Best Edgar Poems
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
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
write to me in wanderlust waves
of wakeful worship,
weave me a wish
with moon pearls and promises
as I bloom attached
to your aesthetic accent ~
amidst the soul’s pulse,
still questioning ~ quivering,
in need of a colorful
constellation of consolation
to erase the
fickleness of fading flames…
I know, love searches
for your name, breathing
into the warmth of my want,
like verses coursing through
the veins of irreversible ink,
and if, to feel you closer,
I must compose you a cosmos,
let me seize teardrop crystals
of champagne chandeliers
and light up your dusk
with deafening desire ~
recklessly awaiting the surrender
of your sky to my silhouette…
but what would soothsayers
know of the circumference
of a romance immeasurable,
unstudied and unknown
to fortune whisperers
forsaking fortitude and faith ~
yet preaching dissolution
and dissociation,
as if eagle-feathered ego feasts
on the nest that has no place
for the gossamer greed
of maggots,
manifesting mere moments
calculated through concave curves…
watch me waltz away from
the wickedness of bruised bluebirds
thirsting through cheap thrills,
seeking sunlight
beyond the barks of bravery ~
their tiny toes
perched in absolute desperation…
you are mine ~
O herald of hypnotic horizons,
wearing my poetry
perfumed with painless purity…
with you
the handles of heaven are nearer,
as the pilgrimage of you and I
is a visceral vision
of an unapologetic ambience ~
that no twisted tongue can tweak,
nor moulded monologue
can ever distort ~
the truth of tattooed fealty ~
a love letter left in the
arms of timeless flow…
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
Dare We Bring Poe, Raven From Darken Grave
Renewed Poets Tribute Series
Second poet, Edgar Allen Poe
Hating blade yet they are so quick to cut
in glee at dark spilled blood, yet lack the guts
walking forth with halo's, prayers said in haste
may find dark verse is neither bad, nor waste.
Remove harden anger, pie from black eyes
Life may be wishing but truth never dies
Art's true power, is in poets that are free
as birds in a magnificent bright tree.
When verse sings reality in dark tune
no cloud hides the sweetness of golden moon
when inked words are strong, so bold and so dark
poet shows Life, even if sad and stark!
We live, we boldly write, we do not cave
Dare we bring Poe, Raven from darken grave!
Robert J. Lindley, 7-30-2019
Sonnet, ( A Poet Must Write What Soul Sends, Heart Sings )
(2.)
Annabel, Do You Gaze, From Time's Ancient Skies
Annabel, you inspired words that gifted us all
Such as never before seen, on this earthen ball.
With pain and insight, Master Poe over you wept
Deepest in his broken heart, your love was there kept.
Annabel, you inspired words that gifted us all
With that blessing many have answered its great call.
As Master Poe, we came to see and understand
Life is not all rosy, sweet music from a band.
Annabel, your image now burns in poet's brains
Master Poe's love for you, tempers this world's dark stains.
Yes, our ink now wets new pages, hopes for tomorrows
As we read saddest words of Master Poe's sorrows.
Annabel, for a goddess your were in disguise.
Are you now looking at us, from Time's ancient skies?
Robert J. Lindley, 7-28-2019
Sonnet, (Twelves), (Tribute to Poe's Annabel Lee)
Syllables Per Line: 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables: 168
Note: Second poem added. 11-30-2019, previously I had forgot to add it
when first presenting this tribute to Poe...
******************
1. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Edgar-Allan-Poe
2. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edgar-allan-poe
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?
J. Edgar Hover
Was a political mover.
He ran the F.B.I. with success
Despite the rumors he liked to cross-dress.
His
damn heart!
Still it beats!!!
Edgar A Host
It was a lovely Sunday afternoon
All the Guests has just finished Tea
One in particular though
Why he was staring at me
I asked if all was to his satisfaction
He smiled, with delight,
Not at all being the silent type
He replied, why all is splendid as can be
He expanded by complimenting my flower garden
Very unique, colorful and so full of birds and the bees
He had promenaded with another dark fellow with a windy breeze
He kept is tongue as the other expounded on the fate of life's dream
I smiled all too well knowing the philosophers dance
As well as the irony that we had met by circumstance
We both gazed out upon, whilst the sun did glance
At the beauty of the rose and the fools who think chance
I was the Host
He was the Guest
Poe was the dark soul
Albert the scientist enjoying his role
We laughed in comradery and lighted cigars
Edgar & Edgar, sounds like a law firm ready to spar
Ah but I the host and he the humble guest
Had a cheerful laugh, whilst being Sunday God did rest
Since I'm kin to Edgar Allen Poe
I like for Halloween to cause much woe.
Out in the streets they're dressed up.
And with all their crimes they corrupt.
The more the merrier, I say let them go!
I swing my pendulum everyday.
Those who are wise better get out of my way.
Consider the dead
Even some in their bed.
Needs to get out on this day and play!
In the graveyard the zombies are restless.
In the cave tops the bats wings getting stressless.
They're ready to play
On this Halloween day.
When they finish tonight they'll be guestless!!!!!
Pitter-patter of
feet: raven teeters
on ledge examining me!
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...
Edgar Allen Poe
Shocked the world with darkened prose.
To form in minds the various frights
And keep them waking through the nights.
~Sonnet: Edgar Allen Poe
Today in history, great day you see
Not only we are celebrating MLK day,
But long ago, in a day like today;
Great poet Edgar A.Poe was born too
On a winter day to this world he came,
Both of his parents were actors,died young;
Born in Boston, great writer; poet b'came
Resided in England till few years sprung
Attended university back home 'gain,
For only a year he did it they claim;
Edgar's drinking, gambling, has seized his brain,
Back in Boston his first book, brought him fame.
His fame as great author, poet, spread wide,
In Baltimore,Edgar Allen Poe, died.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2010
October.28.2015
Author Notes:
The "MLK" stands for Dr. Martin Luther King's day.