Long Allan Poems
Long Allan Poems. Below are the most popular long Allan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Allan poems by poem length and keyword.
Poetry Soup Hero's
Poets with golden ink and pens
You make us move forward with your inspiration
With kind an honest, encouragement and compliments
Small act of caring all which has the potential to turn a life around
Peter Duggan
Vera Duggan
Michael Tor
Demetrios Trifiatis
Broken Wings
Andrea Dietrich
Carrie Richards
nette onclaud
JAN ALLISON
boddie, eric
John Wulf
Sandra Haight
Casarah Nance
Emile Pinet
John lawless
Abdul Malik
Julia Ward
Kim Patrice Nunez
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
hunjeri, njeri
Anne Lise Andresen
Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Ian Guyler
Mystic Rose
Tim Ryerson
arthur vaso
Paul Callus
Frederic Parker
Keith Trestrail
Richard Lamoureux
SEREN ROBERTS
Joseph May
Robert Stoner Jr
Silent One
Laura Leiser
Faye Gibson
Viv Wigley
Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Lycia Harding
Bev Smith
Tim Smith
Poet Destroyer A
Janice Canerdy
Robert L. Hinshaw
Teddy Kimathi
Kim Merryman
Thabang Ngoma
Connie Marcum Wong
FJ Thomas
Judy Konos
Sneha RV The literature lover
James Inman
Sara Kendrick
Eileen Manassian
Adam Hunter
Bill Lindsay
george seal
Barbara Campbell
Kelly Deschler
Robert Lindley
Carol Eastman
David Fisher
Barbara Gorelick
The Grahamburglar
Shadow Hamilton
david mohn
Pandita Sanchez
Isaiah Zerbst
Balveen Cheema
peter holmes
SKAT A
len carber
Warner Baxter
Darlene Gifford
CayCay Jennings
Deb Wilson
Alexis Y.
Jerry T Curtis
Aiyah de Torres
James Fraser
Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Debbie Guzzi
craig cornish
harry horsman
Ruben O.
Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Mohamed Adel
Lee Carter
Dan Cwiak
Leonora Galinta
olusegun Arowolo
Edwin Hofert
Roy Jerden
Diane M Quinlan
john beharry
Carolyn Devonshire
Mark J. Halliday
Joyce Johnson
Hannington Mumo
Anulaxmi Nayak
Mary Oliver Rotman
Lei Strauss
michael tor
Mark Trichet
Mark Woods
Ronald Zammit
Laura Breidenthal
Andrew Crisci
Raha, Miraj
Phool, Maharani
Johnson, Megan
Graves, Allan
Ngo, Meline
Ramos, Tiffany
Rosenthal, Allie
Borghei, Niki
Tripp, Criss
Reyes, Thomas
Rajaratnam, Gunadevi
Braxton, Shanda
Barry, Stephen
Prophet, James
Titus, Luwi
Leach, Michele
LeBlanc, Michelle
maximax, nicole
Kwinana, Ndikho
Turse, Patricia
Dazh, Ezell
Luke, Neena
Brown, Verna
Catie Lindsey
Bongani Zungu
Eve T.M.M.
Lin Lane
And so many more!
Team Poetry Soup :)
Not For Contest
The Heavy Price Paid To End The Deepest Of Dark Pains
In my night-dreams, flies jargon of oracles wise and profound
words given that break heavy chains by which I was once bound
just a conversation with my dark-muse and her ancient friends
as she promised, they provided a means to making of my amends
tho', they are not angels, and each one exacts a heavy price
one that costs this soul very dearly and I have to pay thrice!
For when I reenter this dark world and walk among the dead
I am commanded to do a ghastly deed, one I so truly dread
kill, on first day of each week, not true villains as a great release
my victims are to be the innocent or else their help will cease
this long forty year vicious cycle only ends when I shall perish
or dare'st to murder that which my heart most fervently so cherish!
Alas! They knew well such great cost I would never ever dare to pay
what do they say, poet's ink is the blood that keeps devils away
yet all of my devils dance gaily within my red-blood splattered ink
and to this day, I sorry at how low my desires caused me to sink
tho' with glee, they told me this also would make it all go away
if I would murder my own beloved wife and use her blood to pay!
