"shelve" poems
9 to 10, new among busy men
10 to 11, have a meet inside cabin
11 to 12, got working shelve
That's how it started
12 to 1, almost done
1 to 2, had lunch too
2 to 3, continue working spree
That's how it went
3 to 4, do work don't bore
4 to 5, its a busy life
5 to 6, soon I'll be into this mix
That's how it end
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.
waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!
When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters
When my DnD group broke up
I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers
Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.
Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.
When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.
In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
I wrote titles on strips of paper,
Books that I planned on reading,
On my shelf that contained one empty shelve,
I rolled them into *****
And threw them into the cup,
Shaking up the titles,
I get a Mo Yan.
Then I get a Charles Dickens,
The paper ***** get reshuffled again.
I pick again, it’s Mo Yan.
The third time, it’s Mo Yan
READ ME, HE YELLS.
His short stories were read,
a few months ago.
Chinese folktale like stories,
With satire of Modern China.
But none of his novels,
were touched.
In one of them,
The bookmark stops at 300.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
I'm not a winner.
Now, before you all rush to tell me how great I am, and how I should really have more confidence,
Take a breath because that's not what I mean.
When I say I'm not a winner, I mean I don't want to be.
I mean that whenever I try to cut corners in my life, and get the better of it, and come out "on top"
I just end up feeling...
Empty.
I'm not a winner.
I don't get to do the I'm-just-having-fun, wild, crazy stuff.
Not because I'm not able, not because I'm restricted,
But because at the end of the day no matter how much I think I've changed, it does nothing for me.
Who I am is the person who would rather, despite numerous but half-hearted efforts to the contrary,
Spend my life alone than with anyone but the girl I love.
The person who's done with the party after a couple of hours, and wants to go do something quieter.
The person who looks long,
Thinks deep,
And doesn't win because she doesn't find it fulfilling.
What I mean when I say I'm not a winner is that I am a lover.
I know what I want, even when I try not to.
And I try to ***** out feelings that limit me, that confuse me, that make me afraid,
I try to at least shelve them and pretend I have control.
But always it boils down to a moment of clarity:
I am not a winner.
I do not win over my heart.
I do not want to.
I have no use for excess, no time for compromise, no patience for pretense.
I fought to be the one who has control, the one who doesn't care,
Who takes risks just to prove she can,
But
The truth is my real risks are being saved up like lucky pennies in a jar, and I can't truly spend a single one on anything but love.
And I've been spiriting them away, trying to give them out to everyone I know
Just so I won't have to be brave enough to box them all up and set them on her doorstep, but I can't do it.
I'm kidding myself- It's already happened.
There's a girl walking around some far off city
With my love tucked away in her coat pocket like a stray coin
That you don't spend because its weight against your leg has become habit
And I am fooling myself to think I have even the slightest bit left back here to offer anyone else.
No matter what I try, the answer I come to is always the same.
I think I'm so clever, getting around it, finding a new path
But in the end it's always the same shade of lame attempt to be
Less serious
Less in love
Less... brave.
It always boils down to cowardice, and once I see that, I quit trying and smarten up.
Plain and simple, I've been trying to win.
And I've failed.
Not because I was not strong enough for the fight,
But because I never wanted what I was fighting for in the first place.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
there are days where I sit and stare at myself in the mirror
picking apart every little flaw, every extra roll and
every bit that's not the right shape or colour
and I think, almost religiously,
that I am not good enough for you.
Becuase the truth is that I'm not.
You deserve sunshine and flowers on a summers day,
not a work in progress as dull as a winters night.
I say this to you and you pull your lips together with a sad smile,
look down at me
say
"But what if I prefer winter"
My boy that is not the point.
All I do is make you worry and I wanna be your sunshine but I just don't
think
i
can
be
that
yet
I'm a work in progress.
Incomplete
I was shattered just before we met and putting the pieces together
is
killing
me
And the things we don't talk about
things we shelve for a conversation in the
future.
involves things that only
"I love you"
might be able to fix.
through everything
recovery is hard
and each and every day is a choice
I need to make
to be better
and
I'm not always strong enough to make that choice.
