Long Poe Poems
Long Poe Poems. Below are the most popular long Poe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poe poems by poem length and keyword.
"50 Words for Poe: Styx"
Sleep now
Your Nepenthe has been taken
listen to your dream
what you pay alms for
requires surveillance
this is where she is reached and seen
in her dreams she dreams within your dream
He whistles in with the wind
Like King of the Hill
Incubus sucks her soul in
she sits in his boat
long bare legs wearing
Red killer stilettos,
"Persimmon" on her wiggling toenails
She's all covered in Sin
she smells good, ripe for kissing
sailing on Styx
towards some kind of destiny
Him and his hot dream
on their first tryst
this vetoes all need for safe religion
when he looks at himself,
God is in the mirror
staring back at Him
He smiles a Jack Nicholson grin
In vivid hues of Blue
he dreams to win
She whispers,
“Baby come here, come in”
This is all he needs
He's already on his knees
She becomes
His strange new religion
The Black Raven softly sings
Purple is the colour not Red, that 'reals' him in
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"And I'm not one for thinking twice,
But I know this much is true,
The earth will turn and powder burns,
And you are my revolver."
Strange Religion, Mark Laneganhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAQZKbUkK_0
The Red Shoes, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbbPPy_bNM4
Lily, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWaqPOnR5wU
Moments of Pleasure, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pW5hjWVS3ho
Revolver, Campbell/Laneganhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT1Y0m8MX2I
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Styx
Purple
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-purple/
https://www.colormatters.com/the-meanings-of-colors/purple
Red
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-red/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_(fairy_tale)
Blue
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-blue/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nepenthe
In midnight's grasp, a raven took flight,
Its ebony wings adorned with sorrow's might,
Through veils of darkness, it soared alone,
A haunting presence, to worlds unknown.
Its onyx feathers whispered tales of woe,
Echoing through the night, a mournful show,
With piercing eyes, a gaze that could pierce the soul,
It sought solace in the shadows' endless scroll.
Its mournful cry, a dirge of the heart,
Unveiled secrets, tearing worlds apart,
A harbinger of darkness, it perched on high,
An omen of doom, with a mournful sigh.
The raven's caw echoed in the moon's embrace,
Unfolding mysteries with each somber chase,
Its wings, a shroud, concealed the night's lore,
A creature of darkness, forevermore.
Yet, amidst the shadows, a glimmer of light,
A flicker of hope, a chance to set things right,
The Raven danced on the edge of despair,
A symbol of resilience, in the midnight air.
So, let it fly, with its tales untold,
A guardian of secrets, a sight to behold,
For within its ebony guise, hope remains,
The Raven's journey, a testament to change.
A Revised Edition
From The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, vol. II, 1850
In the icy air where the stars do sprinkle bright
keeping time, keeping time
with the jingling bells of night
it is there I lay my heart, my lonely heart
Hear the mellow wedding bells
the golden bells of happiness, ringing to foretell
Through the balmy air of night how they ring with such delight
from the molten-golden notes, the liquid ditty floats
A gush of euphony within her dwells
for a future that foretells of the rapture that impels
from the swinging and the ringing of the bells,
to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Later how they clang and clash and roar in the throbbing air
hear the tolling of the bells, the bells, the bells
in a world of solemn thought, their monody compels
in the silence of the night she shivers with affright
And the lover oh the lover, dwelling deep inside the steeple
all alone,.. tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone
turns her heart to solid stone, as she listens to the bells
the bells, the bells, the bells...
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tapped my keyboard, my eyes bleary
As I tried to write a novel that was no bore
I looked for inspiration, how to avoid clichés temptation
I’d write about rejuvenation—hope for the lonely lass Lenore—
An epic tale of a maiden born anew named Lenore—
A blockbuster for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
“I have writer’s block, Mr. Raven, perhaps thou might be a maven.
Though you be ghastly grim and ancient wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me can a modern writer craft prose that’s not a bore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“My idea that just can't lose, a crippled, homeless guy who likes booze
He’ll rise to fame and glory but I worry on some phrases in this story.
This and more I plan I’d write but the DEI staff might fight
On the plot’s blood and gore that tells life’s authentic core
Where from zero to hero, he’ll wins the fair Lenore
Wins her love forevermore!
The Raven looked pained and croaked "Nevermore!"
Then, the air got denser, this bird was a woke censor
A ghastly leftist bird who drifted over my parquet floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “who appointed thee—to impoverish my vocabulary
Give me respite – let me write my way the story of Lenore;
Don’t dilute my novel to be a crashing bore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Is it possible nowadays to write a novel at all?
Can I earn more than zero, if I include a macho hero
A macho hero to clasp a demented maiden who won't be sore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the underworld’s dark shore!
“Don’t use ‘dark” said the Raven, “use BIPOC instead” as he continued sitting
On the pallid bust of Obama just above my chamber door;
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out my body that lies contorted on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
There Was! ( A COLLABORATION )
by~ JACK HORN
There was a Sheila down under,
Whose dress sense was a big blunder,
She bent over, said,‘Grit’ -
As her tight trousers split,
And farted like claps of thunder!
