A man told me he had calculated
the exact number of books
he would be able to read before he died
by figuring the average number
of books he read per month
and his probable earth span,
(averaging how long
his dad and grandpa had lived,
adding on a few years since he
exercised more than they did).
Then he made a list of necessary books,
nonfiction mostly, history, philosophy,
fiction, and poetry from different time periods
so there wouldn’t be large gaps in his mind.
He had given up frivolous reading entirely.
There are only so many days.

Oh, I felt sad to hear such an organized plan.
What about the books that aren’t written yet,
the books his friends might recommend
that aren’t on the list,
the yummy magazine that might fall
into his hand at a silly moment after all?
What…

Waking with a poet’s sigh, always alone,

in a fantasy world, mind and heart has

gone to live, to write a poet’s song.  Heart

made to live alone, words abundant

thoughts strong, the poet always alone.

Cut the strings that hold back the tide

that carries words like a bride; to the

blank page a groom of her dreams,

bonded together to the page they cling.

Happiness, humorous, sad or deadly,

at last it laid upon the poet’s desk, the

last word written; the poet did their

best.  Within the poet, darkness

dwells as it looks for a brighter sphere,

a home for the well of words, where

words may find a home; but the poet is

always alone.

©2014.solitude.annjohnsonmurphree
At Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_7?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ann+johnson-murphree&sprefix=ann+joh%2Caps%2C189

From Intelligence is sexy: