When I began writing poetry again about five years ago, this was the first poem I penned. It’s very simple but totally me. I hope you enjoy it.
In a lovely little book store, in a beautiful little town
there lived a freshly printed book named, Read Me.
She was leather bound with crisp, clean, bright pages
full of depth and secrets to be revealed with a beautiful story to tell.
The little book was filled with joy and promise.
If one listens close enough, you could hear her happy cries of—
Days went by and people would come in and admire her odd but unique cover.
Some would ever pick her up and run their hands along her spine and remark what a lovely little book.
Invariably though they would be distracted by another book that caught their eye
Or be in a rush to be on their way,
as life was hectic and demanding and there was no time to delay.
Still the little book would cry as they walked out the door.
Come back…don’t you want to—
The seasons went by and still the people would pass through
always noting the strange little book. Some would even open the cover
and flip through her pages but no one ever delved too deep. If they had they would have
noted all the words that filled up the pages with humor and despair, with love and disdain; it was
a simple, yet complex tale, a story just waiting to be told.
And every day the book still cried with hope and faith—
Years were gone now and so were the people.
The town had a new book store that offered coffee and the latest best sellers.
By now the little book was frayed around the edges her binding cracked from years of handling,
Her pages faded and yellow.
“Oh, who will read me now” she thought, “I am broken.”
The little book had all but given up hope.
She felt like a prisoner high on the shelf.
Now she only half heartedly whispered—
One cold evening as the little book sat despondent and alone,
she was startled to hear the door of the store open.
By this time though she dared not hope that anyone would read her, still, she could not help but be drawn
to the man standing across the room, where did he come from?
Was he looking at her? As he moved closer, the little book had no expectation that he would pick her up.
Surely he was like the rest and would only pass her by or peruse her cover, remark on her
quirkiness and be on his way.
Suddenly, and to her complete and utter surprise, he pulled her down from the shelf.
Oh no, surely after all this time, could it be someone was finally going to—
Like all the others he ran his hands along her cover.
Here we go again thought the little book, but there was something different about this man.
He touched her with reverence and tenderness.
It felt like he already knew her story, but how could that be?
No one had ever bothered to learn her cover to cover.
Odder still, she felt she knew this man and had known him since her conception.
The man spoke softly and said, “little book, I am your reader and I am here to set you free.
I know a secret, and I want you to share your secrets with me.”
Right then and there the little worn book started to feel new again even though her pages were still frayed and her binding still a mess somehow it did not matter now that he had arrived.
She knew at last this man, her reader, would be the one, finally to—