Guiding Lines

A notebook’s ruled with guiding lines

Some certain distance spread apart

Where words conform themselves to fit

Their shapes within this arbitrary chart,

But like a planted row of pines

Which cannot match a forest’s whit,

A life confined by guiding lines

Will never learn the best this world has writ.

 

Continuing the book theme in this series of eight-line poems, this week's offering focuses on notebooks with lined paper. If we strictly follow those lines, it confines what we write to a certain size and shape. This poem relates that idea to our lives - at least on occasion, it may be valuable to try to look beyond society's typical expectations (its "guiding lines"), to experiment with new shapes, forms, and ideas.

Paperbacks

A little more disposable

These books are built to be.

Their covers fade and the pages curl,

But their words still speak to me.

Their every leaf is mutable

To fall with time’s decay,

But in my heart, they place a pearl

Whose power there will stay.

 

This is the fifth in a series of eight-line poems, and it's a direct follow-up to the previous poem in the series, which was about how stories can sweep us up and transport us to new places. This new poem contrasts the fact that physical books - and perhaps especially paperbacks - can fade and fray, while the themes and stories they convey can stay with us forever.

Swept Up in Stories

What magic spells are written

In the words I see on the page

To transport me across land and sea

Where the winds fantastic rage,

Where all my steps are smitten

With a surge of freedom to stray

From standard scenes? What a grand new dream

Greets my waking eyes each day.

 

Here's the fourth in a series of eight-line poems. In this case, I don't think a whole lot of explanation is necessary - this poem focuses on the wonderful ability of stories to sweep us up and transport us to new places, times, and perspectives.

Until the Sky Held No More Stars

One by one, bright stars extinguished,

Each darkened with a peal of thunder.

I plugged my ears until it finished.

The storm had passed and rent asunder

Our fabric, filled with fragile scars,

And every time, I hid away,

Until the sky held no more stars,

Just clouds of deathly gray.

 

Here is the third in a series of eight-line poems. I wrote this one after thinking about the elementary school shooting that occurred a few weeks ago. When these types of things happen in the US, the pattern seems to be that society takes some time to collectively feel outrage and heartbreak, and then the old divisions almost immediately set in and nothing changes. At least, that's how it looks to me, watching things from another country. I can't say I know the exact details of what needs to change, but that need certainly seems to exist. Otherwise, the path we're on will likely lead to more of the same.