Now to commit that unthinkable act, its time has too soon came
I had played with fire, sought the dark gods, played their game
the oracles I told would get their last pay come full moon tonight
this would bring buckets of blood, to their greatest of delights
each one appeared and gave me more useless advice to seal the deal
having no clue, that this old tired poet, himself would thus kill!
All that gloomy day I worked to make sharp the sacrificial knife
to kill the monstrous monster they had made, not its beloved wife
she I had sent very far away, to visit her beloved family in Spain
to spare her this night's bloody sight, never to see her again
now the full moon has risen, that dark, dreaded midnight hour came
I give you my friends, these sad words bereft of a dark poet's name!
signed,
In honor of my hero, Edgar Allan Poe
1-31-2019
Note, this now finished piece was the other poem(4th) that I had
wanted to present when honoring Poe in my ongoing dedication series.
I only just finished it today, early this morn. I hope you may find
it dark, ghastly, and very Poe'esq in somber mood and its darkness..
© Ben Burton 2-20-2015
If I were Edgar Allan Poe
I'd been dead many years ago
Two score, no more, the poet bore
Before rejoining his Lenore
Reflections now, from sixty-five
I'm wondering how I have survived
For, having shared his mental state
Induced abuse which bordered crazed
In looking back it seems most strange
The lucid fundamental change
Created in a child of eight
Whose kinship must have been innate
With one long dead, a hundred years
Before that smack upon my rear
I learned his poems, all were gems
And thought that rhyme was named for him
Read "Gold Bug" and "The Telltale Heart"
Thence, for some time I feared the dark
And as I read, I knew that I
Had, even then, the skills to write
Though modesty forbade the act
Far less than the assured attack
For none dare read foul poetry
In place of chase or hide and seek
When unassigned, a travesty
I wrote in fits, but just for me
"The Raven" and "The Bells" bequeathed
A rhythm beat of hell in me
Too natural to be mere chance
My mind would rhyme through happenstance
With no attempts to join the breed
Through school or university
I, nonetheless, read works aloud
In hopes their authors had been proud
Won competitions far and wide
Unsatisfied, the words weren't mine
And yet, I kept my pen at bay
Years past my graduation day
Jack Daniels opened up my soul
To take me on poetic strolls
Not unlike Poe who oft consumed
Whilst making sojourns to the tomb
I hungered to make words my own
Through blank verse, limerick, or song
Though mostly as a barroom trick
Which oft'times made the pick-up quick
But then, at length, I followed Poe
Officially gave up the ghost
By then I'd fifteen years surpassed
The forty Poe logged for his last
But providence did intervene
Man-made machine, propitiously
Brought back to life that muscle which
Once stilled, rarely renews its tick
My second life was born to write
To spill it all, let nothing slide
And, on ten years my pen creates
Whatever my odd mind dictates
With second chance, I wish to praise
The first man whom within me raised
A passion known as poetry
Though I am light years from his league
We met in El Dorado's dream
Two kindred souls, Edgar and me
*Note: A 60-year annual tradition that involved a mysterious visitor leaving three
roses at the grave of writer Edgar Allan Poe on the anniversary of his birthday
ended in January 2010. Curators of the Poe House and Museum are at a loss to
explain who left these gifts and why they stopped. On many occasions people kept
vigils near Poe’s grave during this period that began in 1949, but no one ever saw
someone leaving the roses. In the morning, however, they were always on his
grave. Poe is considered the father of the American short story and
his poem The Raven is one of his best known works.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe heard a tapping at his window
While grieving the loss of his young bride, a maiden “angels named Lenore,”
A radiant teen whose long, black hair in gentle breezes would billow,
Tapping at the window ceased, but suddenly it was heard at his door
Upon opening it, a Raven flew in repeating, “Nevermore”
At first he welcomed this odd visitor until Poe whispered, “Lenore”
When he heard his word echo, the strange Raven he began to abhor
He asked if he’d see his bride again and the bird replied, “Nevermore”
Though Poe died in eighteen forty-nine, a mystery evolved much later
A century after his death, his grave had an annual visitor
Roses were left on his birthday by someone whose love appeared greater
Who had left these floral gifts forever stumped the Poe House curator
Perhaps the answer can only be explained by reincarnation
Did the Raven embody the spirit of Poe’s beloved Lenore
If so, perhaps the Raven returned again in a life rotation
In human form she visited to lay roses on the earthen floor
And upon her death in two-thousand nine, she took to the skies once more
A Raven who now joins the flock circling above her late husband’s grave \/
Could it be her spirit remains with Poe, as it did in life before \/ \/ \/
Bringing him in the afterlife all the roses a poet could crave \/ \/ \/ \/
For those who consider this possibility totally absurd
Just consider the fantasies Poe created with the written word
By Carolyn Devonshire
Contest Title: “Among the Dead,” sponsored by Constance LaFrance ~ A Rambling
Poet ~
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
When people comment
on the style or way
I write and the words
I use to express and convey
my thoughts and views.
