A LIBRARY
A library contained a bunch of books,
each one of which apparently possessed
a way, or many ways, of bringing zest
to worlds encumbered by quite frozen looks.
That library perhaps seemed much like stooks
of wondrous herbage likely to retest
life's main abilities to be no pest
unhappy with the cosmos as it cooks.
The library (quite modernly supplied)
enormously now brimmed with fine machines
as glowing and as gleaming as a bride.
Computer terminals had glints like beans
expansive to the point of seeming snide
toward questions of what "happiness" quite means.

That was a good sonnet Bruce! ~Scott, a librarian

Dear **Scott**: As 'a library man'
you've nodded toward ways I soon ran.
(I ran at the mouth
till northerly south
proclaimed me >> "the latest in bran.")

Bruce,
I am not a librarian, but as I love books, it is one of my favorite places. A well-written poem.
Your friend,
David Fox

When llibraries their vaunted pasts do fade
Becoming (curse that silly thing) "arcade"
When gaming begats gaming, books ignored
When liter AT chur is defeated, floored
When children cannot tell the time or Twain
Apart from aps and digitalis main
Springs springing forth their e'er seductive hue
Just words words WORDS on Facebook or on Who
Needs It? Thus my curmudgeonly pout
And hoping someday maybe wit will out

Dear **David** & **Kevin**: You strongly
have hinted how worlds may act wrongly.
A book is a nook
nigh toasty whose look
I celebrate too (uhh) sing-songly.