Edmund V. Strolis


Edmund V. Strolis Poems

121. Two Bits And A Bottle Of Wine 3/29/2016
122. Party Crashers 3/12/2016
123. My Teacher A Child 3/12/2016
124. Soul Food 3/21/2016
125. Tea With Carroll 4/10/2016
126. Golden Heart 5/2/2016
127. Beautiful True Blue You 5/5/2016
128. One Word 9/6/2016
129. She Rests Her Eyes Upon You Softly 9/9/2016
130. Cheerio 7/26/2016
131. Choose To Choose 3/29/2017
132. The Faith To Begin Again 2/1/2017
133. The Fitful Dream 2/3/2017
134. The Clearing 10/30/2016
135. Celtic Light 4/6/2017
136. Lost Visions Now Return 4/17/2017
137. Anywhere Will Do 4/19/2017
138. Why Should I She Said 6/23/2017
139. Glad Shouts 6/23/2017
140. A Little Bit 6/23/2017
141. The Sliver 7/3/2017
142. ~~currents~~~~~ -new- 8/16/2017
143. Pampered Snowflakes 4/23/2017
144. A Ship's Tale 4/23/2017
145. Batter Up! 5/19/2017
146. Faces In A Crowd 6/17/2017
147. The Motley Choir 6/20/2017
148. The Aging Giant 4/15/2017
149. Mining For Gold~ 4/12/2017
150. Drifting As One 11/4/2016
151. My Wonderful Deplorable Friends 11/7/2016
152. ~christmas Snow~ 12/3/2016
153. Phobia-Phobe 6/28/2016
154. Leaning On My Fender 7/30/2016
155. To Love A Quiet Nothing Road 7/11/2016
156. Scatter Startled Seagulls 7/2/2016
157. Her Eyes And Ears Were Open 5/13/2016
158. Che Guevara Wannabe 5/1/2016
159. Mind Games 2/23/2016
160. Heavy Weather 12/8/2015
Best Poem of Edmund V. Strolis

Edgar Allan Poe

They all wash over me with pitying eyes, they think that I don't see.
Yet they are only crude jagged faces on the canvas of my dreams.
Empty their wishes float, as they seem to pray my safe return.
How can they know the fever that within this prison burns.

For what is this sinister slow waltz to hell without my sweet Lenore?
My wish which any fool can guess, I must be with her once more.
How my heels find their way to that vacant tomb beyond the bedroom door.
Now I curse the promise of that desperate hour! not to join my love Lenore.

Hooves over ...

Read the full of Edgar Allan Poe

The Yellow Cup

Her tiny hands held the mug, fingers traced each crack and scrape.
Twas rare to find it out of sight for two moments in a day.

Worn was the handle, near vanished the rose, a mere hint of pink inlaid.
but the cup of yellow still held its' brilliance, as if by angels made.

Was it true the story of a mother lost and the depth of her dear sorrow?
Empty cup waiting for a yesterday, yet too full to hold tomorrow.

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