Online Poetry Book Novels & Stories

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.

“Then I guess you can say I’m a book festival virgin?” “You can, but I wouldn’t.” Anna suppressed a giggle. “Here’s the floor plan.” She showed the paper to Nate and pointed to one of the designated booth assignments. “The poetry and art section is at the far end of the show. I have a good friend, John Gorham, who is a world renowned cowboy poet.” “Cowboy poet?” Nate replied skeptically. “Is that a real thing?”

But my hand closed around empty space. My heart thudded so hard I thought it might crack a rib. I grabbed the poetry book and tossed it onto the bed, pawing through every page, every bookmark, hoping I’d misplaced it. Maybe I’d hidden it between pages, paranoid someone might find it in the drawer. Maybe— But page after page, there was nothing. Just dry printed words about love, death, betrayal and spring. Words that mocked the churning horror blooming in my chest.

The sky was splashed with brilliant stars which illuminated not only the atmosphere but also people's hearts. Nneoma sat on her bed, munching popcorn. At that moment, she reached for a poetry book on her cupboard which she had purchased at a bookshop during the holidays. It was titled; Chimes of Golden Tunes. 'I've not read the poems,' she murmured opening the book. She positioned herself well on the bed and flipped the pages. Arriving on the first poem, she read the title slowly. 'The Iridescent Stars; mmh… Typical of tonight.'

“I think that is time I leave you. I will see you later, Raina.” I looked around the room that I was now locked in. I looked through every draw, every cabinet, and through a small closet, only stumbling across a small book of poetry. I could only assume that it had been left there by the previous occupant of the room. I had always enjoyed poetry. I sat down on the bed and began reading the book. The poetry was eloquently written and quite meaningful. I could feel the emotions of the writer dripping out of every line. One particular line stood out to me as I read:

“I just wanted to change the environment a bit. You’ve gotten your wolf dragon now. So there is nothing taking us back there.” Nyxoria looked down at the worn-out book still in her hands, her fingers gently running across the rough, faded cover. “So, are you the owner of this book?” she asked curiously once again. Ora stepped closer and gently took the book from her hands, flipping it open with practiced fingers. “What do you think?” she asked. “These are poems. Very old ones.” “Do you understand the writing? The language looks strange to me,” Nyxoria asked, tilting her head.

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

It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting. The book had been lost in the fire. She had been trying to remember the poems ever since. She recited two for me. The ones she could remember most of. They were simple. They were about a river going past a stone. They were the kind of poems a man read when he had spent his life ruling a founder pack and needed a quiet thing at the end of the day. I wrote the poems down. I wrote them on a clean page in my study. I added them to the drawer where I kept Mira's letters and my father's last note.

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

Darren had once told me that reputations were fragile things—but they could be made stronger in the places where they had once cracked. I believed him now more than ever. I bought two baby books—one for names, one for poetry. I kept them tucked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Not because I was hiding them, but because they felt like promises still unfolding. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I read aloud from the poetry book. Darren didn’t always respond. But he always listened. Even when his eyes were closed. One night, I stood by the window in our bedroom, the curtains pulled aside, the moon painting everything silver.