I tend to stop and ponder
my road less traveled .
Acknowledging, appreciating ,
admiring the authors, teachers
scribes of many nations
and the outer regions of the universe ,
who have inspired , guided encouraging ,
me to develop and advance
my writing skills along the way.
People like Manly P. Hall
Socrates, Plato, Thales of Miletus ,
Thomas Aquinas , The Apostles ,
Sigman Freud , Carl Jung , Galileo Galilei,
Benjamin Franklin , Thomas Edison , Nikola Tesla ,
William Shakespeare , Homer , Aesop
and other well known Philosophers and
critical thinkers in the world's history.
Authors like Dr. Edgar Cayce
Dr. George Brown ,
Literary genius and artist such as James Joyce ,
Walt Whitman and of course some of my favorite
Authors George Orwell , Robert Frost , with their
extensive and vibrant vocabularies
and their ability to bring words to life.
The most impressive author
with the ability to put you in the room
And stimulate our sensations such
as aroma and taste and sound to make you feel
as if you are sitting in the cat birds seat.
An author with incredible and fascinating
writing technique , a man with a colorful and sparkling array of words , and superlative writing flair and talent
that tickles the imagination.
Capable of painting a scene with words ,
bringing it to life ,
like no other author has ever done before or since.
A story teller who can magically ,
create a vision so vivid so profound ,
one just might forget and step away
from reality for a brief moment in time.
An individual who can descriptively describe
the Animation of his imagination
like no man or woman in the history of recorded time.
Creator and contributor
of some of the finest sculptures
in the world of literary works of art.
Born into reality in the year 1809 , on the 19th day of January.
He would go on to reside
in the harts , souls and minds ,
intricately woven into universal fabric of time
October 7 Nineteen Hundred Forty Nine.
The individual who put the authenticity of Poe
Into Poetry
Ladies and Gentlemen.
Edgar Allan Poe.
Michael E.Harris
10072024
would what that be junior? senior? sophomore?
since this brother in law rarely emails,
ye may scrunch countenance puzzled,
or on verge of emitting flatulence,
that if a ripper got let loose (by Jack),
would possibly find ja propelled,
thru Edgar Allan Poe's churchly
sepulchral tintinnabulation
(where for greater effect
yukon envision imagistic ravenous bats
in belfry resonating air,
or perhaps blasted back
to the House of the rising sun),
BUT...gnome hatter,
no win tent may starkly appear
explaining inexplicable reasonable rhyme,
why aye dash communique
minus virtual trumpeting blare
(sorry, but in the interest
of belated birthday cheer,
without computer generated imagery)
rendered hoop fully readable,
sans black and white Scottish matted pixels
constituting beloved appellation
unsure how to address ye perfectly clear
while sitting atop padded office chair,
pondering as already writ,
how to acknowledge thee, whither with dear...
meanwhile, this scribe experiences
comfortably numb derriere,
now scrambling, resorting, and toying
to fetch acceptable, catchy light hearted endear
mint, that seems tolerably acceptable
(of course) with flair
acutely perceptive, though NOT overboard with glare
ring obeisance, NOR USE ALL CAPS
TO SCREAM so ye kin hear
soap hull ease excuse this incurable
Harris scribe with thinning heir
yes...oye gevalt, infantile regression finds me
burrowed in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania lair
still emotionally inchoate, though grown a mere
speck within the flotsam and jetsam near
to boyhood Collegeville abode NOT saved by a prayer
re: home companion bachelor Norwegian farmer
replaced instead by vinyl city
all in the name of progress
which (once a pawn a time)
open farmland did dis app pear
so...a gam bulling gambit
to avoid moseying down Level Road...
may NOT seem *****
for insufferable sadness
with eyes bursting with many a tear...
