Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," 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 chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
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."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe

"Our world began in chaos shadowed,
Nothing could be real.
Then Odin banished magic, placed
Man's world on even keel.

"Law has ruled us since that day
With honor and faith and form.
It gives our world logical pattern;
Night follows day; clouds storm

"But Odin guides things near and far
His hand too strong for men.
So he placed four Wizards here
As mankind's gaurdian.

"One champions evil in the East,
His manner cruel and vile.
Northward, the Sorceress of good
Combats him all the while.

"The last two champion the West,
Neutral, it appeared.
Never dreaming of the fate
That Odin deemed their fate.

"With law alone, the world remained
Stable and safe for all.
Yet long routine brings stasis that
Slows genius to a crawl.

"Though chaos harbors Odin's doom
And that of gods and men.
With law alone, our worlds stgnate
Into oblivion.

"A day would come, Odin declared
A Wizard would arise.
Bold enough to wield the source
Of dishonor, sin, and lies.

"The Gray God made a trial that
Would kill all but the best.
Millenia later, Colbey came
And passed Odin's great test.

"Now causes four and Wizards four
Trained to sanction extremes.
Yet three to one they champion law
And the last must die, it seems.

"Generations lived and died
while Odin picked the one,
Competent to moderate
The amount of chaos done.

"Yet the Cardinal Wizards see only
Their causes to fight.
The dedication that empowers them
Also binds them to the light.

"They say: battle chaos with its own,
Forgetting in ther rage,
That law embodies honor kept
No matter the war they wage.

"when chaos conquers Wizard four
Mankind seems sure to fall,
Especially when some have already
Heeded chaos' call.

"The gods can not come to our aid
Their powers too vast to balance.
The Wizards all have fallen prey
Our world to them a dalliance

"The time has come for men to join
Together in desperate need,
To sacrifice personal interest,
To cast aside their greed.

"No champion left, men must fight
Or collapse again into the void.
Chaos' promises: hollow lies boding
A ruin even gods can't avoid."
The Bard, Mar Lon(Mickey Zucker Reichert)

Angel or Devil?
You tell me.
Which do you prefer?
It doesn't matter to me.
I could be kind
I could be cruel
Any day of the week.
I might show up with
A halo
Or a
Pitch fork.
It's hard to tell
What is inside
I could be all gay
One day
Devilish
The next.
Angel or Devil?
You tell me.
The Page Creater, Carl Streed

Oh, how I ache
For the midsummer quake
Of distant thunder,

Of the tapping of rain
Upon my window pane
And the constant flash
Followed by the booming clash
Of distant thunder.

As I sit here and wonder
In this dreary winter slumber,
Waiting for the rainy midsummer
To melt away these snowy days
And make way for the May season,
I'll be waiting all the while
For the midsummer thunder
To aide me in my slumber.
The page creator, Carl Streed

a feeble attempt at writing a sestina

This stormy winter has put us into a slumber.
The curtains keep falling and blanket upon blanket piling
The icicles forming bars around windows break the light of the heavenly moon,
Creating a wonderful twinkle upon the walls of white.
The snow muffles the noise and clatter of the city sounds
And makes the sleep all the more pleasant.

The feel of warmth, that can only be compared to cocoa, is pleasant.
The fire crackles and the coals glow an orangish-red glow upon the white
Forming orange and red and yellow lights that keep piling
With ever new log, which are just as pure and round as the moon.
And as I hear this I begin to dose and slumber
Thanks to the crackle, pop, and hiss sounds.

The snow falls slow, but surely, without any sounds
Creating the idea of purity in its lightly nature of piling.
Bending and breaking the incandescent glow of the celestial body of moon,
The ice has a magical power that makes us woozy and pleasant.
Once the storm has settled the sheets of snow in slumber
Look all that more beautiful in the white.

In the clear white
One can hear for miles, yet no sounds
Can be heard in the deep slumber
Of winter under the crescent moon.
For the large hills that look serene and peacefully pleasant
Are growing with the winter piling.

In these hills are the children piling
Then falling in wonderful sounds
Enjoying the winter sleep with pleasant fun and washes of white
Later laying is slumber
Making the beings upon the moon.

The snow then begins anew falling from the moon.
Creating folds and creases as it's piling
That look like the hills by the city sounds,
And the moving and rolling ceiling of white
With its booming thunder that is so pleasant
That it aides me in my blissful slumber.

Here I lay under the moon in slumber
Where I, piling the blankets, am pleasant
And enjoy the white and lack of sounds.
The page creator, Carl Streed

This a poem created in honor of a friend's character.

Oh how annoying you can be,
Sitting on your flat ass, smiling joyously.
Reading aloud your bedevil literature,
Involved in your personal world and high stature.
You egotistical freak - oh how annoying you can be.

You attempt to be that of the Ivy League,
But you'll only be accepted in the world of make believe.
You stick your nose up with such high pride,
Your personal gain is all in your mind.
For if annoyance was a door, you'd hold the golden key,
Galen - oh how annoying you can be.
The page creator, Carl Streed & friend, Teresa Anguiano

And here's Galen's response

My friends are oh-so-wonderful,
They treat me like a king.
They pamper me,
And flatter me,
They encourage me to sing.

My friends are oh-so-wonderful,
They treat me like a king.
But then I wake up to my alarm clock,
Oops, I was having a dream.
Friend, Galen Panger

My butt is so perfect and so just
It is so plump unlike my bust.
It does not wiggle nor does it shake,
It always stays in its rightful place.
My butt is very convenient at many times,
It can fit through crowded doors and on a small seat just fine.
My butt is said to be a great masterpiece,
But it was not made by Picasso, Monet, or Xerxes.
How perfect my butt is for all to see,
It will keep so perfect until eternity.
Friend, Teresa Anguiano

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Emily Dickenson

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