Halloween Poem:Spirits of the Dead ~ Edgar Allan Poe

spirits

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

Edgar Allan Poe

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Wednesday Poem – Lake Lucerne ~ Bob Casey

Tomorrow September 22nd, in 1499, Switzerland became an independent state.  To celebrate that I thought a poem based in Switzerland would be nice… Enjoy!

lake-lucerne

Lake Lucerne

Ripples appear here and there
….on otherwise placid water.
Earlier downpours have dissipated
….as the sun sinks
….brushing hues of yellow
….against deep greens
….and turning leaves.
Summer flowers offer
….their last brilliance of color
….while distant chiseled peaks
….turn gray in the dimming light.
An alpine day comes to a close.

Bob Casey

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Wednesday Poem: The Presence In Absence ~ Linda Gregg

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The Presence In Absence

Poetry is not made of words.
I can say it’s January when
it’s August. I can say, “The scent
of wisteria on the second floor
of my grandmother’s house
with the door open onto the porch
in Petaluma,” while I’m living
an hour’s drive from the Mexican
border town of Ojinaga.
It is possible to be with someone
who is gone. Like the silence which
continues here in the desert while
the night train passes through Marfa
louder and louder, like the dogs whining
and barking after the train is gone.

Linda Gregg

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Wednesday Poem: Squash Under the Bed ~ Ofelia Zepeda

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Squash Under the Bed

There was always crooked-neck squash under our beds.
The space under the bed met the criteria of a cool, dark, dry place.
These large, hard-skinned squash with speckled, serrated,
green and yellow designs shared space under our beds
with new cowboy boots, lost socks, forgotten toys,
dust and little spiders.
The squash rested under there with our memory of summer.
Awaiting winter darkness.
With the cold weather, we split the hard skin and expose the
rich yellow meat inside, the bounty of large seeds entangled
in the wetness of their origin.
We saved the seeds for next summer.
We eat the soft, sweet meat of the winter squash.
We swallow the warmth of summer.

Ofelia Zepeda

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Wednesday Poem: The Night Weaver ~ Amelia Dashwood

night

The Night Weaver

She blossoms in the darkness
Her magic stirs at night
Whispering potent wishes
Embracing moonbeams tight

She thrives in flawless silence
In solitude and grace
And plots her tender magic
Within a sacred space

The night owl claims her quiet
And ponders mysteries
Whilst weaving spells and stories
And setting daydreams free

She sparkles in the blackness
Like glowing candle flames
She muddles through her sunlit days
Till twilight sings again

The moon and stars are chaperones
Her oracles of time
She breathes in waves of wisdom
And sings sweet lullabies

Beneath the speckled starlight
The darkness is her realm
A universe expanding
Till sunrise breaks the spell

Amelia Dashwood

Wednesday Poem: Harlem ~ Langston Hughes

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Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

Wednesday Poem: January 1939 ~ Dylan Thomas

Unemployed-Man-1939-011

January 1939

Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the bum city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.

Dylan Thomas