024 at 4:46 PM UTC
Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.
Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.
They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.
Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 1:31 AM UTC
The scent I miss
Not for reasons of bliss
But simply this
The scent of old paper
To read a new caper
Or of the candlestick maker
So many worlds to explore
You even had a second floor
I miss you old bookstore
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 12:30 AM UTC
If you want to see happy people
Go to the bookstore
As they flip the first few pages
Observe the cover and the edges
Notice the torn and the teardrops
Rub the coffee spills and the bookmarks
Smell the old cinnamon bread
As this 2nd hand book tells, the living and the dead
And if you see them smile,
And their eyes sparkle like the sea
By that you can tell
And tell, yet begin another story
So if you want to see happy people
Go to the bookstore
They are silently sitting in the corner
But you don't judge a book by its cover
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 10:31 PM UTC
Those lazy days when
Your soul pleads with you to leave - -
So you leave the house
You get in the car, city bound
And breathe in the books and ink
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with poetry and writers, and the smell of old bookstores, and of the soil after the daybreak rain. I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with saving people with messed up souls, that I allowed you to stop hearing the stories they tell at midnight when they’re lost in unknown towns concealed beyond the gaps in their ribs.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with songs that could’ve saved your life, that I allowed you to walk past the paintings in a museum, and that I allowed you to stop seeing movies that could’ve reminded you of how it feels to feel again. I’m sorry that I allowed you to stop sparing glances at the myriad of city lights in smoggy cities and the spaces between fading pedestrian lanes — that I allowed you to stray far from mountain-and-sea sunsets, and the outline of a crescent moon, and the beauty of conversations that last ‘til sunrise.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, darling.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things you wanted to stay in love with.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things that kept you alive.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
a sweet chime dings
as you walk through the door
you breath in the smell
of cherished tomes
and are drawn in
to a world of possibilities
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
i don't love you.
no
i simply love everything about you
i love the simple aggression of the way you write and speak, your mind which says volumes in almost no words at all.
i love the glint of determination always present into your deep dark eyes, which tell me that the strong woman inside is being trapped, trapped by the hollow cage of a girl she's been burdened with all these years.
i love the wings, the scales which shiver with every step and cast brilliant beams of light off of their sharp red wherever you go.
i love the rhythm which with your poetry echoes in me, making me feel the pain of the man, the woman, the child and the lonely girl who you talk about.
i love your friends
your interests
your love for coffee and bookstores and the rain
but i don't love you.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
Confused and misguided I found myself in the bookstore,
Looking for myself in the writing of poets,
Where pain and love met, I yearned for more
Found myself in disguise, broken, feeling time fly
Broken and insecure, I found myself in the bookstore.
Reading about my past lovers, was I not strong enough for the storm?
Loved a man who failed to explore,
The woman inside me begging for more
Lost but committed, I found myself in the bookstore.
Reminiscing on our lust, was I a bore?
Picking up a book filled with promises,
Will I ever get what love has in store?
Running towards lust, I ended up broken in the bookstore.
You left me broken but wanting more
Addicted to your soul, I failed to remember..
That I met you at the bookstore
-Henessy J. Beltre
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:18 PM UTC
With so little time I could not decide.
Shelf after shelf filled with book upon book.
The likes I've dreamed of reading.
Most bookstores have there signs posted.
Opening and closing time.
But this, this was something out of the ordinary.
Not a soul wandering through the isles.
No checkout line.
It was intimate.
Being here alone surrounded by book after book.
Each with a cover beautifully drawn.
Genres of insecurities, dreams, ambitions.
Love.
Any spot on the floor felt like home.
Addressing myself in total seclusion.
Mornings spent in thought embraced by the cold air flowing through the vents.
Afternoons spent without a thing to do.
The nights when a pillow was the only comfort, drifting off to sleep.
Slow rather than fast.
I flipped through page after page.
Wandering from isle to isle undecided in which book I wanted to read first.
Eying the shelves one at a time.
Finding the beauty in what makes you, you.
The marked on pages.
The distraught covers.
With so little time I didn't want to spend every second over-thinking.
Analyzing exactly which stood out the most.
When in actuality.
They all are a part of you
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
My echoing laughter
Catches the walls
Just below the ceiling
When I see it again
In the reiteration of his own hand
That you were right
And the world was wrong
That it was not meant to be as this
A singing song
But a reproach of the sigh
Of another man
How clever of the Frost to hide
On another set of snowy hands
How clever indeed were you also to find
The original meaning of such a man
With props to you
I laugh again
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
the fact that i have only encountered her once
and now she's filling my entire repertoire
makes me seem a bit insane
it wasn't love at first sight , that couldn't be
i don't even know her name
but the way she carried herself so softly
the way we talked, yet short ,
gave me reason to believe that i must find her again
and i must tell her that our small encounter
yet month's ago
won't leave my ******* head
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
The wooden doors swing open, creaking as they do.
