Book Shelf The bookshelf groans, A pleasure moan, Laden with poets Overflowing with prose. A praise of verse, But nothing could be worse Than a bookshelf Barren and undusted, Empty of words, spineless. Poetry now fills the spaces, Places left by former books, Novels, autobiographies, Words that shook the world And gave it clarity and definition. Books that sat waiting to be read To be taken out of position And thumbed, caressed, savoured, A thousand voices, flavoured with The desire to be shared And discussed and considered and said. The written word, waiting to be read.
'There's more to life than books you know, but not much more'. Handsome Devil. The Smiths. What use is the written word unless it is read? My bookshelf is full with books I have read and treasured. But it is not a static entity. Most books I read, I pass on, give to charity shops or friends. To let them have the same pleasure of reading a wonderful, engrossing, thought provoking, entertaining, enjoyable book. And to make way for more books. And as I have read more and grown through the years, my bookshelf has morphed and changed. It now boasts poetry. And will always.
