Lenore’s Messenger - by D.B. Sullivan

Once upon a mornings’ splendor, youthful hearts so loving, tender,  
Bursting joy, a blissful courting, that rivaled the tales of yore.
Angels swoon and praises singing, multitudes of blessings bringing,
High the bells of heaven ringing, ringing, for whom they adore.
Bless’d were we, betroth’d, by Seraph singing for whom they adore.
Grasping love forevermore.

True and pure was our devotion, hearts enraptured with emotion,
Vast and deep, but still the ocean could not hold the love we bore.
Long we yearned for wedded living, youthful souls intent on giving -
Covenants and consecrations, bless’d by God we knelt before.
We upon the hallowed morrow, bless’d as all who’d knelt before,
Shall be wed forevermore.

But the tranquil eve was shattered, when a sudden spasm battered,
Waves of burning, shearing, searing, deeply through my ***** tore.
Retched and tossed about by quaking, all my senses howling, shaking.
Here my chest continued breaking, till I fell upon the floor.
Writhing, retching, convulsating, in a heap upon the floor.
Spat with blood and scarlet gore.

Wailing, I attempted standing, ev’ry ounce of strength demanding.
Agonizing pains and tremors left me prostrate furthermore.
Piercing lights and dreadful flashing, sordid sense of balance crashing,
“Lord above!” I pleaded, gnashing, “Torture!” - I could bear no more!
Left adrift and god forsaken, such that I could bear no more,
Closed my eyes for evermore.

Pallid, pale, my will succumbing, closer to a corpse becoming.
Cataleptic, body rigid, dying, lonesome on the floor.
Feeling now, my soul retreating, rapidly my senses fleeting.  
Woeful sobbing, oft repeating,”Save my soul - this prayer implore!”
With the final languid beating, “Guy de Vere!”, this prayer implore.
Stopped at last, and nothing more.

Weeping, mourning, lamentations, solemn, sober incantations,
Chanting dirges, exaltations, grieving, saddened, sorrow o’er,
Sacramental rites to aid in blessing she whom coffin laid in.
Blessings, unto God conveyed, in tolling bells and prayers outpour.
Debonair, this saintly maiden, requiems and prayers outpour.
Tombed in dirt for evermore.

Died in youth, denied of marriage, rendered now by hearsen carriage.
Laid to rest on dreary hillside - foggy, bleak and fodder for -
Root and rot, putrescence creeping, tombstone silent mem’ry keeping.
Ash to ash, eternal sleeping, there reposing furthermore.
Dust to dust with mildew seeping, decomposing furthermore -
With the worms and petrichor.

Wakened to a strange dimension, filled with anxious apprehension.
Conscious now with new awareness, shaken, dazed as ne’er before
Slowly, faculties regaining, as I struggled, vision straining.
Drunken, deathly stupor waning, I perceived what lay before.
Finally composure gaining, now discerned what lay before.
Darkness here and nothing more.

Frightened at this realization, swelling sense of desperation -
I, with dread and trepidation, ventured outward to explore.
Distant rolling thunder crashing, forked and fiery lightning flashing,
Wracked my nerves with savage thrashing, gnashing as I wandered fore.
Feeling deeply disconcerted, anxious as I wandered fore.
Godless night for evermore.

Onward through the tempest tearing, searching for familiar bearing,
Quickly then, I found myself upon a darkened desert shore.
Gazing out, with frenzied feeling, suddenly in horror reeling;
From horizon to horizon - nothing but a ghastly moor.
Nothing seen of soul or structure, desolate this ghastly moor.
Emptiness for evermore.

Cognizant of this damnation, pure and utter isolation -
“God!!” I cried, with consternation, but no answer came before.
Filled with burning desperation, here, I wailed with indignation -
“Why have you abandoned this child upon the Stygian shore!?”
“What great sin would cause thy God to cast me to this stranded shore!?”
Loneliness for evermore.

Longing, and for comfort seeking, no response from God there speaking;
Lightning all around me streaking, agonizing furthermore.
Addled with despair, affliction, at this godly dereliction,
When, a sound, a sudden diction, broke the silence heretofore.
Then, a murmur - plainly, faintly - broke the silence heretofore;
Whispered out my name - “Lenore!”

Stunned to hear the silence broken, startled by the word there spoken;
It delighted my heartbroken soul to hear my name, “Lenore”.
With this whisper disappearing, quickly I betook to peering -
Outward, nothing further hearing, here on this Hadean shore.
Sullen now, with disappointment, here on this Hadean shore.
Silence here and nothing more.

But, again there came a calling, much unto my ears, enthralling.
Only this time sounding wholly more resounding than before.
Steadily, this vocalizing echoed louder, hypnotizing -
With a boundless localizing, was a voice that I adore.
Here upon, I heard the voice of - “Him! My Love Whom I Adore!”
He doth cry my name - “Lenore!”

Discomposure overtook me. “Guy de Vere!” - my wailing shook me
With great agonizing desperation to embrace once more.
"Cursed place of condemnation, stricken, wretched desolation!”
“Unredeemed and lonesome, this deathly estrangement I abhor!”
“Stridently, this awful fateful separation, I abhor!”
Lost in dreams for evermore.

