by Alicia Bair
A majestic and deafening bell tower sings,
A tyrant wails and the torrent rings.
Breath is heavy in the tunnel so deep,
The knight finds the beast at the heels of the keep.
Ashes of flames flicker and dance,
The tune of the hour is a vibrating trance.
Torn asunder in the doorway so cruel,
The shield on his shoulder becomes only fuel.
Dreams of a smile commence without end,
A trusting grin on the face of a friend.
Ghostly skin discolored by touch,
Private discourse is a damaging crutch.
This towering creature, unforgiving and scarred,
Stares into armor that's broken and charred.
Sauntering in arcs that beat and forge song,
Impassioned struggle produces the strong.
Metal meets smoke with a shimmering fail,
A duplicate sweep and blade pierces scale.
Vengeance is instant and flames are a flood,
Monstrous teeth surrender the blood.
The strangling blast reveals a strange birth,
The scent of embers determines the worth.
Fire lights the wave of red at his feet,
In a battle to death, no choice for retreat.
Behind savage eyes, a light appears through,
A newfound strength and defeat is askew.
Who is this man running out of the deep?
Where is his princess, secure and asleep?
Armor removed, hair falls to her back,
The hero is the damsel, her face coated black.
Eyes of an ocean fill her vacanted mind,
The waves of that sea are calming and blind.
Who is to be saved by this soldier so cracked?
To rescue herself is all that she's lacked.
Is the beast the villain? Or is it the girl?
The clearing smoke allows truth to unfurl.
With a face in her mind, she shuts her burned eyes,
A lunge and a bite destroy the last cries.
by Douglas Troland
I could have been:
a spiral staircase to heaven;
the holiest of wines;
with oracles who spin ancient tales
until the next
where every folder is folded and every pencil is
the keyboard awaits my decisive touch.
Crisp shirt and windsor knotted tie
my shoes so shined they look like glass.
a kindred soul
to the wall street crossroads.
Instead I sit in pastured fields
with swaying blades of emerald grass
I took the road less traveled
and ended up here
a tree stump at my feet,
where ants crawl in circles.
Industrious and social.
I prefer a quiet night to the
blaring trumpet of God's parade…..
a quiet mist to the
tempest's churn in
oceans' ravaged currents - so furious
that only dead fish
rest on its surface.
by Tony Manfetano
There is plenty left to do
But it's not
What they want to hear about.
I haven't put the bottle
down-but I have
loosened my grip quite a bit.
So the night fades into a deeper
Shade of nothingness
as I drive alone and talk to memories.
But the aridity of now is not,
Will not, last for-
Ever, that I'm making towards the OK.
For all the changes we experience
with age-as well
I'm too tired
But here we are
And there we are
Melted then diluted
To the point that our focus
cannot be concentrated for more
Than mere moments.
Our conciousness under constant
Attack by the ambient cacophony of
throw away that surrounds us.
So tell me I've faded away
And my style
Is that of a forgotten time
There is plenty left to do
And no one will
Read this till I'm gone anyway
Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.
"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." -Edgar Allan Poe
"It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat." -Edgar Allan Poe
"We loved with a love that was more than love." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute." -Edgar Allan Poe
"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?"
"The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The customs of the world are so many conventional follies." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence-- but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself." -Edgar Allan Poe