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*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 ~
He was out of Woodie Wonder by the stallion Sunset Hue,
A freak thought breeding purists, who would surely end up glue.
For greys were so unfashionable he'd never get a start,
But this colt was a fighter with a truly valiant heart.
His origins were New South Wales, but sold up Queensland way,
'Twas Pippos, Coorey, Bishop and McMicking bought the grey.
A Goondiwindi syndicate, who gave the colt his name;
Gunsynd ... the punter's darling ... who raced his way to fame.
He'd never be a Peter Pan, a Carbine or Phar Lap,
No Tullock or a Galilee, but still a gallant chap.
Bill Whelow was his trainer and John Edmonds rode The Grey,
Till finally at Eagle Farm this colt was on his way.
It was the Hopeful Stakes that day in nineteen sixty-nine,
Young Gunsynd flashed from thirteenth place to cross the winner's line.
His trademark was his courage, his will to want to win
And how he made the crowds all stand to cheer the grey horse in.
They loved The Grey's performances; a showman through and through
And though he never always won they saw him as true blue.
Before and after races, he would play the press and crowd
By standing to attention while they clapped and cheered aloud.
With twelve wins to his credit Tommy Smith was now the chap,
Who trained Gunsynd while Langby won the Epsom Handicap.
He was the punter's darling, for he never squibbed a race,
That's why the folk all loved him, for he never did lose face.
The white and purple colours were well known at ev'ry track,
Australia's best known jockeys sat astride old Gunsynd's back.
The likes of Olsen, Higgins and young Langby rode The Grey
And flashed to blist'ring finishes, he raced no other way.
In over fifty starts Gunsynd had twenty-nine great wins;
Some eight point five times second placed, but took it on the chin.
Six thirds and unplaced in ten starts throughout those grand five years,
His name was up there with the best who'd raced to great careers.
Though sold to stud in New South Wales, Kia Ora down near Scone,
Queenslanders all adopted him and saw him as their own.
He'd put old Gundy on the map and right down to this day
Gunsynd is still remembered as The Goondiwindi Grey.
Africa Kills Her Sun in Ken Saro-Wiwa short story
So far the greatest short story i've ever read
Where the blackest pen lives
With the blackest ink with the darkest hue
Yet the blackest truth out there even to this day
Of the oppression, dictatorship, killings, fear, corruption and discrimination
A call for freedom
Africa still living in the shadows of colonialism
But Africa took an initiative, a positive compass
Mary Muthoni Nyanjiru, an unsung hero
Shot dead during the colonial era for her fight against colonialism
Wangari Maathai, the first African woman to win the Nobel peace prize
She planted one tree at a time, a voice for the environment, a fighter for women rights
Charity Kaluki Ngilu has played many roles in politics
One of the first kenyan female presidential candidates
I still remember the 1997 elections
Pamela Jelimo and Catherine Ndereba
Through their marathons, they have paved many seas
I remember those cross country days back in primary school, it was tough
I applaud you girls
Grace Ogot, East African best known woman author
The mother of Kenyan literature
Her words had power, and her actions showed it
Captain Irene Koki Mutungi, the first African female dreamliner captain
Flying higher and higher, more girls dreaming higher and higher
Kakenya Ntaiya, among the top 10 CNN heroes of 2013
I've listened to your Ted Talk of "a girl who demanded education"
About how at the age 12 you made a deal with your dad to undergo female circumcision if he would let you go to highschool
And that happened, you even went to college
And then came back and founded a school for young girls
Lupita Nyong'o, it was hard to watch "12 Years a Slave"
Because truth brings out a lot of anger, but at the same time it has to be told
The first Kenyan actress to win an Academy Award.