I just want you to understand
my boy
my lovely amazing
perfect
boy
that sometimes I don't eat
and sometimes I want to die more than not
that anxiety is a being that rocks me
and sometimes I need the rush of pain
from scrubbing hard at my skin
or dragging a blade across it
it's not about you.
it's not something your presence is going to necessarily fix
But i want to try for you.
Maybe i can't be your sunshine
but maybe
i can be your cup of tea
your jumper
your girl
wrapped up in your bed sheets
on a cold winters night
you once said you had no problem
helping me pick up my messes
and if you stand by that
ill be your girl.
In whatever season you want me.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Weeks gone by
And I still miss you
Every day
I feel so empty
My heart aches
& the tears won't
Stop flowing down
You knew the little things about me
& when we talked
We always seem to
Pick up where we left off
I don't know if I could ever
Close the book
& leave it on a shelve
As it ages
So much memories
& yet I can't no longer
Write in it because
Things changed and
Your day came quick
The page where we'd
Left off will
Forever be on hold
& the bookmark remains
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
I will do my damnedest to save you from harm
and wrap you safely up in lust
you who're only a luckless victim
a poor forsaken damsel in distress
tied to the railway tracks by a villain
in one of those black and white movies
I will arrive in the dramatic nick of time
and I shall be the hero who proves his love
when in return you kick me under the train
I'm really just vain and an incapable slave
so you relent and pull me back from the brink
I'll waste no time in rescuing you
your destiny's under my control
there's nothing you can do
no reason for you to get involved
except in relinquishing your body
yet what you do is to shelve
all my plans for today
I'm relieved you know yourself
I'll be there to deliver you from evil
the forces of love are far too weak
you have too much of it to lose to quibble
my advice is to stay put and not to seek
instead you jump into the moral saddle
urging it on so strong my heart goes meek
I repent and promise not to meddle
I'll take you in my arms and we'll escape
giving you a way out when all seems lost
picking up the pieces of your broken reality
what you need is for me to know what's best
to change you into a looker for me
I'm only glad you passed the test
with that sand I got kicked into my face
something you call leather and lace...
nice work... I secretly have to confess
You'll need me to give you a hand
when your slight frame gets knocked down
my assistance in perspective is what you need
the weights of love too great to be borne
I'd hate for yours to fatten and go to seed
and your strong love will feel no pain
when you yank me limb from limb to the ground
and ****** my salvation insanely thin
Rest assured I'll rid you of your past
that awful story of unspeakable depravity
it's easy for someone clean to dust
all traces erased of that shocking poverty
and I'll dress you anew as a lady to impress
forging history in return for a few liberties
but you tore my shoddy papers into a mess
a message that I needed you to fix me
what wasn't broken was you - I was
even more impressive love it's true
for you to sort out my lax assumptive ways
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Letters are old school, but I guess so am I.
In a way, I guess that is true,
I sometimes feel like I am an old fool,
Stuck in the Motown groove,
The 21st Century is not for me,
Waiting a minute before I can hear the next song,
And when it eventually comes on it's one filled with hate,
And let’s not even talk about trying to date,
They said to leave a message after a beep,
For my old soul that means a beat,
That brought with it dance and heat,
Words and rhymes and a drumbeat,
See back in my day, a letter meant waiting on the mail man,
And not looking for blue ticks from an app I got from an online store,
It meant post stamps and asking friends to proofread,
It meant punctuating every line so that you knew without you I could not breathe,
Being in love was not just words and play,
It meant dancing in the street; we called it grooving,
Not sweet talking and lying,
The old fool in me is tired of trying,
Am not saying that you are lying,
But you are in no way trying,
To meet me in the street,
Or groove to a Motown beat,
I wish you were sending me flowers,
While you were out there spending time,
With worlds that were not even meant to be real,
My old soul needs more than one-off dines or drinking box wine!
See back in Motown, when a man loved a woman,
He could not keep his mind on anything else,
He did not put a little loving on her, or shelve her
It meant the whole street knew her, and even knew her favorite beat!