Sinking into woeful sadness and an all consuming madness;
Calling out into the blackness - “Deathly master, I implore!”
“Send this child of woe a yeoman to convey this somber omen!”
Suddenly here flew a raven - with no common mein he bore.
Demon eyes and plumage stately, quite a royal mein he bore.
Croaked and flit and nothing more.

Marveling at his emergence, and conveying sense of urgence -
“Counsel him of this divergence, this great painful message. Soar!”
“OH! My love, no balm shall lift thee. Somber last goodbye I bid thee”.
“Take my cries and render swiftly, bird, from this Stygian shore”.
“Carry now my heart and render tidings from this stranded shore”.
“BIRD! Out from this desert soar!”

“Find my love - alone, aggrieved and anguished, heartbroken and bereaved”.
“Find my love, whom by God deceived, and relay this dreadful lore”.
“OH!, BIRD!, be not thou craven and find him in his mortal haven”.
“Shall we ever clasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Shall we ever grasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Tell him sadly - ‘nevermore!’”

The Ruins of Whitby Abbey - by D. B. Sullivan


Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.

Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river -  the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.

Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.  

Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions - of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.

Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate - year Six Hundred Sixty Four.

Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.

Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.

Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.

Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding  
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.

Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.  

Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.  
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,  
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.

Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.

Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.

Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.  
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.

Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.

One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.  
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.

Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:

Etiam in morte vivas.

The Beloved Souls of Salem - by D. B. Sullivan


Woe for the souls who in Salem did suffer as charges were levied
Onto their innocent lives. Accusations of witchcraft had come from
Neighbors and townsfolk who claimed to be Christian but lacking in virtue.
Shame to the church and the christians within it for harming innocents.

“Witches!” they cried with the pointing of fingers that surely would threaten
Liberty, life and the standing of members devoted to their kin.
Scant was the evidence offered as proof of offenses before God.
Nevertheless were the parties subjected to needless suffering.

Fantasies spreading like rats of the plague wherein feeble minded folk
Bought into lies and horrific dishonesty. Feeding on their own
Citizens, family, kindred and brethren, accusers provided
Names to be targeted, lives to be shattered and souls to be condemned.  

Where was compassion or doubt of the charges? The magistrates seemed to
Judge the defendants as guilty without hesitation before a
Series of hollow, facetious, nay “trials” determined the “truth” of
What had transpired or who was a victim or who was free of guilt.  

Month after month in the year of our Lord Sixteen Ninety Two and Three,
Women and men were subjected to torturous treatment and terror.
Humans betrayed by the church and the state and the village they so loved.  
Sent to the gallows to die for the sins of the Puritan christians.

Even the ones who were spared execution were brutalized, broken.
Many imprisoned were tortured and beaten and died awaiting trial.
Infants of mothers accused were then born in the prison, dark, cold and
Died in conditions where no one would help them, out cast just as refuse.

Such was the state of the village that dozens of innocent people
Suffered and died on the words of accusers, and no one attempted
Merciful pleading for grace or for clemency. Innocent were these
“Witches”, these humans courageously standing as beacons of true strength.

Truly, the only affliction was having no courage, no honor.  
Baseless were claims of consorting with Satan or supernatural
Dealings with devils and demons. The “Witches” were peaceful, upstanding
Citizens, living their truth and in balance with nature and God’s Earth.

None of the liars were punished or banished for needlessly causing
Suffering, pain and unwarranted carnage, here upon the village.
Puritans acting as nothing had happened here, sweeping the affair
Under the rug and ignoring their actions that shattered all those lives.

Long ago, names of the townsfolk forgotten like mud in the river.
Ah! But the “Witches” are vaunted and hailed as beloved souls of yore.  
They did not flinch upon seeing the noose, did not cower before men.  
History shows that not death or destruction can vanish the Witches.

Centuries later the pattern continues and “Men of God” inflict
Pain and oppression on innocent victims while pounding the bible.
Lest they forget it is they who will suffer the wrath that they have earned.
Fires of Hell for the “righteous” and “holy” that prey upon the meek.

See now! Not fire, not gallows, not torture will silence the spirit.
None can extinguish the light of the Witches who tend to Earth’s children.
Caretakers, healers and makers of magic, protectors of wounded
Creatures and people, the coven is sacred, eternal and cherished.

Self-righteous factions have always been keen on the prospect of power.
Try as they might to suppress and subdue in the name of God’s command,
We will still be here.

The Black Veil - by D. B. Sullivan

I knew this day would come. I must confess,
It’s quite surreal to have this taking place.
I hold emotions tight within my dress,
Behind the veil of black that hides my face.

Arriving at the church, I’m overcome
By all the feelings that I have inside.
Until the end, I’m staying silent, mum,
But absolutely present, misty-eyed.

I’m ushered to the front and find my place
With slightly trembling hands, I breathe and wait.
Chantilly lace and crepe obscure my face,
my heart begins to race and palpitate.

