"lenore" poems
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”
3.1k
It’s cold tonight in Eden
A full moon is a spectral sight
An apple tree is in full bloom
In this garden where we may say our prayers
Dirt is caked under my nails
I’m tumblin' down, down, down
Eight feet, just for you my dear,
Lenore can’t so no
Not when the throes of passion
Are caught so deep
I’m restless against the stillness
Aching and grinding
Yet paradise is so cool this low
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
Mandrake the Magician
now you see him
and now you don't
you will marvel at this magic
while the villains won't
**** he is gone
or changed in an illusion
he can read your mind
and cause constant confusion
the bad guys will lose
crushed by his friend Lothar the King
the strongest man alive
wearing his fez and a golden ring
Mandrake waves his magic wand
to hypnotize the evildoers
while his lady the Princess Narda
applies the skewers
Theron, Hojo and Bradley the chief
keep him protected from harm
with Magnon, Lenore and Karma
at his home Xanadu keeping warm
the villains are many and rotten to the core
Cobra, Brass Monkey and evil Deleter
even the Enchantress Aleena must scurry
Ekardnam his twin in the mirror retreater
so you may try as you might
to remain evil and mean
but Mandrake and his crew
will make you come clean
Gomer LePoet ...
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
To swim the slimy seas the ocean o’er
And gag upon the rank and rotten air
Filthy with sailor’s curse and foulest swear
In search of lost and dearly loved Lenore,
To open up the inner sanctum’s door
And call (in tongues unfit for holy prayer)
Clammy Cthulhu forth from out his lair,
Will be to me most pleasant evermore.
And like a count who shuns the light of day
And moves by candlelight in chilly gloom,
Or a black witch that wears a sacred bloom
Of belladonna on her breast alway,
I live where the scarecrow spies the blackbird’s lark:
I live within the cold and rainy dark.
O.O
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
there is a raven who sings me to sleep,
if could,
i'd dream every night.
that abyss of whom i am born,
cradles me in its arms of stars
and heart of clouds.
the moon is my light,
my goddess: lenore.
wings of black soul beating the air of love, forevermore.
whip me a whirlwind.
raven, oh raven, if you could see me now
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
Space is hardly the final frontier.
But, for now,
don’t you think we seem ambitious?
Shooting arrows at the clouds
could come back
to shoot you in the head.
Can’t you see that colonies on mars
would become a new home for problems.
Seems desperate.
What do I know though,
I'm Twenty-Five and I haven't even graduated college.
But fears of failure make us see future
where our planets long since dead.
From that arrow to the head.
Salvation relies on a new years revolution
or something humbling like that.
But wait,
I shouldn’t write that here.
Big Bro is always watching.
I might find a man in black,
tap-tapping at my chamber door.
Not Lenore.
Thats when you'll hear me saying,
"Does anyone have a cigarette?"
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
Lenore, as gentle as the wind,
As light as a feather;
I wonder where it was
The breeze delivered her.
I imagine her smile
In the morning sun, and
Her son, playing in the yard.
I smile in reminiscence
Whilst pondering
This new shore
I've happened upon;
Guilty, come fear,
A remorse blanketed echoes of
Gallantry.
The world would never let me go.
She knew that when we’d sprout;
The world would never let me go,
“So go,” she’d whispered.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
She is the Raven
of my nocturnal ravening
When the silence and the darkness
of the night become too maddening
She is there,
At my door
Echoing her "Nevermore"
Through Her Eyes,
My Soul Explored
As Phantoms of Old Wars
Roam the tides of the raging storm
On the Night's Plutonian Shore
Woeful, she implores
Me to forget my sweet Lenore
The Ghost I loved before
My Raven sang her "Nevermore"
The Songs and Scents of Seraphim
Linger in my Chamber
Is it that,
Or the Ichor of Madness
Which enforce my strange behavior?
