Long Mysteryhouse Poems
Long Mysteryhouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Mysteryhouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mysteryhouse poems by poem length and keyword.
*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 ~
A young man named Jonas stood at the doors
Of the house that had haunted his dreams
As behind the ornate, hand-carved oak
Its interior was not all it seemed
People entered the doors, then disappeared
It was the last of them anyone would see
So Jonas had made it his mission in life
To put an end to its mystery
Jonas passed through the doors and as he did
The doors locked – he had no way out
He took a deep breath, to calm his nerves
Then he started to look about
He was standing in a square hallway
With a map of the house at one end
A door stood each side, marked ‘IN’ and ‘OUT’
Written above ‘IN’ was a legend
‘Beware all mortals who enter this place
Solve Metis’s riddles or fear you will face’
He wondered what the legend meant
Faltering on going through the door
And what had happened to all the souls
Who had walked through this portal before?
Jonas opened the door, and entered a room
The door then vanished from view
As there was no obvious other way out,
He stopped to think for a moment or too
As he thought, he took in his surroundings
The room was panelled in wood as before
With a large chandelier, providing the light
That shone on a plinth, in the centre of the floor
Seated on the plinth was a creature
That filled Jonas’s bones with dread
Half man, half beast with a bullish face
And which, though seated, towered over his head
With wizened finger, it beckoned to Jonas
And with powerful voice began to speak
“Who dares enter Metis’s House of Fear
And what is it that you seek?”
The rocks tripped me; I trod forward, upward to my lesson.
The wind chooses not to make its presence felt, yet.
The sun bursts gloriously into the flat, baby-blue, sky.
The red brown earth held its moisture greedily.
The effort shows in pulse and perspiration,
a flush blooms on cheeks unused to color.
The house appears abruptly, from a froth of greenery.
The wind keeps its distance, as if sensing
its presence is not desired.
The golden sun valiantly attempts to breach the houses gloom.
The guardians of house, home, and ether, leap forth.
Stone griffins, stern, etched by acid rain, stand.
The earthly hounds dart wraithlike through clusters
of cluttering tomes,and out the door to greet me.I enter.
The plaster shouts syllables, displaying in a military bent.
The house hungers for light, a broom. Her feather-duster fright.
The corner china cabinet displays a human skull.
Into this room she walks, a spirit of air, scared by storm.
God’s sacred light leaps.... only in the instructors eyes;
from her disfigured form, blue orbs, full of mischief and the joy of flight, revel....
teacher, a wounded Aphrodite, smiles.
Sinew of the Hearth
The rafters in the
Old homestead creak
Heavy winds ravage,
Sounding bleak
Two by fours are the
Bones of the structure
Termites diseased the
Prowess of its infrastructure
Three generations found
Safety within her walls
A miracle must happen
Before the old house falls
Through the cracks the
Wind whistles loud and clear
Another storm may level
All they we all hold dear
Raising children, cash flow,
Made neglect fell on the home
The silence of the destroyer
Devoured all vital proteome
Just when we prepared for
Survival the winds became calm
The sun warmed her face
The house shined with grace
The homestead rose in
Strength once more
Although she cried,
She held her inner core
Faith is the hearth
That declined
Stormy threats,
Endurance fills her spine
Wisdom and fearlessness
Adhere and bind
Our homestead resisted
The hands of time
Ever so stately
She still stands like new
The presage of strength
Resides her resilient sinew
Carole Cookie Arnold
2011
House of Solitude
on my knees a consiparcy lays.
These whispers on the walls,
Like mute screams,
Trying to climb on the chinks.
When time was pure,
this house was a home.
Flowers and smells of Spring
Filled every single room.
Even the trees that grew
On the green yard
Were the refuge for our dreams
To hide.
But rainy days came
And storm threw on our door nights
Without moon.
Our love abandoned this house
Leaving the gates open.
Ghosts and spirits
Entered, as if they found
A place to sleep,
A place to hide from the storm
Forever.
The white walls became black,
As rainy nights went on.
Thorns grew on roses,
Bloody thorns of a past withdrawn.
And as I lay down to sleep,
Memories visit me in shifts,
Reminding me of our time.
Nightmares I watch on sunny days
Without light
As rain keeps on
Filling it's agony upon this single roof.
And I waited for years
For you to come and heal my pain,
To paint this walls white again,
But you never returned.
You left this house
With your soul in it
To hunt and to betray my pure, innocent dream.
Form:
A taken photograph
Black and gray it's all faded out
Burned to a crisp in this house
The stairs creaked just a touch
All this sadness is just too much
A bedroom towards the left
Purple sheets on that bed
Floors are half gone
In this house what went wrong?
It's hard to understand a place
A place you never seen
Until you know it's dreadful history
Brings you down to wondering
Why this house is falling
I move into a closet without a door
People say it's not a good place
I walk in to a cool breeze
Goosebumps cover my body
I give a slight cry
I hear a horrible noise
I jump to excitement
What could that be?
I walk in the closet a bit more
Wondering if there's a floor
I take a step and I fall
Upon this huge pile
What could this mean?
I see a red dress
In perfect condition
I pick it up
And say I remember
--- in that photograph lies a girl in a red dress, her spirit flies around. This was that house ---