Weary Dreams of Poe and a Bottle in the Sand

31 Jan


Photo by pippalou on Morgue File.

You’re at the beach, lounging on your towel, when a glistening object at the water’s edge catches your eye. It’s a bottle — and yes, it contains a message. What does it say?

Once upon a noonday clearly, while I relaxed fresh and nearly,

A nap; over some forbidden poetic volume of Poe-ic gore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my sunlit shore—

“‘Tis some wry seagull,” I muttered, “tapping at my sunlit shore—

Only this and nothing more.” 


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the heat of summer;

And each separate burning simmer wrought its light upon my core.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From looks came sorrow—sorrow for the lost shaker of salt, adored —

For the rare and radiant thing whom Parrotheads name Adored—

Ere lost here for evermore.


And the sandy, glad, uncertain rustling of each white-specked tern

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic wonders never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

“‘Tis some wry seagull entreating attention at my sunlit shore—

Some late wry seagull entreating attention at my sunlit shore;—

This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my burn grew hotter; hesitating then no longer,

“Bird,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my sunlit shore,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I looked down the shore;—

Sunlight there and nothing more.


Deep into that blue surf peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no sun-baked man e’er dared to dream before;

But the foamed surf was unbroken, and the splashing gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Adored?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Adored!”—

Merely this and nothing more.


Back onto my towel turning, all my skin about me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is someone updating their status;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Sitting here I flung the towel, when, with many a tern and sparrow,

In there washed an olden bottle of the glassy days of yore;

Not in the least broken was it; no, not a minute crack in it;

But, with look of beer or cola, perched below my book of gore—

Perched below a shell so flawless just below my book of gore—

Perched, and still, and nothing more.


Then this shining bottle beguiling my sunburned face into smiling,

By the glare and old decorum of the countenance it bore,

“Though thy glass be dull and faded, thou,”I said, “art sure not jaded,

Ghastly grim and ancient bottle washing on the sunlit shore—

Tell me what thy holdeth entombed on the beach’s sandy shore!”

Quoth the message “Eat at Joe’s, just down the shore!”

***My humble thanks and apologies to the late E. A. Poe. This was a bit of fun for the prompt, obviously based on Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, The Raven. If you would like to read it, HERE is the link. Enjoy!***


Posted by on January 31, 2014 in Daily Prompt, Poetry and Creative Musings


Tags: , , , , , , , ,

9 responses to “Weary Dreams of Poe and a Bottle in the Sand

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