Edgar Allen Poe link: Ed Poe
Poem 1 Ed Poe
Where
did you go
How did you
pass your
final days
I guess you
were bit in the
toe by a rabid dog
the crazed bastard
frothing and
growling and pacing
the streets
as you woke in a daze
In the early morn
on a park bench
along a Baltimore
Boulevard
As songbirds and
sparrows were
drowned out by ravens
You succumbed
to the poisons
from the jowls
of the heathen
amidst songbirds
and sparrows
and ravens
You spoke
nothing
but fainted
into the long
passage
into
the
place
beyond
Baudelaire was a poet. Famous for a collection: Flowers of Evil… Considering the photo, I believe he was just taking opium and often hungover. Yet the poems are beautiful… perhaps not destined for catholic or Desantos-type libraries but free press will prevail online (ha!): click here
Poem 2 Baudelaire’s Ghost
is in the sky
by day and at night
the words remain
as soul intent
ennui, paranoia
Catholic guilt
all dissolved
into quiet
meditation
so his bones
tell the tale
there are no
creaking boards
The ether has
made the poet
a drifter in time
And Poe belongs
in the same room
in perfect mystery
like a bird
arriving daily
at the same time
on your windowsill
half-dreams
fall into
overflowing
vessels
drown
in simple
death traps
or resurrect
in complex
life nets
or become
historical
hysteric
real stories
on the tip
of our
tongues
Poem 3 Jesus and Women
are friendly to me
whether it’s sunny
or there is a storm to be
They appear on my screen
so religiously
I’m inclined to pay them
collectively
I prefer a merlot
to Christianity
but I can’t exactly
describe pornography
To the left
there is astonishment
and to the right
there is admonishment
But, nonetheless
Jesus and prostitutes
are friendly to me
though the weather and I
often agree to disagree
Poem 4 Apples
from town
roll down the windows
Autumn breeze
upon our faces
there were hints
of apple everywhere
peach-colored
butterfly wings
floating like snow
and we drove up
the honey-hued
hill and the sky
spilled blue
until it
opened
and stars
emerged
Yet we were
driving up and
up to the place
of apple cider
wide open pavilion
apples and ciders
in abundance
beautiful apple
faces and conversation
glorious reunions
and celebrations
It seemed endless
And so it was
Poem 5 Poets are Ghosts
their words scatter
like space debris
across the universe
of language
barely breaching
our blue
atmosphere
plunging into dream
waking to painful light
drifting through day
dying into night
Copyright TLW 2023
End of Poetry Group Two
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