My Raven's claws are resting
On a pallid bust of Pallas
Her black majesty infesting
My infernal, somber palace
And my eyes with fire, gleaming
from the Whispers that are Screaming
At the Shadows of the Demons
Who are Dreaming
Plotting, Scheming
Spirit Fiendish
She can see it
My Flesh keeps Hell beneath it
My Ghastly, Grim and Ancient Raven
Feels my heart get ripped to pieces
And yet - I still may not believe
This Bird of Prey
Could bring me peace
She flutters with
Unearthly ease
As the wind outside mangles the trees
I see her there, in my despair
Divine darkness chokes the air
Her ever spirit-piercing stare
I feel upon me everywhere
And as I kneel upon the floor
I watch her nest above my door
And I find myself longing for
My stately Raven
From the Saintly Days of Yore
To Haunt me now,
and Forevermore.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
You've run the gauntlet,
The page dripped its course
Now all lies in wait,
Your softest reward
You've braved every peril
And hammered the stone
And driven each spike
With diligent force
You planned for each pitfall
And watched every night fall
And longed every day
For what resembled recourse
And now time is coming
An end to your running
An end to this guessing
This prophetic lore
To a pirate, his sea
And a bandit his mead
And to any man,
The love he is for
Your beauty hurriedly waiting,
Silence pleading and begging,
Sitting patiently bating
Far from broken shores
The end is behind you
You've done what you've meant to
Now go rest your head
On your lover, Lenore
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:59 AM UTC
Wakefulness has come to be
A pale respite, a poignant dream
Reality has paled and ceased
To be of real devoir to me.
Amongst the living, I trail the dead
That intone from the Netherlands
And in their voices, they do spread
The need to meet their languished hands.
There in the dusk's cerulean shores
Towards the night's sapphire core from
Whence winged creatures dart and soar
I sleep to leave what I abhor.
With Morpheus I cast aside
The shell from which by day reside
In chiaroscuro paradise
I lift my head to meet your eyes.
By day you're nothing, dust and ash
And memories that shall not last
By night, draw breath, return to me,
Come back to life within my dreams.
*Original, Un-rhymed Notes:
The waking world has become surreal
After everything that's happened
All things are a pale shade of what they used to be
Those that aren't here call out to me louder than the scores of the living
I feel them, carried with me
Clinging, pulling me back towards
dreams.
I see them there, whole and unscathed*
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
As I walk along this wooded path,
The leaves fall from the trees.
They gently float down to the ground,
Some blowing in the breeze.
I stand there for awhile,
I dare not make a sound.
The songbirds play the soundtrack,
Pure beauty all around.
I sit a moment to take it in,
Then continue on my way.
Tis still a long way to my home,
And the sky is turning grey.
The trees take on an eerie shape,
Their bare branches in the dark.
Silhouetted by the strike of lightning,
As it flashed across the bark.
Out of the forest, I finally escaped,
To a house I had never seen.
Inside was a man I could see through the window,
He appeared to be bitter and mean.
I decided to risk it because I needed shelter,
So I went up and knocked on the door.
But with all my rap-a-tap-taps,
I got no answer back, only a single word, "Lenore?"
As I attempt to comprehend what's going on,
I awaken from my dream.
I'm sitting on the wooded path,
As I listen to the songbirds sing.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
At school, poetry was anything but cool
Reading Shakespeare, Dickinson, Austin and Hughes
Writing essays on the Capulets and Montagues
Every time that subject came up my brain went on snooze
Call it what you want, the ignorance of youth
Like maybe my young mind was too uncouth
It just didn’t feel like they were speaking the truth
***** waggle dagger’s just too long in the tooth
Although one day we done some knowledge on Poe
Some lines that man wrote made my interest grow
It wasn’t what he said it’s how he said it
He didn’t even say anything to me, it’s how I read it
It made me wanna write down my feelings
It felt healing, exorcising all my demons
As I wrote I could feel all the heaviness leaving
Giving my brain a spring cleaning
It’s very therapeutic to take an experience
Wrap it neatly in a metaphor for convenience
That’s one of many reasons I love the bard’s art
A bird tapping a man’s window was the start
Ever since then poetry’s been knocking
At my chamber door but this is no Lenore
Poetry shall lift my soul forever more
Forever more
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
May I borrow your wing on the wind;
I’d like a different perspective, a little yesterday,
because the selection I have is too personal.
