AND THE ASSIGNMENT IS: to write a poem in the form of a fan letter to a celebrity. Now, this could be a celebrity from long ago, and needn’t be an actor or singer (though it could be).
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[NOTE: Not certain I met the Challenge properly. Apologies, if I missed the mark.]
SLR
Braving whistling winds and blowing snows, ‘mongst graves in Old Baltimore;
T’was an uneasy hour, long ‘fore the morning, when a raven wailed “Ne’ermore!“
I approached the shrill, little death-bird, “Ne’ermore!” it cried and flew —
Back; three more rows to a brick wall and perched itself ‘pon a Yew.
“Ne’ermore!” it screeched with each footstep — each more sharp then the last;
Then it hovered, wings fully extended and its head it sharply downcast.
I looked past the bird to a large marble mass and wondered, how did it know?
Because there, alone in the graveyard I stood face to face … with Poe!
His cold stare cut right through me, his face was wretched in pain;
And, while his woman, Lenore, slept soundly, he demanded from me my name.
“Why are you here?” he wallowed, “What business have you with me?“
“My apologizes, Sir, it’s a lame idea: Just a birthday drink with thee.“
He recognized the bottle I held in toast and slowly he did agree
Then we toasted to Love and Romances Lost, then toasted Melancholy.
We disagreed about breakthroughs in Science and debated the high cost of War
But agreed ’bout the World and all on it, and the Sun, the Moon, and each star.
Then a murder of death-birds were crying, as the sunrise peeked into view,
“I’m weary,” said he, “And you need to be, off with work to do!“
Up from the ground, from where I had sat, I brushed off the light-fallen snow
“Yes, Sir, you’re right! I apologize, I really aught to go!“
As I bundled up, I checked my pockets, and pulled out a single red rose;
“The bottle was for you, good Sir, but this for Lenore, I chose.“
“Leave it,” said he, “with the Cognac. And I’ll whisper in her ear;
“The young man who left it for her, will visit again, next year!“
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