“If Librarians Were Honest…”

alphabooksIn honor of Banned Books Week, I have been thinking a lot about books mean to me and what it would be like to not be able to ever read certain ones again. A book is a powerful thing, it can offer new ideas, allow empathy to bloom, and shed light in inner emotions and connections. Which leads me back to a poem that I’ve been meaning to publish on here for awhile.

It describes exactly the way I feel about a book, any book, all books. How they change and impact you, how they can alter your perceptions and expand your world. There are few things in this world that have that capability, to have such a profound ability to kill you where you stand and raise you from the depths of your personal hell. They can make you laugh, cry, cringe, dissolve, reform, rave, rant, become more determined and understanding, waste an entire day, drink three cups of tea, fall off your chair, ignore the world around you.

If Librarians Were Honest – Joe Mills

If librarians were honest,

they wouldn’t smile, or act

welcoming. They would say,

You need to be careful. Here

be monsters. They would say,

These rooms house heathens

and heretics, murderers and

maniacs, the deluded, desperate,

and dissolute. They would say,

These books contain knowledge

of death, desire, and decay,

betrayal, blood, and more blood;

each is a Pandora’s box, so why

would you want to open one.

They would post danger

signs warning that contact

might result in mood swings,

severe changes in vision,

and mind-altering effects.

If librarians were honest

they would admit the stacks

can be more seductive and

shocking than porn. After all,

once you’ve seen a few

breasts, vaginas, and penises,

more is simply more,

a comforting banality,

but the shelves of a library

contain sensational novelties,

a scandalous, permissive mingling

of Malcolm X, Marx, Melville,

Merwin, Millay, Milton, Morrison,

and anyone can check them out,

taking them home or to some corner

where they can be debauched

and impregnated with ideas.

If librarians were honest,

they would say, No one

spends time here without being

changed. Maybe you should

go home. While you still can. 

(Source: http://www.libraryasincubatorproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Mills_If_Librarians_Were_Honest.pdf)

Original Work Friday: More

I’m not the girl I used to be;

stronger in some ways,

weaker in others.

Old cracks have been repaired

while new ones split wide open.

The past has an impact,

it filters through time;

there is no escape

but I decide how to handle it,

to let it influence or ignore.

The future is now,

no time like the present

to become who I want to be

and to stay who I am,

to know my own worth.

I will still make mistakes,

I will still stumble and second-guess,

but I am in charge of my fate

and I have learned from before.

I am more than I was.



My thoughts exactly.

Of life she writes.

I thought I was broken.

I thought something inside of me was broken.

I’m not

And It’s not.

I’m pretty whole.

One piece slowly glued back together with time.

If you observe really slowly and carefully you can get close enough to see them

The scars

The cracks

The little white remnants of the glue that’s holding me together.

But I’m whole.

And all my pieces are exactly in their place.

I’ve got people inside of me

Slowly watching

To see if any of my pieces slip and fall away

They pick up my pieces and slowly put them back while I add the glue in each crevice

I’m whole, not because I made it that way

But because of people who surround me

People who care about me

People who watch pieces fall and pick them up for me

You cannot even imagine how grateful I am.

To have…

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Original Work Friday: ‘Til You Make It

Sometimes you just have to grin

and bear it.

Put on a happy face

even when your insides feel shredded

and your heart is torn in pieces.

Pretend it doesn’t bother you

say it’s all okay.

Sometimes it’s all you can do to say sane,

to stay standing

when your legs are about to give

and the world is collapsing around you.

The loneliness creeps in and

you start to believe it.

Losing the faith you had in yourself

as you watch the happiness fade.

Sometimes the tears, the pain

are all the focus you can handle.

Because without that,

you might just fall to pieces

and can’t be put back together again.

Rage against it,

fake it ’til you make it

and keep standing tall,

smile with everything you have.

Because that just might be

enough to get you by.


Eyes lock

instantly closing

the distance.

A pull

in my gut,

magnets aligned.

I couldn’t

resist, nor

did I want to.

A long fall,

no landing

in sight.

Drifting and

spinning to

you and me.

Hearts unitetwo hearts

lust binds

life sighs.

Happiness here

love there

holding true.

Fill in

the cracks

for you

As you

prove that

this is real.

This one

will make

or break.

Either we

both commit

or both crash.

Where is Home?

Home is where your heart is…

Callum McLaughlin

Upon a mountaintop so high
where crested eagles soar and fly,
we shall build a house of clay
that no amount of wind could sway.
But thunder cracks and rubble falls;
what good’s a house without four walls?

I’ll look upon your eyes in plea –
Where is home?

In oceans vast and stalwart blue
where everything feels fresh and new,
we could dive into the depths so deep
that no one but the great whales sleep.
But void of common scales and fins,
we’re doomed by curse of human skins.

I’ll look upon your eyes in plea –
Where is home?

Fires rage and villains chase;
we tell ourselves we’ll win this race
but still the floods and quakes and rules
chase away these hapless fools,
blinded by cement and brick;
a smoke and mirror worthy trick.

If only I had strength to see –
Home is by my…

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Original Works Friday: The Mountain

I am a mountain.

I cannot assist those who wish to climb me,

The route is treacherous.

I cannot rescue those who fall prey to brambles and roots,

The way is often hidden.

I can only stand proud and true to myself,

A test of time and faith.

I can only be the journey or the destination,

For those who seek it.

I can grant the greatest view to those who have the worth

To discover the peak.

I can offer shade and solitude, comfort, strength, and support,

A veritable plateau of beauty and resolve.

I cannot bow to the will of those who wish me

To succumb to them.

I cannot kneel before the wind, droop before the sleet, snow, or rain,

Or fall completely before pick and axe.

I am the serene award that awaits the steadfast,

And the willingly courageous.

I cannot assist in the climb but the view from the top

Will be worth the trouble.

I can accept many to begin the journey

But few will make it out of the trees.

I can accept several out of the treeline

But few will make it to the snow barrier.

I can accept a couple past the snow,

Silently supporting those who wish to continue.

I cannot belong, however, to more than one for all eternity.

No more than one claim, one flag may be staked.

I am the mountain and only one will be able to say

They were the first to be welcomed into the gentle embrace

Of my colors, my sharp edges, my summit,

And the unique view that is my honor to share.

I am the mountain.