Tag Archives: library

Testament Of Witches

Lawson McGhee Library on a Friday Morning. Mental health day.

A real one. The demons and furies and mad, guilt stricken mobs

all out in the open prairie, beneath the holy bowl, in my mind.

The sun is soft, but growing hot, in the simple, one pane windows,

as I sit, trying to dream a new dream that lets me escape, not fear

the light and heat of the coming summer, all the poisons sweated out.

Hide in the thick and close non-fiction stacks, away from the windows,

and most other people and their nitpicking and accusatory eyes of green.

I look for the testament of witches, the last words of a blasphemous prophet.

And I don’t like the wide open places, too like the prairies without cover,

easy prey for the demons and beasts and the stars that tear your soft flesh.

Deep in the stacks. Deep in the quiet. Deep in words not motivated by lust.

And evening falls, the most cruelly banal part of the day, the deadest inside.

And I must walk in open territory of The Fort, with my demons, and with drunks.

A book I carry my finally reveal the Words of God, in a dark and raging story.

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Libraries Are Solace

The high school library is ours.

The hallways and classrooms

are left to the ghosts of our youth.

We spoon on a couch in the librarian’s

office, with the sleeping bag, comforters,

we brought from our homes, when the end came.

The sky is grey, end of November, cold is here,

and our city burned and the world kept on,

and we took solace among the pages and tales.

Stories we loved, and study halls and lunch periods

spent writing and reading and dreaming, finding joy

and love when the first bright blue of spring came.

The world spins as our world ends, as all fades away.

We make a world in the only place that ever was ours.

We hide among the wisdom none of the others want.

I tell you tales, whispered in your ear at night,

of an aging knight and a quest for the grail,

and the letters he wrote home to his impossible love.

And the library has it’s own ghosts at night,

the starlight through the windows by the ceiling,

and fires a million light years away are silver sweetness.

The classrooms we leave to gather dust, and the hallways

are too full of our regrets when we thought our dreams

might end up coming true.

Just us and the pages and tales and wisdom no looter wants.

Just us and canned stew on a butane stove, and our dreams,

and the escape of each other’s warmth in the cold, cold night.