Earth-bound and clumsy, freedom is feathered
black against cotton and clairvoyance.
To rat-a-tat messages with a Morse code beak
along walls and windows
maybe even a chamber door just to send
paranoid delusions swarming into skies
filled with blue and bruise and sleek glossy
plumes beating the breeze with death
or the life of your choosing.
I long for that and all that comes tapping
in sugary sprinkles lined with silver,
turn eyes overhead at the forecast; no luck,
no rain, no superfluous visions from above
and still, I’m sprawling blind—nested too close
to be rusty at eating seeds or worms
(whichever is easier to swallow)
any suggestion as to the preparation is welcome.
Are you still there, my fire,
still bleating under floorboards
and making me sweat? Confess all,
that I have murdered a bird, swept
under rug way too many lint ***** to justify
or whatever the crime. May it haunt me
in pencil shavings or you in hand cramps—
both get curled up in the end
on the last page: you, me
and all that ****** squawking.
Can we just start over again, again, again
because I’m just not getting it right.
It looks like French curves swerving
around the Corvus, fan-tailed or not.
Please, help. Even if it means
pecking my carrion fingers. Please.
Let me bleed away the pulp
and alight imagination.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
Three red roses placed on his grave
And a toast to the fair raven's friend
A master of words, born to die young
A poet with an untimely end
His Tell Tale heart now silent and still
Never to be heard anymore
But weeping still heard, tears fall like rain
From the spirit that he called Lenore
Forty years old when his quill ran dry
And could barely even make out a sound
"Lord help my soul" were the last words he spoke
Before they buried him deep in the ground
He wrote of the darkness that haunted his soul
And the spirits that invaded his mind
Sanity was tempting him just out of reach
The one thing that Poe couldn't find
A bottle of cognac and three red roses
A stranger would place on his grave
A small price to pay to the poet of poets
For all of the joy he gave
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 7:35 AM UTC
walked upon your avenue 'bout a thousand times before
ironically, wasn't looking for a score
only had a pen as my sword
it's a shame
but good to know, some things remain the same
don't know what sounds were ringing in my ears then
but the beers and the tears made me a brave ten
guess I didn't feel enslaved then
guess I knew when turn the page when
someone enters your life's story
and you think you're better, cause everything seems boring
when you got neil or tori spitting wisdom in your lobes
and the poor **** is jammin' to that gangster **** that runs the globe
illuminati, glitterati, they don't want your body
it's just an echo of nevermore
used to know a girl named Lenore
until the birds poured into her head
stolen first were the memories and things unsaid
next came the dreams from a solitary bed
might as well have been in the middle of the ocean
I don't pretend to know your pain
or what it's like to lose or gain
I only know that I can conceive the notion
of waves crashing, so soothing, so earth-shattering
the infernal pressure felt from above while you're barely floating
and God seems to be gloating, like he created something in his image
so hold on, no matter how sinister
and of course, they all tell you it's in your mind
it's the devil doing paint by numbers in disguise
it's a gift-wrapped present with nothing inside but lead
but you know that crazy is just a term for the clock in your head
so you listen to his rhymes that flow, so lightly but so heavily
that they become your desire
so you use your last match to blow your best smoke ring
and never notice that the bed's on fire
and now you're back walking on the avenue
it took quite a few spins of that **** for you to get the gist
cause even the sages wouldn't know what side to be on
when it's you against the world, outsider vs insider, and on and on
it goes, so you rub elbows with a stranger
next move could be heaven or be danger
but this is your least favorite life
so you say **** it, hello, my name is, welcome to the show
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
A poet upon his or her death " Does Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", for they have something to share with future generations through their poetry.
Robert Frost "When faced with two roads diverged in a yellow wood he took the one less traveled by and that made all the difference."
Was William Blake laid to rest under A Poison Tree? Or was he saying that we are like poison to our enemies? One beauty concerning poetry is that it can be left up to the interpretation of the reader. Even if it was written to mean one thing the readers can discover several possible meanings to the poem like discovering jewels each time it is read.
