Long Edgar Poems
Long Edgar Poems. Below are the most popular long Edgar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Edgar poems by poem length and keyword.
"Darkness is but a door, scary not because it opens,
but out of fear that it will never close."
by: Johnathan Jena
In darkness, I sleepily stirred, petrified with fright
at the sound of raucous roaring beasts in the night
Creepy things crawled on me. I shivered at the sight
A bell tolled as demons tried to tear apart my heart
I floated on a stygian river, troubled by my thought
watching a specter aiming at me with a deadly dart
Phantoms danced on my bed until my pulse grew weak
My wretched end was near. My death they'd soon seek
In gloom of this macabre scene, voices began to speak
Ghouls wailed and pounded upon the bedroom walls
I cowered when werewolves howled within the halls
In this tenebrific nightmare, I heard thunderous footfalls
My teeth were chattering as the house began to shake
more violently than a volcanic eruption or an earthquake
Before my burial song would be sung, I prayed to wake
There was a deafening crash from just outside my door
I was near the point of fainting, then woke upon the floor
Beside me lay the crumpled page of Poe's sweet 'Lenore."
September 25, 2022
One From the Dark Side Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
November 8, 2021 "T" Contest - Sponsored by Constance La France
*With a nod to Edgar Allen Poe for borrowing a few of his expressions from 'Lenore.'
I'm inspired to be admired.
To be known as a poet,
As you should know it,
like Edgar Allan Poe, or
Robert Frost.
Poetry to me
Comes so naturally,
As if to be.
The right thing for me.
I've had a desire.
To become a poet
Since I was seven years old.
Reading Helen Steiner Rice, and
William Shakespeare.
It's been a dream for a long time.
Something I have always wanted.
Is to become a poet.
To see my words in print
To finally become a poet
As you know it,
That would be poetry to me.
Words flow through me
At any given time.
It's not something I make happen,
It just comes to me, like the air we breathe.
Words come and go, if I don't write them down
Then they become unknown.
Poetry to me is a gift,
A gift from the heavens above
Placed by the hand of God
Into people like me and you.
Poetry to me
Is something that helps to see
the release I need.
It gives me the opportunity
To create art with words.
To touch the heart of others,
That helps one another.
David W Carter
NOT CONTEST BOUND
I stood upon a rocky shoal, regret lingering across my mind
Its fingers traced the blood-filled lines along my bare arm
as if they were the brittle veins of leaves fallen from a tree
I was not blind to fear or its impending threat of harm
Its whispers felt like the breath of death, washing over me
How brief the moment seemed to pass, between light and dark
Shadows fluttered and were cast in ebony depth of night
This was a foreshadowing tale of danger, imminent and stark
A pale moon had risen, a silvered orb staring at me from high
as a cyclops beast waiting to feast when the moment was right
A scarecrow stood in fallow field, upon his arms were perched
ravens whose brothers danced on his head, raucously calling
Death rode upon an ill wind when suddenly they took flight
Such was my fright when in the sky a pair of red eyes lurched
I stared in disbelief, knowing I had no chance of forestalling
Within the barren branches of each maudlin, leafless limb
Regret stared at me from the forlorn eyes of Edgar Allen Poe
I felt my knees begin to tremble, my eyes filled to the brim
Frozen with terror, I was deprived of taking a life-giving breath
A chill made me quiver, and I realized it had begun to snow
How brisk was the Winter wind. The flock of crow took to the air
after sending me a warning glance with fierce beady eyes
An eclipse veiled the face of the moon, filling me with despair
I heard the caws, and despite my flaws, denied Poe to take my soul
From the waters edge I walked away from death on a rocky shoal
In poetry, love and wisdom intertwine—a heartfelt love poem can carry profound wisdom, and wise reflections often touch upon matters of the heart. ????
Psalm 90:6
in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it fades and withers.