I have known only one other of your kind, the sweet-talking guy,
You have me down on my knees wondering when you are going to leave,
That is not love, I don’t know what it is,
Feels like it, but this is something else!
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
Fa-la, la-la, figging-la!
Deck your halls, don't skimp on the holly.
It's the season to be jolly -
Shelve you woes, wrap up your ills,
use your credit, put off the bills.
Follow us for merry pleasure,
you know we're all in this together.
It's just started, it's one long trial,
but we'll get through it, just fix that smile.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
I remember
Can't seem to forget
All those nights we spent together
They keep on coming back
I try to drink them all away
Pour a double shot of whiskey
But like a bad time
They always seem to stay
Oh whoa woe whoa
Can't get you off my mind
You're like a ba-ad time
And these memories
They're my weapon of self destruction
Oh whoa woe whoa
Can't you get out of my mind?
Well it's been a long time
But I can't seem to shelve
All these recollections
Like your record collection
And the way you looked
Reading your favorite book
I know it's time to move on
But you're still in these melodies
Just humming along
To awkward love songs
And it goes:
Oh whoa woe whoa
Can't get you off my mind
You're like a ba-ad time
And these memories
They're my weapon of self destruction
Oh whoa woe whoa
Can't you get out of my mind?
I know it's time to move on
But you're still in these melodies
Just humming along
While I strum this guitar
To awkward love songs
Singing:
Oh oh oh
Whoa woe whoa
Oh oh oh
Whoa woe whoa
Can't get you off my mind
You're like a ba-ad time
And these memories
They're my weapon of self destruction
Oh whoa woe whoa
Can't you get out of my mind?
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
It’s fragile.
You shouldn’t drop something that can easily be broken.
The glass heart sits on the empty shelve,
Waiting.
And as time goes by the shine it once possessed,
Was gone.
With dust covering it,
it waits.
Waits for the one soul who’ll wipe away the dust,
And bring back the shine.
So the fragile glass heart,
On that empty shelve,
Waits for its pair.
Time flies and the heart is still waiting.
Dust continues to spread,
Hope begins to fall,
And loneliness consumes that once beautiful,
Fragile Glass Heart.
It’s sad how something once so admired can be so alone.
But that well known phrase,
“One mans trash, is another man's treasure.”
Shows to be true.
The hearts waiting comes to a stop,
When one other lonely soul ventures into the unknown.
He notices the Fragile Glass Heart,
and with the heart in hand he journeys home.
He cleans the dust,
Places it on a new shelve,
With other hearts.
And that Lonely Fragile Glass Heart,
Doesn’t feel so alone.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
Industry standard number two
shaving a head of false hope
and a beard of loneliness; all
because his long term girlfriend
left him for another chap who wears
cowboy chaps ironically.
Mounted rider guys steal
women from the herd all
the time, with shotgun stares
and pistol whip words,
leaving the rest of us
to ride off into despair.
We're the type to shelve,
postpone, put off the duel
until the real reason is known.
We're the type who own
the lame, maimed horse
of the wild west task force.
We’re the type who reside in the saloon, drinking and forgetting and, most probably, hoping.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Morning comes with fear tow...
with what light bears to all unknown.
Had last night forboding dreams...
Hear the water of trickling streams.
This calls away the night concerns...
to what there is this day to learn.
What riddles does this day in store...
soon thoughts of life return once more.
To hear the distant spring Birds song..
and dawns that bird- been gone quite long..
with the croaking frogs down by pond...
Now back at home where they belong...
these Sounds the Farm's been waiting on.
So smiling in her stoic way-
Now looking forward to this day..
it's time to shelve her timid thoughts- instead sets mind to things she ought
Put on boots this early morn'- as Mother's calf just newly born.
A baby sprung- internal nest..
now lays down beside his Mother's chest.
Life on Farm starts out Anew with thoughts of hope and joy imbued.