It nice to see you in magazines but it feels even more nice to know that there is a girl out there in some village
Who now believes it's possible because of you
Africa saved her daughter, and by doing so
It saved all
Sources > coming soon:-)
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
The metropolitan area consists of everything like theaters, museums, restaurants, and a lot of hotels and skyscrapers. But most of all, the cities are filled with public transportation(city buses, subways, trains, taxi cabs, and airports, e.g.) and a lot of luxurious vehicles. Whether anyone is in either New York City, Los Angeles, Dallas, Tokyo, Toronto, London, or wherever, the city is everybody’s lives. It seems that all metropolitan areas are considered awesome vacation spots, even for tourists. The metropolitan areas from the United States of America and the world each have a lot of famous landmarks, especially those of the Gateway Arch, the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge, Big Ben, etc. All downtown areas are best known for attracting would-be city folks to go to, and that’s a real fact. Well, frankly, all cities from the United States of America and beyond are harder to get away from, even in the Los Angeles area of Hollywood,California. And imagine my surprise when I found out that Downtown Ft. Worth, Texas, has a movie theater and a Barnes & Noble book store. Being from the metropolitan area has its awesome advantages, especially when he or she has been influenced by the hip-hop culture and the urban culture. Well, I guess this is just the essence of urban living. The cities also have cooler downtown apartments in the downtown areas, especially in Dallas and in Ft. Worth. Boy, if I were to visit either Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Venice, Italy, London, England, Charlotte, North Carolina, or wherever, I’d stay there for a week or tow; I’d bring back some souvenirs. I wonder if the cities will still be there and there’s going to be more awesome cities in the future, Well, I guess I’ll never know. We’re all very cool for a bunch of city folks. And when he or she is in the city, it's like driving on the city streets, especially when he or she is driving either a Nissan Armada, a Cadillac Escalade EXT, or one of those BMW vehicles. I’m looking forward to residing in one of the metropolitan areas either out of state or another country, if that were to happen, that would be great.
an angel stands under a lonely pine
showing the way to the lost souls
the ones
who innocently answered the king’s call
and now
flags fly half mast
for those that no-more stand
buried in some far off
foreign land
the pipes call out to the brave
and the angel tells us
never to forget
and
that her spirit lives in so many souls
the black
the young
and inside
the bold
we must never forget our fathers of old
and of their stories they made
and then told
stories of mateship
amongst the bold
mateship that was
never lost
never sold
so now we all step as one
together side by side
together the strong
the young
and
the old
metal gleaming
worn with
so much
pride
while skywards heads
are held
held up high
hope sparkle inside youthful eyes
that today’s leaders will never ask them
to also
make this ultimate
sacrifice
or that history books never
show them as a generation
that was bought
and sold
so we sing the lament of grace
telling us of the will of the brave
of honor
courage
and the ultimate sacrifice
catch phrases
and words used
on this cloudy
Autumn day
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**The above is written about a march on ANZAC day, ANZAC day is a day of reflection to those that gave the ultimate sacrifice in war. It`s a day that is best known to Australian`s and New Zealander`s.
INDIANA’S BEST KNOWN IMAGE JUST A WORD
AND YET SO POWERFUL, YES, JUST A WORD
SHORT AND TO THE POINT, BUT TO SOME IT IS A
WARM AND HEALING WORD, IT BRINGS HOPE AND
PEACE AND LIGHT UNTO OUR WORLD, IT CAN BE
SEEN THE WORLD OVER, IT NEVER SEEMS TO BE
LOST, IT KNOWS THAT IT’S JUST A WORD YET
THER IS NO DENYING THAT IT IS VITAL TO
EVERY LIFE ON EARTH, I AM CERTAIN IT WILL
PROVE TO BE MORE OF A NECCESITY THAN
EVEN THE VERY AIR THAT WE
BREATHE, WITHOUT THIS
WORD WE CAN’T REALLY BE
ALIVE
I AM CERTAIN OF THAT, JUST A WORD, BUT I
KNOW THAT IT IS A VITAL PART OF HUMANITY,
THERE WOULD BE NOTHING OF THE JOY WE
KNOW TODAY AND ONLY HURT UPON A COLD
EARTH, I CAN BUT IMAGINE THE EVIL IN
A WORLD, A HELL, WHERE THIS WORD DID NOT
EXIST, I CRY FOR THOSE WHO DO LIVE IN THIS
WORLD, I AM SURE THAT MANY DO JUST THAT, AND
I PRAY THAT I WILL NEVER FIND THAT I INHABIT A
PLACE WHERE I HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE OF THIS
WORD, THIS IS NOT JUST A WORD.
*Based on Robert Indiana's "Love", http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_(sculpture)
Infinite pitch black void zoomed,
I vacillated then pitched headlong
(head and knobby knees, over heels)
where skeletons in shuttered closets roomed,
and antithesis of freedom loomed
large (think) cosmic size grand canyon groomed
courtesy the once mighty Mississippi,
now barely a babbling brook in places
espouses, and cloisters unbridled wedded bliss
till after honeymoon, than couple fumed
one accusing the other of infidelity
absolute zero witnessed crime of passion
lifeless bodies in shallow grave entombed
after violent retribution forensic experts
determine homicide after lovely bones exhumed
shotgun marriage from getgo doomed
structured sound of silence boomed.
