Library

3 Haiku

Folder: 
Haiku

1 NYC

 

Dreams they are walking
Spawns more kills more these old streets
8th avenue blues

 

2 Library

 

We're closed for today
Bring another day to read
"Tomorrow", I said

 

3 Windows

 

Light's getting in through
Questioning eyes they peep out
"I'm old", says the house

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It's a Metaphor! (I'm not good at titles)

A seemingly infinte amount of books line shelves old and new

You can't possibly read them all, but shouldn't settle for just a few

The cover is a starting point for weeding through the masses
Even though its what the author wants you to see, not necessarily what is past it

Some books have lost their covers too

Taken apart by readers that came before you

Whether the cover is hard or soft

The pages it protects, holds the truths that you've sought

Your world could be warped by the words of one page

You could flip through a thousand and find they had nothing to say

There's no guarantee of what you will find

But I urge you keep looking, and yes it takes time

For if you've found a story that never gets old

You can read it each night and new love still unfolds

Then you already know there's nothing better you can do

Than looking for that book that was written just for you

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Thoughts on the Third Floor

 

Striking the keys in my notebook

I think about the syntax of my unfinished paragraph.

Research is locked inside my vault, and won’t commit itself
to paper. As I take a

breath of fresh, recycled library air, I lift my eyes beyond
my computer screen,

past the orange chair to my right

out of the long picture window, above the valley but below
the sun.

 

 The moisture in the air mixed with orange hues of light

 looks like me—it seems to hold thoughts of its own; thoughts
made of water that

resist the ground (but who could blame them?).

On the other hand, my pages need filling and we need the
water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Library

two recent interactions have been so enjoyable

here at the library

a stranger, then an acquaintance so profoundly impressed with my

presence

as it goes

working at this front desk reminds me of how

many people get excited to see me

their faces light up like light bulbs having their

lamp shades torn off

their jolt like an old photographer's flash

I feel shame

that when I'm wanting to end

it

like I so often do

that I think about these people and it isn't

enough to bring me back to my shrill patch of sanity

how greedy

must my past be to indulge in smothering my future

until the past is all that is left

of me

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Yidhra The Witch - Part II

Folder: 
Poetry

Yidhra The Witch 

 

In the library of Alexandria

Yidhra was writing and reading;

Copying the ancient scrolls,

Of Eibon, Mhu Thulan and voodoo dolls.

 

The Elders banished her to 'other realm,

Behind the mirror the demons did overwhelm.

But I took her out of the mirror,

Her life here is much dearer.

 

In the mirror-realm I placed myself,

The demons will remember oneself.

Protecting of my soul,

The darkness of a ghoul.

Yidhra lives my life now,

I live Hers, it is not allowed.

 

Eagerly I wait for the Old Ones,

'cause that is what Yidhra does.

As Upper Witch of Them,

She is the ultimate gem!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about the Cthulhu Mythos Goddess Yidhra (a vision I had).

My father's books

In the instant you enter my house, a big surprise you see. No matter what no matter when, I know a special place where my father and I can me happy man.
My father, my beloved father, has always loved books. My dad’s library is what he loves the most, after his family of course.
Novels, stories, fables, magazines. Whatever you imagine, you can find it in the library. Present publications, or 1920’s books, they are in it. It is like a time machine, all you have to do is sit and read.
Since he was fourteen, just a dreamer human being, he began to buy all the books he liked. Every time he got money from his work, to the book store he walked. Sometimes no money to eat he had, but a good reading always filed that need.
My father’s books always went wherever he went. Making company like an Ent, they were old wise, just like guides, silent guides.
Verne, Salgari, Shakespeare, Saavedra. All of them like warriors were together, this is the first thing of my childhood I remember.
When I was a Kid, my father and I played cowboys & Indias like billy the kid. While other children of my age were playing Nintendo, I was talking with my father about Nemo.
A big, brown, majestic bookshelf is always in my house; maybe it is older than me. Through the time, impassive, it is always there,
My father used to tell me stories, all kind of them; historical, educational and fairies tales.
He always made me want to read, and sometimes some books he borrowed me; even If I shattered them, he always forgave me. “Do not worry” he said. “I would burn them, as long as you learn something” Then he both laughed.
Big, small, all kind of sizes there are in my father’s books. Green, Black, white, of all colors of hard back there are. Images, paintings, photos, I just love them.
They are my father’s treasure; he portrayed his life in them. I hope someday I will have it, and I am sure that whenever I read them, I’ll just look up and see my father, telling me a new story.
When I am a father in the future, the same library in my house will be. My children and I happy are going to be. I’ll just see them, reading the same books my father did, and I’ll smile.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Fist Compositon in English :D

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