When my heart returns in seclusion,
I uttered these words to myself,
Give it time, be wise, embrace self-compassion
I must put myself first, I must, I must,
This time around, I don't want to walk away,
Taste only me, make love to only me
Reflected only in my space.
enchantment leads to my dearest delight
enter my soul before the break of dawn
A dream within a dream according to Edgar Allan Poe
For our morning blessing/
Happy or sad, our morning salutations/
There is nothing more appealing
Then seeing white undershirts and white teeth
as it captures the youth of innocent,
falling in love, with a cub, half my age,
A trickery of unfocused emotions bearing down.
I can see no flaws,
I see only what my heart allows,
Trembling lips, both top and bottom
gazing into those eyes of witchery illusions
Just this once, just feed me, just enter my soul
This frigid northern cold, the Africa heat rises:
Who will bless this union?
When it all fades like leaf
All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.
Let me love you for now,
Let me smile, while you smile,
aloud me, to accept you,
as you enter my soul
Summary: This poem weaves love, wisdom, and introspection. It invites readers to embrace self-love, navigate illusions, and seek blessings amid life’s impermanence. ????
The inspiration behind this poem lies in the interplay of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of existence, and the search for meaning. The poet grapples with love, self-compassion, and the complexities of relationships. The references to biblical verses and contrasting elements (such as northern cold and African heat) evoke deeper contemplation. Ultimately, the poem invites readers to explore their own hearts, desires, and vulnerabilities. ????
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven.
I’m sitting on the cusp
of blazing silence,
watching thick
sullen clouds
swerve in funeral pace,
as ruby reds within
ravishing rainbows,
disappear into depths of
blue laced emptiness,
like silken fire rising from
a diamond-furnace,
illustrating the venom
rushing through
my veins in vain.
The sun always knew
of the pain I swirl to
amongst silhouettes
of burning stars.
I am a mistress
of darkness,
crowned beneath
a fallen sky
sequined in
sinful sapphires
and amaranth angst.
Throned to a kingdom
that has no air
for fragile flowers.
I’ve faced cruel
fangs of reality,
that fed my paranoia
with wistful peonies.
There’s no ray of twilight
for the tormented tears,
I hide behind
the shimmering
horizon, painted with
dandelion dreams in
dreary drowsiness.
And I surrender at
the edge of
doom to an
agony of a pawn.
But there’s no
running from a
lethal kiss that kills,
like the queen’s gambit
that would freeze your
soul into thickened vapors
of bleeding ice.
Yet the moon looked straight
through my soulless eyes,
hoping I would taste
an ounce of her truth.
If only facts would reveal
tiny seeds of grief that
were sprouting steadily
into what they
call "madness"
maybe then they would
have known,
even black roses
bleed the same as red.
Poetry is a Risky Business
The Recipe for Poetry
Open stereo
Turn volume medium high
Poor 3 shots of whiskey
Add 2 bottles of wine
Open 1 bag of chips
Add one box of Oreos
Listen to Alice Cooper
Then Abba
Then Dance of the knights
Then listen to all 3 at the same time
Stick pins into the doll of your ex
For added drama add some ketchup
Open up 2 brands of cheese
Because that shows some class that you have 2 types on hand
Do this
Before opening second bottle of wine
This way you’re not an alcoholic
Turn on some Paul McCartney and Uriah Heep
During moments the stereo is on high volume
Sing along
Down to the skivvies it is, if you have a hockey stick
A little air guitar for some added inspiration
Cut up some Edgar Allen Poe poems
To put between the Oreos and cheese
Eat till the feeling of darkness overcomes you
Let your thoughts simmer 5 hours
Voila done
When you wake up
You should have 1 or 2 poems facing you
After Lenore, by Edgar Allan Poe
Broken—yes—the golden-locked and beautiful Lenore,
Gone from us forevermore, to grace our eyes no more.
And thou, De Vere, who scornful stands with hollow, cold disdain—
It’s clear to all, thy mournful cries are pitiful and vain.
