Best Allan Poems
I was inspired once a long time ago
By something that I read
I never knew such amazing things
Could fill the inside of my head
I always thought that poetry
Was about love or romance,
I never knew it could be dark
Suddenly I was entranced.
A whole new world had opened up
And I could write about it all;
Anything that crossed my mind,
Anything I could recall.
And it was all because of a poem
I read one day at school;
The poem was entitled “The Raven”
And it was just so incredibly cruel,
I fell in love with the poem
And craved others that were the same;
But there was only one author that captured me
Edgar Allan Poe was his name.
Every poem or story that he wrote
Was like a beacon showing the way;
I never knew I could write about death
Without worrying what others would say
And so I took leaf out of his book,
And wrote about what I feel;
I was always afraid to express myself
But now it holds only appeal
Accosted many years ago
By the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe
I'm now obliged to come forthright
About that dark eye-opening night.
It's only fair to let you know
I've held a torch for Mr. Poe
It's all because of the ink of his pen
That my love for poetry did begin.
(His sad, sad tale arrested me;
the saddest tale I've ever known.
Small wonder then when he chose me,
an easy prey, home all alone)
Toiling to write like him for years
Happy was I when his ghost appeared.
A tragic figure past, present and now
He entered my room with a humble bow.
And fixed me with a haunting stare
And whispered softly 'life's not fair.'
I nodded my head just to agree
When a strange sensation took hold of me.
Possession felt more than 9/10's of the law
I felt frozen and badly in need of a thaw.
My body, not mine now was his to command;
Just a shell, a mere puppet, at the will of this man.
His voice so melodic, belied malice or vice.
He drew near to the fireplace, the warm hearth felt nice.
There was music, a waltz, seemed familiar {mere chance?)
Embracing the moment we started to dance.
His thoughts were with mine now
And mine were with his
And I swear by my bank book
As long as I live
The unbearable pain of his loss gripped my heart
And the moment I fainted we were ripped apart.
He was anguished at how he had handled his grief,
How his life was cut short by his own inner thief.
He'd wanted to write more
His mind was an ark
Just those few moments with him
Woke the poet in my heart.
And so it happened in just one night
He taught me verse; he taught me rhyme
And stretched my mind to higher heights
That's quite developed over time.
He's never visited my bedroom since
Or with my body had his way.
He left me with this gift or sixth sense
Of a fire for poetry that burns in my veins.
Unfinished business is quite finished now.
Passing on I imparted to him 'quid pro quo.'
'Rest in peace, the whole world
Knows your name Mr. Poe.'
-Reta Pruitt
July 22.2018
Warning - Don't read The Raven and Watch Hitchcock on the same night.
Once before my bedtime, nearing, which I dreaded, fazed and fearing,
Stories mother would read me before she closed and locked my bedroom door —
While I washed up in the water, could mom have drawn it any hotter?
Before me swam a rubber duckling, chuckling as my mother shut the door
“‘Tis some water fowl”, I muttered, “which mother bought me from the store.
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I can place it - the sad night Mother would misplace it;
Or entirely erase it; of her mind remaining nothing more.
I lay in bed, mother tucking, on feathers of mother’s plucking
Time for your book, said mother clucking, clucking as she locked the bedroom door —
I’ll read “Make Way for Ducklings” and then warm milk she began to pour -
all across the bedroom floor.
Assuredly, I felt no sorrow, as mother left me till the morrow
Sighing - buying time – which maybe I could only hope to borrow;
I heard my monstrous mother screaming, or maybe Tippi Hedren streaming
as Hitchcock’s “Birds” was beaming from the TV laying on the floor—
“’Tis just Hitchcock’s “Birds” beaming from the TV laying on the floor” -
This it is and nothing more.”
Inside that book peered at me smiling, a crazed duck that set me dialing
911 and protective services to frantically implore
The feeling in my stomach sinking, “I need a friend”, I was thinking
Staring wildly at this ghastly mallard who chilled me to the core
Then, at once, I saw it, heard it, this grinning duck needn’t chill me to the core
as he said, “I will be your friend forevermore”.
Edgar Allan Poe
Is he friend or is he foe
He wrote a great poem called The Raven
A sly bird known for misbehavin'
Entrant into Andrea Dietrich's "Seeking a Fresh Crop of Clerihews" contest
9/23/2012
Dear Edgar,
I could not endure the tragedies of your short life,
suffering through the death of your young wife.