(gulp) tis best to veer
away from topic uh viz er rated razed homestead,
and mainly wish ye another birth year!
adieu...from math tha hue
after The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
The mist fell over the lake like a grey blanket.
Only the sound similar to a ranket.
The water still and lifeless, not a ripple to be seen.
The air not foetid but fresh and clean.
And I felt a chill from the loss forever of my Bill.
Sitting in the snow, my mind void of thought.
Blocking the clarity, I so desperately sought.
Enraptured by a numbness circling my soul.
Seeking solace most peaceful and whole.
And I felt a chill from the loss forever of my Bill.
Reminiscing a past, now no tenderness in store.
The bitter sweet raptures that lovers implore.
The ghostly spirits that whisper nevermore.
Subject to solitude, they call me Lenore.
And I felt a chill from the loss forever of my Bill.
Enjoying the loneness, no wish for chatting.
Glancing I saw a large wolf come pitter patting.
I felt a hot breath behind my head.
Its eyes piercing, though I did not dread.
I felt a chill. Said the wolf "forever with your Bill"
Without thinking I asked the creature.
It stared at me with a chiseled facial feature.
Why are you here, what purpose do you fulfil?
Again, I asked, are you here to remind me of Bill?
I felt a chill. Said the wolf "forever with your Bill"
My dear Bill’s emblem was a wolf, a large tattoo.
Not a man saved, all drowned captain and his crew.
Dear Bill working on that ill-fated ship lost at sea.
We had plans, Bill and I, he was going to marry me.
I felt a chill. Said the wolf "forever with your Bill"
I could not fathom why the wolf was here.
I spoke harshly to the beast without any fear.
Wolf what are you doing encroaching my space?
The wolf answered, gave me a blank face.
I felt a chill. Said the wolf "forever with your Bill"
Where do you emerge from canine ghost?
Are you evil, should I dread you most?
Who sent you to unsettle me and joust my mind?
You speak of my dear Bill, do you mean unkind?
I felt a chill. Said the wolf "forever with your Bill"
Again, I demanded an answer from the beast.
Surely that was what I could expect at the least.
The wolf did not answer, it just walked away.
That is the last I have seen of it, to this very day.
And I felt a chill from the loss of my Bill.
An Invitation To Poe's Dark Prison
When you walk in those nether worlds
no more bikini's, no more girls.
Just darkness eating away at light
every long corridor too damn tight.
Back there, will your heart hurt
cut the bone, bleed and spurt?
Rake your corpse, waiting its rot
endless sleep give it a dark shot.
You know, mortal life is a dream
curse you wear in another stream.
Light holds you in its sad sway
follow us into a dark realm's way.
Here evil rules without a fight
ripping claws gouge out your sight.
No pain, as death rests within you
armored vicious body, all brand new.
Hidden wings sprout to let you fly
into a dark and transforming sky.
Toast if you come, may you dare
nobody leaves, all is a nightmare.
This shadow realm, holds its dark
no fire exists, not even a spark.
Fantasy swims, in its morbid way
Soul is dead yet it yearns to play.
Black deepness inhales each soul
bringing new flesh is our goal.
Dare if you must, eternity with us
eating victims we rarely discuss.
Know before you leap into our pit
we are the darkness in every fit.
We exist and blood we cry for more
deny your prayer, open our door.
Our raging master we know as Poe
blasted here, how he doesn't know.
Once blood and flesh he was graven
heart and soul ate with the Raven.
Every night he moans Annabel Lee
and each door tries his black key.
None open and he cries in sad rage
why, O' why hold me in this cage?
Then to our blood thirsty delight
Poe bellows, we eat flesh tonight.
Then he mounts a red, fiery throne
sits there gnawing on an arm bone.
Now we wait your first hungry urge
the ache for flesh starts to surge.
Weeping will never stop its spasms
flesh waits in these hellish chasms.
Poe now wakes his Raven to guide
you have not a safe place to hide.
We feel joy as your heart goes black
soon your beast will be on track.
Tonight you'll be his Annabel Lee
your soul he holds never to free.
Soon you will forget that sad place
his touch makes hideous your face.
A door opens, we hear your flight
your arrival, his greatest delight.
Yet again he will dine with you
rotten flesh you'll both then chew!
A HALLOWEEN POEM TRIBUTE
TO THE GREAT EDGAR ALLAN POE.
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
Continued.....