Let the exequy commence! Let sorrow find its voice,
While thou, false mourner, face thy fate—be judged for thy dark choice.
A dirge for golden Lenore... a sentence for thy choice.
Wretched art thou—who dared to love, yet sowed death’s bitter seed,
For ‘twas her gold you hungered for, and slew her out of greed.
How shall the charges now be read? What scaffold shall we raise?
By us—the wretched throng—who cry for justice in these days.
For her sweet death lies not with fate, but thee who bears bloodguilt.
Peccabilis—yes, thou art! And parricida still,
For murder foul, thy cursed soul we doom to deepest hell.
Fair Lenore lies cold and low by her false lover’s hand,
Who slew his bride for avarice, and hungered for her land.
And now she sleeps beneath the soil, while thou dost breathe and lie,
With golden light upon her hair—but death within her eye.
The light remains upon her locks—yet thou didst let her die.
Conticent! Beastly ruffian—thy lies shall mask no more,
The cry went up, the charge is set: blood calls from every door.
Let the noose be drawn to avenge Lenore’s sweet soul,
And when thy breath is choked away, we’ll cast thee in a hole.
The fiends below await thy shade to feast upon thy boast,
While Lenore ascends in light to join the heavenly host.
For grief thou sowed when death thou wrought—
And now thy soul shall roast.
In the distance, a soul does mourn,
The Raven caws, a heart forlorn,
Fear grips tight, as life's sun sets,
Having never danced, with wild regrets.
A life unlived, a dream unchased,
A heart that yearns, but feels misplaced,
In twilight's grasp, the mind's despair,
Echoes of 'what if' fill the air.
Lost in the void of wasted days,
The Raven's wings, a somber haze,
Yet, hope still flickers, dimly gleams,
To seize the day, and shatter dreams.
Embrace the now, release the dread,
For fear of death, the soul's true bane,
Carve your path, let passion reign,
The Raven's call, no longer pain.
after Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe
We understand you Poe,
You saw the world through a darkened
lense-- The passions you sought
were from a spring that was filled
with pleasures most twee--- One's
sorrow is uniquely painful from
another's, don't fret now Poe, for there is
worse to come-- That is not true
Poe for the Ravens who know you won't
let you love alone-- No one is
there to prepare you from the storm
of grief --But, the Ravens here
wish to bring you the joy of a little
peace-- the buzz of a bumblebee, the
soft hills that surround the
cliffs of the mountain-- the light
patter of rain before a downpour
so mighty-- Poe forget not, after
the trees have shed their leaves and
a silver glow fills the sky-- the dawn
of spring lurks 'round the corner too--
with its lighter rays that look so
ancient and cool-- The murder
says the blue you see is merely
a coating of deceit --- To hide
our clouds and the thunder that
shakes us-- Don't worry about the
cloud-- For the demon in your view
was but an angel in another form.
Here comes the novice poet.
With [ Edna St. Vincent Millay and Elizabeth Barret Browning ]
He will remember what they say, and then will always Know it.
[ “ I will permit my memory to recall “ ][ “ How do I love Thee “]
I do believe, from here to death; You’ll never see me Frowning.
In step the “ BRONTE “ sisters; Charlotte, Emily, and Anne.
Come back from their Imaginary Land.
Speaking English; Not the language that they shared.
[“ To attack the first is not to assail the last “ ] As if they cared.
I see [ Alfred Lord Tennyson ] will he sign my copy of “ The Poet “
Over there is [ Edgar Allen Poe ] and his Raven “Nevermore”
Exhilaration ends: I wake up, no one will ever know it.
I spent the night, a LOVEFILLED night: With many a Great POET.
Now that I’ve comeback from time, I have no words I have no Rhyme.
The paper, not a drop of ink. It looks at me with a BLANK STARE.
But now I do Bethink, that I should write something THERE.
I just can’t write and think.