Books litter the walls, tables, and chairs.
Bestsellers filled with politics, celebrities, and dieting.
The "Classics" eisle is all but abandoned.
Shakespeare, Steinbeck, The Bronte Sisters, and more.
Books filled with elegant phrases, heartbreaking last words, and timeless prose.
I run my fingers along their spines, walking past the gravestones.
Reaching the music section, I smile and wander forward.
So many memories to be found.
Mozart, Beck, Chopin, Hendrix, the list goes on.
So many artists here, preserved through a dead medium.
CD's no longer hold a special place in the world, along with the books housed nearby.
As I walk to the entrance, now an exit, I see rows of newspapers.
Yet another reminder of times gone by.
Staring at the building, about to enter my car, I realize something.
This place is a graveyard for old things.
While the world has moved on to Kindles, iPads, and mp3s, this place has not.
That's why I'll come here until the day it to, is buried.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
People accumulate items of the past
Jewelry, books, antiquities all that clutter
They give it up for little to nothing
“Why is it of no value to them?”
The purveyors of
Pawn shops, book stores, consignment shops
Are puzzled
“What are these items, and why are they given up”
Although it is their job to figure out where the volumes are from and what they are about.
These volumes lay on shelves sometimes sold
Sometimes collecting dust for years at a time
The customers past by without a glance at these relics
When one wanders into a place without a purchase in mind they are greeted by those who are there to assist
“What is it you have for first editions? Got any signed copies?
The keep of the till is taken off by these questions
Although he slowly becomes
invested in conversation
“Oh have you heard of this one we just received”
After developing a repertoire of with the young bearded man I ask him
“What is your favorite or uh oldest piece”
As the conversation moved onward a frail book was handed to me
“How old do you think this is?”
I turned the spine to read 1543
Thumbing through the pages I wondered what it is about, and where has it been
The keeper nor I knew nothing of this Ancient tome
This is the sad truth of many tales
They get lost along the way.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
I am the bookshelf, and she is the books.
So many interesting stories inside of her.
I watch you every single day, scoop up a new book,
and leave my shelves more empty than before.
As the books leave my shelves, I imagine all the places you take them.
Coffee shops, with comfy lounge chairs and the constant reassurance from the espresso beans.
Parks, with a nice breeze and picnic to compliment the sweet words that pour into your mind.
Home, where you gush about how wonderful your newest story is, and bring her safely to the solitude of your bedroom.
But I am the bookshelf, and I will provide a sturdy environment,
I am strong and I've held myself together for so long.
I listen, I watch, and I wait for you every single day,
and will continue to do so until my shelves can't bear it anymore.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
Have you ever
just looked at
people in a
bookstore?
Not judging
them, just
looking,
and seeing
all the different
people buying
different books.
You don't have
to look a certain
way to read or
purchase a book.
You don't have
to look a certain
way in order to read
a certain genre,
just look like
you.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
deliberated on a long black
to fit in with your latte
but i guess i can't change
washed down my words
with steaming earl grey
and later at the quaint bookshop
i filled up my head
with other writers, pretended to
admire the whimsical words
but actually i was more interested
in the resident cat
it sat there, flicking its tail
disdainful of every new customer
that walked through the door
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
There you are, just minding your own business.
Looking through the different comic books neatly placed in the corner of our favorite bookstore.
You pick one up and I see a faint smile painted over your lips.
Hay, what a sight.
You look engrossed by the Warcraft comic book you found.
It was as if you were in another dimension.
Admiring and just looking at you in a distance, I am engulfed by a weird feeling.
Weird - since it was a new one but at the same time familiar.
It was a recognition of something I missed feeling;
Something I thought I convinced myself I would no longer feel;
It was happiness.
I swear, I can just look at you like this for hours.
I wouldn't mind the days and nights passing by.
But seeing how perfect you are just scanning over the pages of the book you found, I couldn't resist taking a picture - the only thing I can ever do to preserve the moment.
God, you are beautiful.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
the kisses you
planted onto
my begging lips
in that old
book store
let the stories
living inside
come to life,
including mine
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
We walk in and start looking around for something we want
We wander around trying to choose the next chapter
but its hard with so many surrounding us
Then the owner comes over and shouts at you
saying, you are taking too long
everyone else has already chosen
You start getting anxious because you are searching
for what feels like forever
and still can't figure out what you want
Your rush and grab something that looks safe
Just to find out that it wasn't what you needed
It wasn't what you wanted
So you close it
put it back on the shelf
maybe to find interest in it in the future
Until then, we will just keep looking
for something that catches our eye
and inspires us to turn the page.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC