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.

…  my heart is made of birds
                      chirping …………   it’s about time,
for the raven to leave,

sunrise on cotton leaves …..
                               singing in the dew shower,
                                                        It’s about time
For the raven to leave,

…. a full forest singing just for me,
                                                     IT’ S ABOUT TIME
For the R-A-V-E-N to leave

Balconies are begrudging bearers of idyllic sunsets
Should they rest as nothing more they wanted

Would you sit there and wilt into the sullen, saddened laughter
Of another lonesome worrier wondering through their mind

Forgotten are the passer-byers in the wake of changing times
I've forgotten not the cool chirping air deafening my sense

No more are for the cradle's tulle warping around me
With gentle precision hanging amid a hammocked cornucopia

Graceful shining shifts from sudden places
High and crowded seen by eyes hidden in laces

The autumn rain is falling
    Like teardrops from mine eyes;
I cannot help recalling
    With sobs and lingering sighs
               My Fugliana.

The days returning never,
    The golden days of yore,
I thought would live forever,
    Yet gone fornevermore
               Is Fugliana.

With rue my heart is laden;
    L'amour peut être amer.
Nor any rose-lipt maiden
    Was e'er so fair as fair
               Fair Fugliana.

If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!