EPIC ET CETERA

The mead nearly made.
Et Cetera Bookstore!
To what shall we compare thee?
Art thou a bookish hive,
Rectangular shelves stacked high
With nectar - the distillate of
The pollen of human thought?
The gold dust of the ages
Lies bound in your boards,
Each word but a mere mote
And Each book but a dry spur
To a lifelong thirst, never slacked.

Or art thou more or less?
A Place where friends scramble wits
Over cigarette, coffee and chess,
Safe from marauding bears
And the press of the dollar,
From the wan words of newspapers
And their disconcerting headline hollar!

No matter - yours is but a daily epic.
Though time tells us the days
Still mount into years,
I tell you the Golden Age is now,
This day, this hour, this minue,
That the gathering of honey is at hand,

by Arthur Tuck

A Poem by Billy Sinclair to Yvonne Sinclair

Through more detours than I care to remember,

This woman has walked with me

_her rippling

Touch renewing my tired resolve



When I have taken the last detour

And stand finally on the eternal path,

I will turn to this woman

of hard wood loyalty



AND give her half of my soul

to wrap about her shoulders.