Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Here are a few poems I wrote last year.  I am immensely proud of them as I normally never write poetry unless extremely inspired.  Enjoy, and do comment!

- Edgar Allan Poe

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Angels

Do you believe in angels?

Seen by few,

felt by many,

they are our silent guardians,

driving away the terror

which threatens to engulf our souls.

Perhaps you have heard

their nightly whispers,

gentle and soothing,

surpassing even the most tranquil lullaby;

or felt their invisible arms,

shielding you from the dangers and turmoils of the world.

Or perhaps,

on a quiet day,

you have felt the sweep of their wings

as they fly overhead,

assuming their tireless vigil

over mankind.

There are those

who entertain angels

unawares,

never imagining

that the old beggar,

with his shabby garments and gnarled hands,

could have a heart of gold

hidden beneath the soot and grime,

or that the librarian,

with her feeble eyes and graying hair,

could have a tireless spirit,

always willing to lend her knowledge

to those that need it.

These celestial beings,

who are so often under disguise,

are all around us,

touching us with their presence,

and soothing our ruffled minds.

Look hard enough,

and you may find an angel

in your very midst.

I am

I am the echo of thunder on a midsummer day

I am the pattern on a butterfly’s wing

I am the waves lapping upon the prow of a ship

I am the flash of lightning in an empty room

I am a tender sprout poking my way up out of the soil

I am a metronome, keeping pace with those around me

I am the velvet on a horse’s nose

I am a cluster of emerald moss, spongy and moist

I am the innocent smile of a young maiden

I am a standard, proudly fluttering in the wind

I am the luster on a pair of newly-shined shoes

I am a cat, lazy and nonchalant

I am the dew bejeweling the grass

I am the spirit of all these things.

Motes of Dust

Sitting upon the base of a lamp

are motes of dust,

countless in number,

each a minuscule grain of next-to-nothingness.

Switch on the lamp,

and they become visible,

anticipating the puff of air

that will send them on their merry way.

There!

Now they are off, floating and cavorting

through the air,

resembling the tiniest of dancers.

Airborne, they wander aimlessly,

ever travelling downward,

until, at last,

they once more come to settle upon

the base of the lamp, there to wait

until the next puff of air

comes their way.

Ode to a Magnolia Tree

Planted on a knoll

like a bride in white

is a magnolia tree,

its supple arms bent under the weight of

a myriad of blooms.

Swaying in the breeze,

their bobbing heads are full of visions;

visions of spring and endless sunshine,

of warm, balmy breezes

and cool, tranquil nights.

Their petals are fingers,

creamy and soft

as a baby’s skin.

All who drink in their perfume

are overcome

with a sense of euphoria.

Most precious magnolia,

surely your beauty cannot be matched

by any mortal thing;

your purity is exquisite.

Many hands will reach for your blossoms,

and you will give them freely,

so that your innocence and loveliness

may be drunk in by all.

The Rat

Up in the garret

I hear a noise.

A subtle noise,

like tiny paws

scurrying across the rafters.

Do you see what I see?

A rat;

ambling along the edge of a beam,

his bare tail delicately poised

for balance.

Suddenly, he freezes–

every limb held stock-still,

save his whiskers,

which twitch curiously,

as if they are alive.

Don’t move, or he’ll see you!

See how he sits on his hind legs

revealing a creamy white underbelly,

soft as silk.

Sniffing the air for predators,

his sharp, intelligent eyes scan the room,

black orbs of liquid darkness

wary of every moving thing.

He is all-seeing.

His vigil is interrupted by a sound--

someone is climbing up the stairs!

Without warning,

the rat is gone.

Disappeared?

I cannot say.