All Rights Reserved * 2016 Cherie Nolan
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
If you write,
You will realize monstrous things about
Yourself and instead of disappearing they
Will become more eloquent and delicately
Marble carved with years
If you write,
You will hear voices, so many voices
Hypothetical and begging with pain in their
Breath to be made real and feel and **** and die
Only you will see their funeral, know their laugh
If you write,
You will cry oil spills, ***** fruit salad
**** rainbows and beg for grey, murky, bland
The depths pressure crushing; gasping through the highs
The concept mood stretched, you are alive, alive, alive
If you write,
Your shutter flashes double photoed through the day
Will capture the minutia, have your living stuck in past
Endless film rolls overstimulated, document and shelve
Closing eyes, retroactive architect works back
You should write because
To create is to love is to master the manifest
Ink your livelihood eternal, ivory-flesh crumbles and decays
There are those that love the idea of you
You left footprints in the sand
Because
When the silver screaming godgasm hits
You serendipitously and a moment
Feels worth writing down
Things can be right for a while
You will fall in love
Everywhere you go and
Nothing will seem real
You will taste redemption in the
Crunch of an apple or smell wisdom
At the zoo
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
it wasn't as though he shoulda seen it coming
(God knows he muddled through that one well enough)
and it wasn't as though he thought it in the bag
(the whole **** thing had always seemed ****** daunting)
but these now recurring tasks
and pop-up commitments
were wavering him
*a great big pain the ***
burdensome, machine like
lacking, of any particular meaning
now there was that element of perseverance
that he had read and lectured on (oh, how he had lectured on and on!)
but he was not fully accustomed
(having flown on a wing and a prayer)
to the shattered routines
and fallen plans
obligatory iterations
and post-mortem like sessions
(seemed easier to stack em up, and
shelve em in a somewhat manageable way)
but a rhythm evolved
in simple momentum, and truth
new plateaus, and revelations
transformative unfoldings
and cosmic events
(which appeared as gifts from above)
and they paved a path to growth
eyes opened, to the wonders of the world!
a grounding in an earthly connection
narratives reclaimed
adjustments made
faith, and fellowship
first steps, compromise
and gratitude
filling the center stage
(in kaleidoscope colour!)
in this glorious
and ever evolving
play of life
~
was it worth it old friend?
*you bet your *** it was!
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
The hurt bleeds gold,
As I shine in my sivler
Watching through glass of age,
Comfortable in my winter
tears are but a reflection,
That my heart won't understand
All I have is this world,
Through the eyes of a sad man
The beauty in them scars,
Of the stars that shine in dark
Steps that lead us back,
In memories far apart
And run through this path,
With pain in our heart
And bleed them a rainbow
In every morn' numb hour
Because I have nothing to gain,
And I'm left with nothing to lose
The glass might be broken,
But I can still see through
And i hold my breath,
As I suffocate in silence
And feel the calm,
Of the deathly resistance
That I harbour so in my heart
And the world's essence,
The one I capture in my box of pain,
In a tears presence,
That remind,
How blue is the sky
From the eyes of a sad man,
As I watch my smile that hurts
And bleeds me an ocean
Watch through the cracks,
Of every doors that's broken,
And find yourself on a shelve,
Waiting to be done and sold
To the pain that we so harbour,
And weigh in gold,
make themselves an idol,
By the dreams we hold
Of how grey the page is,
With every word it molds
There is no depth of a scar,
If it kills a man
How beautiful death is,
From the eyes of a sad man.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
make love to the radio!
enjoy the taste undercover
and cherish it in the whole lot
until it’s bone-crushing delight
let me come utterly across you
where we can cover
over each part of the universe
while we still have access
overdue for liable spree
and disciple to the entire world
to make sure the show
is worth every bit of the admission
let’s form a mental picture of it
and partake into all of the human experience
try your hand at factoring my figures
tip your hat to my complex
so you can take all your know-how
and superimpose it on around me
together we can shelve our fears
and luxuriate into all the human experience
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
the dark, the ocean.
I have two reasons to believe god
has not stopped creating.
-
our father
had this phrase
all in good time
psychic
and this other
you’ve got
the dropsies
-
I bring these borrowed hands
to shelve
your books.
you seem touched.
