With yellowed paper, stiffened ancient glue
my paperbacks are falling into pieces;
without a cover for the things I do
the chance of survival that decreases
each day reminds me of the volumes that
I read when I was young and now cannot
reread because they have become decrepit.
Each day I lose some volume as I blot
the copybook that bookends with the debit
the passing years have brought. Although my spine
is not yet broken, how can I feel mellow
when drinking in my papercups old wine
while coverless my years are turning yellow?
3/3/06
Show goes our lifes with the paperbacks. Delightful write. Patricia
Hey, Gersh, I particularly like the way the parallels with the human ageing process intensify towards the end. Enjoyably sorrowful reading. Warmest wishes, Gina.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Shalom! Gershon, this is a wonderful metaphor. It works on multiple levels as literal and metaphoric truth. The ending is perfect. Great poem. Warmly, Hugh