The priest begins with welcoming regards.
He then proceeds to bow and raise his hands
Aloft, appealing unto Heav’nly guards
This group of hearts in silence fore him stands.  

We bow our heads in rev’rent piety,
And pray that God attend these supplicants
Of mortal flesh. Dispel anxiety -
New life awaits infused with sustenance.  

The rites are read to sanctify and bless
Transitioning from this life to the next.
Our faithfulness in God again profess,
That we, in times of strife need not be vexed.

The ***** and its pipes uplift the hymn,
Resounding with an echoing reply.
The colored glass of windows dark and dim
From thunder clouds and rainfall rolling by.

A single rose of red I hold in hand,
With silken gloves that all my arms conceal.
My knees are weak and faint, but here I stand.
Chiffon of black hides ev’rything I feel.

Devotions made, felicitations said,
Means soon will be the last and final bell.
When after tributes voiced and scriptures read,
I find I’m falling farther under spell.

I feel the eyes of all that gathered here,
Anticipating words from me. I start
A deep and steeling breath so all may hear
My words before they'll see me come apart.

And now, with sacramental candles lit,  
All other persons did their prayers purvey,
The time has come for me - the last commit.
From ev’ry corner of my soul I say:

“I do”.

I sit and stare, the cursor blinks,
Writer’s block has all the kinks.
No inspiration, not a spark,
An empty page, my brain just dark.

But wait! Upon my shoulder sits
A creature of peculiar wits.
A chameleon, small and green,
The strangest writing buddy seen!

He ***** his head, one bulging eye,
And seems to say, “Come on, just try!”
Then, shifting hues to sunny gold,
He whispers tales yet to be told.

When drafting poems, sad and deep,
He turns to blue, begins to weep!
A tiny tear, a mournful sigh,
Reflecting feelings passing by.

For action scenes, a fiery red,
He puffs and hisses, filled with dread.
His little claws begin to tap,
Demanding twists within the gap.

If comedy’s the chosen style,
He turns bright pink and seems to smile.
And puffs his throat in silent glee,
Suggesting jokes for you and me.

He’s not much use with grammar rules,
And spelling? Well, he knows no schools.
He just provides the vibrant spark,
The wild ideas, and character arc.

Thank you, Allan, my scaly muse,
For chasing off the writer’s blues.
With every color, every change,
You help my creativity arrange!

Some poems were written by a poet named Poe,
Of ravens, bells, and lost Lenores.
His mind scribbled out some macabre woe,
Leaving readers check behind their doors.

In “The Raven” he played a trick,
Quoth the bird, “Nevermore” to say.
He whispered secrets, dark and slick,
And wove a tale both grim and gray.

“The Bells,” a haunting serenade,
He tolled the bells of life’s decay.
With “Annabel Lee,” a love parade,
He marched us to the grave’s cold way.

Oh, Poe - the poet and his poems of hell!
His heart, a master of the night,
His words, a wicked, wondrous spell.
His mental state - not quite alright.

Poe wrote another poem, dark and quite long,
’Bout a dude who was moping, quite sad,
His girlfriend Lenore had clearly gone wrong,
Leaving him utterly mad.

One night, as he’s reading, half asleep,
A tapping he hears at his door,
He opens it up, into darkness so deep,
“Lenore?” he whispers, unsure.

But instead of his babe, all radiant and fair,
A raven flies in, you see,
Perches above him, with nary a care,
And says, “Nevermore,” chillingly.

The dude starts to chat with this ominous bird,
Asking questions, morose and absurd,
If he’ll see Lenore, or if he’s been heard,
But the raven can just say one word.

He gets quite upset, calls the raven a demon,
Says it’s tormenting him, no less,
But the bird doesn’t budge, just keeps on gleaning,
“Nevermore,” causing much distress.

The poem concludes, with the dude in despair,
The raven still perched, dark and grim,
A symbol of grief, that he just has to bear,
All thanks to that feathery whim.

In short, it’s a tale of loss and of woe,
A bird with a limited vocab,
Driving a grieving man crazy, you know,
Leaving his sanity totally scabbed.

Poe wrote a poem - quite tragic and sad,
About a girl named Annabel Lee,
Their love was so pure, it made angels mad,
In a kingdom somewhere by the sea.

They were just kids, but their love was so strong,
The heavens got jealous, you see,
They sent a cold wind, and things went all wrong,
And some illness hit Annabel Lee.

She died pretty quickly, was put in a tomb,
But her guy wasn't ready to quit,
He'd lie by her grave in the darkness and gloom,
(Kinda creepy, I must admit.)

He blamed it on angels, those heavenly jerks,
For taking his bride-to-be,
But that's just how a disease sadly works
Even in that kingdom by the sea.

His love never died, unlike Annabel Lee,
He dreamed of her night and day,
His dedication was admirable, you see,
But not in a healthy way.

So, what did we learn from this tragic tale
Besides that love grows more and more?
That Poe had a knack for the morbid and frail,
And making gothic folklore.

In short: It's a story of love and of loss,
With a dash of celestial spite,
Where Poe shows that death is no match for true love,
Even if that love's not quite right.