-
my anger has gone the way of the milkman.
his doomed child
with her piece of chalk.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
When I pointed out the harvest moon to him,
as it hung in the sky, blurred yellow edges
hiding behind a fog,
he laughed at me.
And as the car pulled forward, I saw the shining yellow shell
of the Shell Gas Station shine over the street.
This moon is nothing like your’s.
I find
that when people try to impress me
it all becomes the more unimpressive.
Your talent and true skill
should speak for itself,
jump off the page of your notebook
and indulge my sights with the vision
of your gift.
So when you try
to oh-so-casually remove your shirt
and change as you walk by me
sitting on your bed, reading a text
on my phone and now starting to wish
that I was home,
leave your shirt on—
show me your love.
Don’t tell me about your award from the state.
Let me find the plaque as I wander around the room,
waiting for you to come back from the stove.
Your wallet is thin, but the food is most delicious
when it’s served at your kitchen’s round table.
And as the smells creep into your bedroom
from down the hall,
I slide my fingers along the bookshelves,
pulling out yearbooks and quickly searching for your picture,
hoping to find it before you can notice
I’m not there.
That’s when I’ll find the plaque, resting on a corner of the shelve,
not even hung up.
I’ll bring it up at dinner later, ask what honorable thing you did, good sir.
And then you’ll tell me the story,
And it will be love
ly.
But rather, I’ll sit on the edge of the bed,
nestle my jacket around me tighter
and reach for the intoxication.
I must make myself drunk with something other than love tonight.
I must find the part of me that only knows moonlight, reach her,
touch her, and pull her closer to me. Embrace this new me.
I’ll breathe in her breaths and then press them onto your lips.
And I will forget that this is not love and this is not safe
but I left that harvest moon in another state.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
He got used to it
Keeping his heart
in the fridge
Sometimes he opens
the door to look at it
He stands there
in the doorway
and watches it
Beating
In a calm
and steady rhythm
He feels tempted
to take it out
Warm it up
But he never does
He leaves it there
on a special shelve
Safe
In the emergency
he knows what to do
He simply turns the
temperature down
When it gets too warm
…
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 2:51 AM UTC
I do a few pushups
Before you visit
I rummage for the good cologne
Dash some on wrist, neck
Crotch
I trim my hair
Sweep the floor
Swipe the gunk
Off sinks
Wash the dishes
Stuff all the junk
Socks, backpacks, ****
Into the closet
Rearrange my trinkets
Shelve the various books
Thrown all about
Lay out the good movies
Songs, covers
Ready at hand
Prep my mind
With witticisms and humor
Hang up strawberry
Car-fresheners
Buy wine
Out of my price range
Dim the lights
Scrape the crust
Dust off the shadows
For you
I dream
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
I don't care to see
The moral stances
From overly sensitive types
With their soft hands
And wisdom-less insight
I don't care to associate
With low impulse cut throats
Who only think of themselves
And shelve their selfish hope
With their greed
I don't do anything
That has me
Relying on a single thing
So i can flee
On the drop of a team
To my door
I'm always going to be
Solo
Leaning on the beam
Of a door
Listening
To whats in store for me
And I don't need to breathe
The ashes of fascists
To know they passed us
For the masses
To caste us
Into flames
As they walk away
And i don't want or need
Anything
Nor anybody
After grumbling it all through
As the truths
Will have me
Setting somebody free
In the violent liberties
Of my profanity
I'm nothing fancy
Just a little bit antsy
And an *******
Frantically feeding his dreams
From the ditches and drains
Of a technological stain
On the land
I pray every morning
With closed eyes
And clasped hands
Without a single god in the sky
But if i can convince
Myself of the lie
Just to get me by
I will be alright
And the guilt wont rewrite
Until tonight
Where i will write it out
Under a single light
From a dreary house
I'm all about
Letting the dogs out to play
And when I'm all out of thirst
I let out the slurs
Of a babbling idiot
Bantering with the fidget
Of ridiculousness
Under the fractal prisms
In which I'm imprisoned
Wishing
I would shut my mouth
Change the channel
Or just close you out
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC