The master poet, Poe, beguiles my verse;
his rhyme and flow regales my aching core.
My muse I wish he might define and nurse,
I pled while kneeling down upon the floor.
Then he said… nevermore.

I wrote for him my finest poem in rhyme
with colors never known or limned before,
then sang a song with scores of tunes that chime.
“You need to help me now, I must implore.”
He said… nothing more.

Unable to enchant with clever words,
my simple odes his knowing can’t restore.
I know he loved Lenore, as time records
I plead will you enter my darkened door?
He said… nevermore.

Undaunted by his refusal I explored
then lauded his notorious bird of lore,
who perched and crowed above his chamber door.
His cark a sound that I had heard before

“Oh would you kindly mentor me with care
and write a verse for me I could adore?
My soul is sorrow laden with despair.
I said is breathing poems your stock and store?”
He said…evermore.

My pen was churning, burning hot as steam
of Raven’s flight above the silent shore.
To write like Poe this poet’s fervid dream,
I tried my best while penning words that pour.
When he said…nothing more.

© By Marilyn Terwilleger (

Toward the Light

Welcome Spring (several writers)

Kitchen on Memory Lane

Pot of Gold

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