Nancy's Musings

Okay, I finished the poem for the little ones, only it turns out to be more about  little ones than for  them - a little preposition trouble there. I blame my collegiate vocabulary. Now don't be criticizin' me for mah funny accent, but do feel free to give me some constructive criticism, as this IS a rough draft. A Little Light Reading   Sally shuffles toward the desk Her arms severely laden “Hey mom,” she shouts above the tomes, “I thought we’s goin’ wadin’!”   I swam through books , young Sally thought. No wading expedition Can prep a girl for college soon Or teachers’ inquisition.   Besides, she sighed , I like this pool . Outside is so darn roastin’. I’d rather lay inside all day Than hear my skin a-toastin’.   “You comin’ mom?” she calls again. Six Librarians all hush her. But mom has been a-swimmin’ too. No sense to go and rush her.   Sally tips her load of books Upon the desk above her “My momma’s got the lib’ry card,” s...

The Summer Reading Program at our library has gotten underway, and to start things off (and because I occasionally become terribly bored sitting in my Reference Desk tower in the late afternoons) I composed the following poem for the Young Adult librarian, Christa: Express Back (the theme is Express Yourself at the Library) (an odd theme, considering the decibel restrictions)   I, Standing atop the stairs, glance around A tidal wave of expression crouches Threateningly in alphabetical order.   Chapters, like muscles, tense Emotions whirl, fade, Recede too far for comfort.   Information preys upon the unwary, And the careless find themselves Swallowed whole by unintentional education.   I laugh. The library tiger, the tsunami Does not frighten me. I am the bookworm Who shall patiently digest its insides. Now isn't that sweet. I was going to write something for Grace, the childrens' librarian, but I was nervous that the image of flesh-eating maggot...

The black at the windows, the silent ravens tapping and the fluttering of invisible wings, like oily fingers scrabbling for warmth. The hours wait, restless, ahead in the shadows of a winter evening. Shuffling, shifting, the week's decline echoing hollowly. A lonely Friday paces along the grout-line of the kitchen tiles, hungry.