Edgar Allan Poe…don’t you know?

Way back when quite a handful of writers had a profound influence on me. During the fleeting and flickering years of college, several writers loomed larger. Edgar Allan Poe was and is one of these leading authors.



It wasn’t until #amwriting became a pleasant distraction and words met screen that I realized just how much of an impact they had made on me.


From a dingy and damp corner came the “Poe” in me.


The following “Poetrilogy” of poems were written in honor of Edgar Allan Poe. Their subtitles are He, She, and You.


From the womb, He felt no pain,
while others prepared his feast.
He made no mistakes,
thinking not of gain,
floating, playing, growing.
Suspended in warmth and space
A rude awakening awaits
just beneath his feet
to shepherd his thrust into light,
radiating want and need with pain.
Bursting forth, in agonizing screams,
aliens pawing at the new He.
For decades to come, life remained free.
Thanks to loving mom and busy daddy.
Neither fret nor worry visited He.
At ease in wombs of luxury, comfort, glee.
On a gentle breeze, manhood explodes
whilst playing a fool’s game of free.
Parents seeing to his every need.
Death oft claims more than deceased,
stranding for life some, just like He
tutored by none at a trough of free.
No nuts gathered, a fiddler he be.
To want is to knead, a lesson untaught.
Winter comes early, wolves in need.
It’s true in life, naught is free,
not only to those fiddling…like He.

An odd egg She was since aged three,
immersing herself in words of fantasy,
with dreams of becoming another who
wrote, what She called, poe-a-tree.
E. A. Poe became her muse, at ten.
Her poems growing darker due to him.
She changed her looks, as Goth as can be.
In mental crypts, her sleep did come
beside the worms, dampness, and glum.
Carrying murder, revenge, and mayhem
to school, She played, burying a classmate
alive beneath teach’s desk. The interred
played along, fancying her look, but not
Miss Lee, Annabel was not she.
Off to the office the cast did go,
thanks to a muse, named Edgar Allan Poe.

Everything’s a test, and it’s all queued for You.
Either pass or fail the path remains true.
A tough lesson to face is simple indeed.
Is the glass half full or fifty percent empty?
You may not grasp, but this one’s tricky.
For You see, truth of the query lies within ye.
It’s what You say it is, and that’s no lie. But
a deeper meaning broods, escaping most.
There are those, unlike You, who have no glass.
In thirst, they see no hope, no promise, parched
lips existing at odds with a bleak tomorrow.
Half empty would be perfect response for those
like them. Maybe not You but surely me.

Copyright © 2016 Ron Shaw

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