Against the wishes of slumbering wife,
the following I nonetheless narrated,
to you how she temporarily held
yours truly check (mated),
thus eternal salvation sought
at healing waters of Lake Woebegone
repurposed conscious being
to experience sanguine mood linkedin
attending high school reunion
ridding hypocrisy, modesty,
and travesty initially I hibernated
away from madding crowd
once for all ascending
soul asylum gilded gated
stairway to heaven
consanguinity amidst deceased brethren
impossible mission to discern,
dawdling against inevitable fated
doom, thus I nevertheless equivocated
and bemoaned series of unfortunate events.
Daniel Handler an American writer and musician
best known for his children's series
A Series of Unfortunate Events
and All the Wrong Questions
Lemony Snicket honestly created
salvation blissfully, knowingly belated
and thankfully ameliorated.
At long last doomed existence
finally fancy free and footloose
Earthly afflictions divine creator
severe trials and tribulations let loose
promise body, mind and spirit triage
damn physical, mental, and
spiritual afflictions permanent vamoose
yoked Sisyphean and mephistophelean woe
summoning herculean strength
(mine) to vanquish
courtesy (halloo) gibbet welcome noose
necks stop outer limits analogous cooked goose.
It’s funny to look at creatives,
painters, writers, musicians and such,
look back across their bodies of work,
and laugh at how much of it is luck,
that things they put their whole soul into
now languish deep in obscurity,
while works they did for cash rise above,
the reasons a compete mystery.
For example, Anthony Burgess,
the writer of Clockwork Orange fame,
wrote the book in three weeks for money,
from a half-baked impulse in his brain,
only to see the story snowball,
becoming, by far, his best known work,
even became a famous movie,
the success of it made his brain hurt
to the point he denounced his own book
as he went through the balance of years,
but try to recall his other books
and you will find no memory appears.
Though the man didn’t embrace the work,
the impact of the tale did not cease,
and I think that it is safe to say
poor Burgess crapped out a masterpiece.
You have seen it plenty in music,
like the overperforming B-side,
KISS was known for their raucous rocking,
that is how they’re practically defined,
and yet their greatest commercial hit
was a sappy love ballad called Beth,
a B-side to more pulse-pounding fare,
yet somehow outperforming the rest.
How many songs came about like this?
It’s so many it’s now a cliché,
and all that was well before Youtube,
now it seems like every other day
some amateur you’ve never heard of,
who past efforts just seemed cringeworthy,
just got ten million hits overnight
because they crapped out a masterpiece.
Max Brand writing all of his westerns,
a genre that he helped to define,
thought they were junk, his poems were art,
yet just the westerns have survived time.
The people who made the first Matrix
Have done nothing that impressive since,
to the point that it’s become quite clear
they don’t know what made the first a win.
No matter what the medium is,
it seems not to matter in the least,
set people free and somehow some will
happen to crap out a masterpiece...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
John Denver Poetry Contest
Anthony Biaanco
Gathered around a campfire
Folks sing, clap, and dance
Take me home on country roads
Rocky Mountain high
High above an eagle circles
A passing deer pauses
Other critters awaken
To listen to John Denver
... sing
... of nature and relationships
Where his songs light the fire
And where his heart lights the night
With wholesomeness
... and sentiment and nostalgia
As the night warms on
And more logs are added to the fire
The intimacy grows
A pipe is passed around
Along with a bottle of whisky
As women and men gather closer
To the man, John Denver
Seated in front of the camping fire
... and holding fort to his songs
... with a guitar in his arms
the sunshine on his shoulders
Bespeckled with his blond shaggy hair
Denver fills the air
... leaving on a jet plane
... timeless, down to earth and fun
For this night he played to the crowd
... the Rocky's came alive
His good side, he's the life of the party
Where the exterior of the man is admiring
Denver graced the cover of 40 Albums
Covering four decades
His superlatives include
One of the world’s best-known and admired performers
Songwriter, performer, actor, environmentalist and humanitarian
He also loved poetry (poet laureate), dabbled in aviation and Nasa
However, it would be pretentious to exclude his bad side
... and this is where the passing deer from above sheds a tear
... and perhaps many of his fans
Because behind all that charm is a curse
Denver, according to many accounts on the net, was bad
He was a bad human
A bad drunk, chronic smoker, wife beater, and a bit whacko
Denver died in 1997 in a plane crash, in a plane that he built
Today the Rocky's are full of nature and life
With tall mountain ridges, forests, lakes, and rivers
And well-traveled trails, like the man
Somewhere a motorist is pantomiming one of his songs
... and smiling