Orphaned at the tender age of three years,
is it any wonder that you cried unending tears.
You were only forty when death came to your door,
such a talented hand was now stilled, forevermore.
It is because of you that I write these days,
you have been an inspiration in so many ways.
I remember the day when I first discovered Poe,
such deep words of torment, sadness, and woe.
Which is exactly how I was feeling at that time,
to me, your poems of darkness are truly sublime.
You wrote of haunted pasts and a premature fate,
with such agony and loneliness, I can truly relate.
You also wrote of many a romantic endeavor,
and your humorous stories were really quite clever.
Time has condemned you with a "gothic" label,
but, much like my writings, it is all just a fable.
No one made you apologize for writing "The Raven",
so, why should I hide like some cowardly craven?
Your rhymes and your poetry continue to inspire,
how did you ever master it, might I inquire?
His
damn heart!
Still it beats!!!
Note to self: Never again read 'The Monk'
by Mathew Gregory Lewis
before drinking myself into a diabetic coma...
...All night long
The Wandering Jew requested directions to salvation;
That is to say,
Whenever I wasn't being pursued by the Bleeding Nun
- She seemed like a good enough sort
For being just another figment of my horrific imagination;
It would appear she only wanted a sanitary napkin:
"Leave me alone" I kept telling her,
"I rarely have a spare Tampon!"
...Even in my dreams I can't seem to relate to women...
...At least I'll always be immune to Matilda's seduction...
...Because I'm only a "borderline heterosexual"
- I'm really more of a "feline enthusiast"
- Kinda like William S. Burroughs, I guess?
...This was quite possibly the worst nightmare I've had
Ever since dreaming about
Ambrose Bierce's 'The Damned Thing'
- I wish I never had to sleep again...
...I'm terrified to dream of 'The King in Yellow'
by Robert W. Chambers!
I have been condemned to a fate worse than Poe!
And H.P. Lovecraft is sooo-oh-oh-oh,
Ridiculously jealous of me too!
So don't start to panic - It isn't just you...
It's no accident that
I found you today
God has intentions
And very mysterious ways
We all have different beliefs
Parents gods and disapointments
Different ways for our anointment
But if I were you and you were me
What would my anointment be?
Yesterday I made peace with God
I thought I was dying
And this is no fraud
Dizzy and confused
I convinced myself
That I had taken poison
And killed myself
But today I feel better
And soon I'll let my mother know
That instead of dying
I have further to go
But to me I passed that test
I called the Name that I knew best
He that calls apon the Name of the Lord
Shall be saved.
(Joel 2:32)
How is the dew that came
Before rain and sun's flame
Gone so fast
Is it because its wet
Was only enough for shrubs
And shrubs are easy to forget
Or is that no glory last
Where the sun scrubs
White the sinews of trees?
You who once policed the law
Did also make the law
In City chambers where
Streets alone
Carry the exotic flower
Of your name
When they ask me,
What shall I answer for your shadowed fame
Between the cousins who broke your heart?
What was the legacy to the nation
Now that the Jamaican Workers
Trade Union was only root
For the almighty scion
That became the tree?
Busta gave you no rain
Manley pruned you excessively
And there was no seed after that
Except the truth
That the new Jamaica was your vision first.
I saw you once
Singing Sankey before the village shop
Canvassing the primitives
I saw a stone hit your lantern
And many more stones drop
Like bombs around us exploding your dream
The night was silent after that
Father Coombs
Had neither face nor trace again
How can a great man fall like that
The political ladder is a slippery slope
And those who climb
Must more than hope
To lead dissidents of the slime pit
Along with virtue must have grit
Buttered on the bread of wit.
And soon its May again
But now the time of workers memory is past
Until the rains fall again
Against the drought shall the dew hold fast
Will Father Coombs in white again
Raise his hands and turn and smile
To hear the fickle people call
The fickle father's name?
And shall I not tell them
Cobwebs are also significant
In the mystery of the world?
(a lighter-hearted parody of the masterpiece poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a noonday sunny, while I smiled at something funny
In the park where children play and suitors woo,
’Midst the sound of subtle flapping, suddenly I got a crapping;
On my cheek I felt it slapping, warm and wet and slimy, too,
And my uncontrolled reaction to the foul, repugnant goo
Was a squeamish “Eww-ew-ewww!”
