Cooking The Books Poem by William Waterway

Miss my old friends stored away
made bookshelves all day
stacks of boxes emptied one-by-one.
like presents opened with wide-eyed fun
There you are my old Hesse collection
hi Sidhartha, my spiritual connection
So many books on water
expressed in so many ways
To think I've read them all -
jotting notes along the way
soon, they take their molecular place,
flowing from one shelf to another
Paper manifestations wrought from nature–
trees; desert; marsh; fish; germs; fossils; evolution;
devolution; stars; quasars; volcanoes; and tornadoes

Books on healing with hands; color; scent; sounds; sex;
dolphins; herbs; food; mystical places; breathing;
How To Read Palms, and, How To Read Faces

There are tales; novels; various histories; home repair;
The Works of Tolstoi; books on how and when to; philosophy;
art; religion; screen writing; horses from hoof to head;
Mark Twain; Thoreau; journals of Lewis and Clark;
investing; travel; lighthouses, and outhouses

Dare I mention Chinese proverbs; Milton's prose and poems;
Joyce; Byron; Keats; Shelley; Stevenson; Shakespeare; Homer;
Kipling; Pope; Rumi; Spenser; Whitman; and Ginsburg - whose
father, Lou, I knew.

Or, the last poems of my dear old friend, Harvey Albert,
'17 mississippi haiku.' Handset in Caslon Oldstyle types,
treadle printed on Classic Laid Text & handsewn in
Howard wrappers with Strathmore endsheets.
Harvey was so far out that one fateful day
he took the short way out
found dead with bullet through head

While stored away in darkness, some of my treasured books
were invaded by unseen forces of moisture, and, on their own,
began to return to nature
I was surprised to see how quickly
some grew their own ecosystem of green mildew
I asked a booky friend, 'What should I do? ' The reply,
'Microwave them for a minute or two.'

So, into the microwave they went
One by one or two by two -
depending on size and space
The last book to cook was black as sin;
a first edition of 'The Steep Ascent.'
The title brought me to laughter
while standing on a short ladder
almost falling as I slipped the black book
into its waiting bookshelf nook
Still warm in hand from the oven, I pushed until,
with a soft thud against the wall it did land

Now, when I enter my writer's cabin, I am greeted by old friends once again
And, when I close the door and walk amongst the cedars
to my home - I feel they are grateful for a place of their own

Books planted by hearts and minds in soul-filled seeds
who continue to share their thoughts; times and deeds
Writers who made the effort to put words to paper
so one day, someone like you or me
will create a new recipe