There was an old man from Glencoe,
Whose kilt was made of itchy wool.
Like he had scores of fleas,
He scratched his hairy knees -
And parts where you don’t want to go!
by~ POET DESTROYER
There was Sheila visiting the land Glencoe,
She stared at this old man name Poe.
She was a corny young lady.
Laughed while he scratched his shady,
Than she smiled and said hello.
This old man Poe, was a fine dancer.
Who fell for Shelia's down under enhancer.
Down on his hairy knees,
He begged pretty please!
And confessed the fleas are really cancer.
A collaboration with * Jack Horn
My collaboration contest
The Raven: A Date with Death
I danced a date
a date with Death.
He sat me down for tea.
In the darkness sat the swirl
of infinity.
The ringlets 'round his brow
did stain the spirits evermore.
'Where do you hail?' he asked in disdain.
'I come from nowhere, yet anywhere, and I'll
go there all again.'
Death looked displeased, forlorn.
He longed to take another soul.
But my muse is cloaked in folklore.
Stories guide me home.
I was bound to Earth, you see.
Another just as old.
Another soul as wise as mine.
As clever, as bold.
But sharp ones poison,
wither,
drown.
Another soul lost evermore.
She's still broken, this soul of mine.
Every hour, every tick and click.
Cracked, split, broken.
Never to be healed.
My love does not belong
behind closed glass or hidden in song.
But I fear I've lost, my muse is drowned.
By waves of sea, so mote it be.
Until home she stays.
From stolen glances and parting gaze.
Just beyond the violet haze.
Poor Poe - Jack Horne
There Was! ( A COLLABORATION )
by~ JACK HORNE
There was a Sheila down under,
Whose dress sense was a big blunder,
She bent over, said,‘Grit’ -
As her tight trousers split,
And farted like claps of thunder!
There was an old man from Glencoe,
Whose kilt was made of itchy wool.
Like he had scores of fleas,
He scratched his hairy knees -
And parts where you don’t want to go!
by~ POET DESTROYER
There was Sheila visiting the land Glencoe,
She stared at this old man name Poe.
She was a corny young lady.
Laughed while he scratched his shady,
Than she smiled and said hello.
This old man Poe, was a fine dancer.
Who fell for Shelia's down under enhancer.
Down on his hairy knees,
He begged pretty please!
And confessed the fleas are really cancer.
A collaboration with * Jack Horne
PD's collaboration contest
"50 Words for Poe: Rouge"
Rouge, sweet stains
the bleeding mouth of the brain
Green poison from
the tongue of envy a postal note from Hell
Rouge makes a bed
with an enemy
Knife slices the insipid pale
in the bucket lies Hell's abysmal fail
Rouge, dances in 3 inch sharp knives
Rouge, slices lips and rips through black the widower's widow's veils
Rouge Stilettos 'round a slick Rouge Rue Pole
Slices through a dullard’s mind, eats it like Hot Creole
Diamond eyes smiles
Dark Vermillion gives a deep twist
There’s the knife
She’s wearing the cache
a glistening string of rare pearls
Silver Lady on the Open Road
purrs
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
(Notes on Murder Methodology from the Infernal Dante Dungeon)
https://youtu.be/jXVADFT6m1g
LOW/Candy Girl
"What songs the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture."
– Sir Thomas Browne, "Urn-Burial"
“You can’t train a monkey new tricks, inevitably bare feet runs the wild in the beast’s blood” Anonymous
“Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum”
1. Cache
2. Rue
3. Rouge
4. Ratiocination
drop enough words
on the universe
you might crack
something open
you might
find your way–
–I don't know
when
a boulder
hits the atmosphere
it becomes a fizzle
a morning glory
radiant splendor
shut tight
before your
morning cup
maybe enough
weight falls through
to touch
your heart
and there it sits
its precious metal
undetected
for years, decades, centuries
how many words
have fallen
nowhere
how do words
that find us
find us
is there more
inspirational insanity
than Poe
more
insightful introspection
than Emily
more
enlightened epiphany
than Keats
I don't know
words illuminate
my darkness
find my way
sing my song
I'll drop
a ton of them
and be crushed
by more
fizzles in the night
at the right time
in the right mind
help me, guide me, show me
hey...
meteorites happen
my heart's
been conked
a time or two
maybe this time
it's zapped by you
who knows
staring up
at the sparkles
and the moon
I want something
to strike
clear through
"Siren Sings Poe Home"
Bells are ringing
Can you hear me singing?
Poe absent, finds his feet
6 feet under snow
Soul is free flying
with black feathery things
Sharp knives slicing the cold
Midnight wings
dancing the Passepied
with the tintinnabulation
of swinging titular poets
Murders of Crows
Christmas comes
Christmas goes
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
Christmas, 2018.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaGBQeJ6SgM
"Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WnEUC4eZjjA