Perhaps lets for fun imagine" The Raven", giving the eulogy for Edgar Allan Poe, and talking about his life and the loves that inspired his poetry especially Poe's beloved" Annabel Lee" and "Lenore. "The Raven" proceeded to close his eulogy with the words " Nevermore".
Maybe when it was time for William Shakespeare to be laid to rest while dressed up in his Sunday best. His poem " Fear No More" could have been read leaving not one dry eye as many fans cried for a great poet and playwright had died. A big comfort to his fans is that his work is forevermore immortalized in print for future generations to enjoy. As Dylan Thomas best stated " And Death Shall Have No Dominion" because the poets words still live on in print to be read and enjoyed and discovered by many generations to come. The poems that a poet writes are there legacy that they leave for future generations.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
I love you more than life and death,
and all the words of earth combined.
I'd give you even my last breath,
and in your heart I might just find
the thing that I've been looking for,
the love I crave so frightening.
You're not my lost and loved Lenore,
but something much more quieting.
I'm speechless in you presence, though
I'd never give you up to doubt,
and all my feelings I can crow
will never let you run about.
I love you better than myself,
and that, my dear, defines itself.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
If you lay still, I'll entomb thee
Stay and capture, but ne'er doom thee
Lie here - So entombed, you'll never die
Let me take thee, let me have you,
I can make us, you won't have to!
In these lines forever we will lie.
Writing this I have already
rose like Romeo, though by lead he
swore his soul would sink the stars. Oh, Fie.
"Liar" - Please, I pray pronounce him,
truth exposed I do denounce him.
Dramatist. You made love with your words.
We make angels from a nothing.
Ones who'll bear the cherubs touching,
probing - dreams, desires, future fears...
Now I ramble - please forgive me,
Fear no lecture though, for give me
Time - I'll write the rhyme to make you see:
If you lay still, I'll entomb me
Rhyme to love - and always move me.
I have leaned that love is in the eye.
If you may still have desire
I'll rhyme and write - then throw to fire
lines in which forever I will lie.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
***** gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."
So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?
And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-balls and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,
The home we eventually abandoned.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
To all who write from within their soul
I leave to them my muse
A curse to me I couldn't console
A curse I couldn't refuse
To all of those who write of romance
I leave the spirit of my lovely Lenore
For maybe in death I'll get a chance
To be with her once more
To all of those who write by night
I leave the darkness, my captor of dreams
And all the demons that held me tight
The reason for all of my screams
To all of those who write of pain
I leave my broken heart
A lonely spirit that left its stain
And tore my world apart
And to all of those who write of death
By the light of an empty moon
I'll send the reaper to steal your breath
For you'll be with me soon
Jun 28, 2011
Jun 28, 2011 at 11:31 AM UTC
a sad rainy day
clouds hover like a spectre
over mourning skies
tonight they shall all rise up
the ghosts of the walking dead
I am there waiting
the cemetery frightens
but I must see her
see her face just one more time
aglow with life for one night
the earth is trembling
perspective fading in, out
as the shadows swoon
the mists are rising...there...there
Leonore, Leonore, please don't leave...
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
My clock a' tick-tock'n
Half passed nevermore
My lifeboat a' rock'n
Lovesick to the core
No hope left of dock'n
On pearly white shore
When Grim comes a' knock'n
At my chamber door
Now all I've begotten
Befalls the scythe's drear
And all I stood for
Lies buried and rotten
I shed but one tear
For my last nevermore
I dread but one fear
It will all be forgotten
By long lost Lenore
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
Every time ya’ walk through that door
I hit the floor.
Ya’ have me beggin’ for more.
My only wish is for
ya’ to adore me.
So take my hand cause’ we can soar.
As a matter of fact let’s take a
Walk on the shore
My Lenore.
Cause’ I wanna get to know ya’
Down to the core.
With all this love I have
To give there’s no way we
Can be poor.
Please baby don’t ignore!
I can’t wait anymore!
Put your arms around me cause’
We can stand before
Anything ********
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 9:54 PM UTC