Poet Tree
Dead poet went down,
to the ancient poet tree,
to see if he could summon up,
a regal rhyme or three.
Ancient one by the stream,
near wild flower meadow free,
where a poet could think,
"To be or not to be."
Longfellow was short,
but rather long of verse,
he dreamed of Evangeline,
from his horse-drawn hearse.
The Ancient Mariner,
took its timbers out to sea,
cursed by the albatross,
hung for all to see.
Edgar Allan Poe at,
his garden gate swore,
he heard a raven tell him,
"Nevermore, no, nevermore."
Down in the Greenwich center,
if you were a night owl,
you could join the beats there,
listening to Allen Ginsberg howl.
Back under that tree again,
near Sleepy Hollow Road,
you can still hear old Ichabod ride,
headless eyes bugged out like a toad.
Copyright 2018 © Ronald W. Hull
7/26/18
View this poem at my website here.
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took me down the line of great poets
from whom I've learned so much
Peace be with you
WILLIAM
The dead writers tree
Is a good place to be,
When you're searching for prose
Sweet as a literary rose.
From Tolstoy's war,
To Dicken's poor,
Story lines abound,
With a political sound.
You always make me smile, Ron!
Love ya!
Jane
PS: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow isn't a poem.
Shervin
Is one for the times,
Bearing fruit,
From ancient rhymes.
It's there for all,
To see and read.
So pick the fruits,
And plant a seed.
Cheers,
Dan
Sandie