Edgar Allan Poe

(on the anniversary of his death)

It was many and many a year gone by,
More than a century ago,
That a poet then lived whom was known by
The name of Edgar Allan Poe;
And this poet he lived with fanciful thoughts
Of lost love and where it did go.

I was a child and he was well chilled
In his graveyard long ago,
But I thrilled with a thrill almost as chill
As words by Edgar Allan Poe.
With the skill that Calliope had instilled,
Tingles would through me flow.

This may be the reason, way back then,
In my bedroom so long ago,
With pen and paper in privacy,
I aped Edgar Allan Poe;
So I hid my poetry away
And thought none would ever know,
Of my shallow flights of fantasy
Where my dreams often go.

The angels, too bored in Heaven above,
Envied the talented Poe --
Yes! -- that is the reason (as we now see
In a life so filled with woe)
That nightmares came out of his dreams at night,
Plaguing and breaking Edgar Allan Poe.

But his voice it was stronger by far than the voice
Of those who lived longer than he --
Of many more clever than me --
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons way down deep below
Can ever endeavor to take the wonders
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.

For the pages ever turn lighting the tales to burn
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.
And the bells ever peal, but the pulse we feel
Of the fantastic Edgar Allan Poe.
And so, I may tonight, by my screen’s glowing light,
From my mentor -- my fair Poe - get a chilling fright,
In his legacy there in the glow
In the depth of Death’s lasting shadow.

The Starling

As I sat here to solve a puzzle,
With my water bottle near to guzzle,
Hidden beneath the trusty umbrella to block out the sun,
Suddenly there came a chirping,
Louder than bullfrogs a-burping,
Into my quiet mood usurping,
Usurping thoughts from my fun.
"Who makes such a noxious racket,
Chirping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

I looked up to see this noisy bird,
Seating there, dropping an avian turd,
Upon the chair opposite me, which hence all should shun.
That is so very disgusting,
To attack a chair so trusting;
The chair back now was encrusting,
Encrusting crud from this hun.
"Where is your shame, you dirty fowl,
Dropping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

He flew away without my shooing,
As his excrement sat there gooing,
Semi-solid, not quite fluid, just enough to start to run.
With napkin I went to wiping,
Up and down I went on swiping.
The plain brown chair now had striping,
Striping to bake in the bright sun.
"Who will want your added feature,
Piping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

Long have I lingered on vacation,
Retirement has brought much cessation.
My leisure may have lost more than my relaxation has won.
The black bird who got me versing,
As a contemplating cursing,
Perhaps enleashed passion bursting,
Bursting to release rhyme and fun.
"Who would want my silly poems,
After a year which had none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

Rapping at My Door

Rapping at My Door

Once upon my lazy recliner, feasting on takeout from the diner,
I sat and flipped idly through mindless cable channels galore –
Tasty crumbs from my lips lapping – when outside there came a rapping,
A most irritating tapping, an insistent, beckoning chore.
“Oh, not now, I have just sat down to eat,” I did wish to implore,
“Please leave me and come no more.”

The knocking stopped to my relief, visitor gone was my belief,
As I paused on the sports network to get the latest baseball score.
But too soon had I decided, my conclusion was misguided;
For upon my ears collided, the urgent knock I could but abhor,
That pounding call to duty – a host’s duty I could not ignore –
Oh, stop now and knock no more.

So I set my dinner aside and went to see who was outside,
In my slippered feet slowly sliding across the hardwood floor.
Carefully I went, not to fall as I traversed through the dark hall.
The peeking hole in the portal showed me no one at the front door,
For I had not lit the lights when I went silently to explore,
Hoping he stood there no more.

So I turned to make a retreat and resume my meal and my seat,
When again, at the infernal rapping behind my back, I swore.
“You are not there, I just did look,” I said as angry fist I shook,
“Why do you treat me like a schnook and play your games to make me sore?
Some comfort and to relax at end of day is all I ask for,
But you still want something more.”

Across the hall I go again to confront my evening’s bane.
Resigned now and with the porch lamp brightly aglow, its light did pour
Forth to illuminate my stoop. And looking now I saw a troupe
Of small monsters that made me whoop to see such characters from lore.
Their true identities all hidden by the frightful costumes they wore,
Covered in gore and much more.

“Have you come to scare me tonight? For, in truth, you gave me a fright.
Two Ghosts, ghoul, vampire, beastman, and mummy, in all miniature.
Why at my house do you here haunt and with your knock do you me taunt?
I have to wonder what you want that you assemble at my door?”
In one collected voice “Trick or Treat” arose from this motley corps,
“Candy is fine, nothing more”.