A Poetry Book Novels & Stories

She was like April sky, sunrise in her eyes Child of light, shining star, fire in her heart Brightest day, melting snow, breaking through the chill October and April He was like frozen sky in October night Darkest cloud, endless storm, raining from his heart Coldest moon, deepest blue, tearing down the spring October and April Like hate and love, worlds apart This fatal love was like poison Right from the start Like light and dark, worlds apart This fatal love was like poison Right from the start

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.

I close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

The cover is worn and the leather is pealing off. I open it. Each page is all crinkled as if it's been used a lot. I look through the book. Poems? Each poem is so meaningful. Did she write this? INNER DEMONS: It's like a shadow in an eternal night It does not let you free it does not let you live in the light It takes you deeper into an endless tunnel It ensnares you with chains It pumps it's venom into your vains The darkness does not let it's prey go easily

After heading inside, Damon picked out a few thick and boring books that were related to design for Celeste. "Is there anything else that you want?" "Poetry books. I like Edgar Poe, William Blake, and Pablo Neruda," Celeste said suddenly. Perhaps it was because they had just watched a play, Damon felt she was being a little emotional today. Damon's heart fluttered seeing some emotion on her typically cold self. "In the past, I loved reading poetry for the sake of fortune-telling." Celeste grabbed a book by Neruda from the rack and casually flipped through the pages.

I had never really observed them when I was here before. Most of the titles were academic—thick volumes on economics, finance, business strategy. But there were also novels tucked in between. Literary fiction, some thrillers, a few poetry collections. "Didn't know you read poetry," I called out. "Everyone needs a little beauty in their life," he called back. I smiled and continued browsing. Then I noticed something odd. There was a gap in the middle shelf, like several books had been removed. "Adam?" I walked toward the bedroom.

A young girl, not quite tall enough to reach the sorting tray, was assisting in piling up the warm pages. "They sound like poetry," Lia whispered. "But with directions." She wasn't addressing anyone specifically, but the man folding pamphlets at the next table inclined his head. "That's the idea," he said. "Poetry endures. So does purpose." Outside, a cart of snacks rolled past—kutsinta, banana cue, rice cakes in banana leaves. The vendor paused, glancing in through the window. “You’re printing the memory books?” he asked. “Yes,” Lia said. “Want one?”

Stories of tides that never forgot. One morning in early March, when the almond trees were heavy with blossom again, she found an old envelope tucked inside the pages of a book he had been reading the winter before he died. The book was a worn copy of Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, the spine cracked open to poem fifteen. The envelope was yellowed, unsealed, addressed to her in his careful handwriting. She carried it to the terrace. Sat in his chair. Opened it slowly.