Soon my shock assumed a passion of a duly fiercer fashion,
For the bough above disclosed a damning clue:
There a shapely dove was lurking, all her guilt and duty shirking,
Unconcerned and coyly smirking, just to see what I would do.
“Fiend!” I cried, “You’ll feel my vengeance!” but this only made her coo,
Sighing softly, “Toodle-oo.”
Whereupon, with madness growing, I picked up a stone for throwing,
As but slightly farther off she lightly flew,
But my aim was rash confusion and it met with no conclusion,
So in spite of my delusion there was nothing I could do.
Now my heart will not get over how she crooned her calm adieu:
“Toodle-ooo-oo, toodle-oo.”
Whilst Jon-Allan was out Iraq to warfare ban,
In 2007 he sustained an injury, rocket attack,
So that doctors had to amputate his left arm,
But after rehab he continued the sport’s crack.
He’d been a weapons technician in the RAF,
At Basra airbase, and before that Afghanistan,
But he was now on a programme so to quaff,
Any idea that he wasn’t good at cycling’s pun.
He took the limelight at the London games,
When he won three silvers for para-cycling:
One for the C5 Individual Pursuit, sole aims,
One for the mixed team sprint very cunning,
And another silver for the C4-5 1km Time Trial!
Then 2016, and he won gold for the mixed team,
And also a silver medal for the C5 kilo Time Trial
In Montichiari, and so made the Rio GB Team.
Maverick Free Verse Contest
Edgar allan poe
The master of all horror
He makes you think
He makes you gasp
He makes you worry
He's the master of all
Poetry
The wizard of all
Short stories
That send chills down your spine
After reading you look
Over your shoulder
Always watching
For goblins and ghouls
Threatening to haunt
He can makes his readers
Beileve in the impossible
And imagine the extraordinary
Go to the edges of the mind
And get to your very core
His readers are rained on
With thought-provoking problems
Horrific images of murders
Broken hearts searching for
The ones they lost
He was troubled
But a genius
Weird
But incrediably talented
His writing unriveled
No one could compete
No one wanted to
No one would dare to challenge him
For they knew he would win
There was no point
All to soon he died
Shrouded in mystery
Envoloped by darkness
Never seen again
Completely gone crazy
Perhaps he is living out
His stories....
Walking among who he created
Looking for his lost loves
And a way to start a new life
Among his creations!
R.I.P. Edgar Allan Poe. You certainly were an amazing addition to american authors.
One of America’s most famous writers
Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
Both his parents were failing actors
And his father was drunk most the time.
In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared
His mother died soon after.
A childless couple took him in
Raising him with love and laughter.
Edgar had a ***** nurse
Who brought him to her quarters.
There he listened to ghost stories
Far beyond earthly borders.
The strange tales he later wrote
May have come from her inspiration.
The words she used to describe death
Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
The Allans moved to England
Where Poe attended boarding schools.
There’s no doubt his time spent there
Sharpened his skills as tools.
Returning to Richman and back in school
He began to compose new verse.
Heavy debts forced him to leave college
As his life took a turn for the worse.
Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
Where he was unable to find employment.
A young printer agreed to publish his poems
Giving him hope and enjoyment.
Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
And was accepted to West Point in 29.
Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer
Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
Afterward he became an editor and critic
And married his cousin who was thirteen.
Six years latter he discovered she was dying
Suffering once more the unforeseen.
He went through periods of insanity
Caused by grieving and functional fall.
He smoked opium and drank too much
Till at his doorsteep death would call.
Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
Still lives in our hearts today
Famous for The Raven and other great works
May his soul rest in peace we pray.
By Tom Zart
The late Allan Sherman conveyed a Christmas wish,
even though by birth, the man was Jewish.
Before the Christmas season of 1963,
he released another nice little ditty.
I had to consider this one “cute” if not “pretty”.
This late creative genius never ceased to amaze.
He was aware the holiday season lasts for twelve days.
Allan recorded a “Twelve Days of Christmas” parody.
This helped to boost his burgeoning popularity.
Even though Mr. Sherman is now gone,
his recordings will be carried on and on.
Robert Pettit
‘Edgar Allan Poe … ’ (Classical-Tribute) 64th Senryu
Edgar Allan Poe ...
Master of Scary Suspense
Tortured Ambience
The Raven … The Pit and The Pendulum
House of Usher … Annabel Lee , etc.
(“She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night”)
one of my favorite poetry-lines