A Story and A Song by Cle Curbo

It emerged from the ground for the first time. It grew in five years to a height of a two story house. Then, one day in a hot summer, the tree sprouted balloons. These were filled with methane and waved back and forth in the gentle breeze.

Only one person saw this not entirely unexpected phenomonon, a child of ten years named Joggly. And as he watched the tree climb into the sky farther and farther from the earth, he wondered if the tree could go to space.

 

 

 

 

A Poem by Cle Curbo (aka “Poe”)

A Graveyard Foggy

 

Raven Manhatted, in long grey overcoat,

walked through fog, head held high, black leather satchel under arm,

lantern swinging, he halts to peer at mossy gravestone.

There you lie in slumber rumbling,

tossing, turning, always mumbling,

thinking thoughts of your deep stumbling,

long upon this darkened moor.

Shall I quote my one concluding,

standing at your graveyard door?

There you lie for ever more.

Down my knee at satchel,

lantern looks to gloom of morning still intact,

next to grave where Edgar’s face might be,

brightens long nights in uneasy peace.

I, too, live in shadow,

of the man above my mantle,

his gentle countenance ne’er unravelled,

still I rival his hold upon my chamber door.

Of we two, only I escaped some longer,

til that time approaching,

til that bird upon its perching,

visits at my chamber door.

This I know and nothing more.

Lantern off I offer more,

in this darkened dreary moor,

I’ve come to say what needed telling,

telling what I ever kept from you before.

Only this and nothing more.

Lifting small this Cognac vial,

I bring to drink of something bleary,

not to make us bright and cheery,

of long forgotten dreams that weary,

but merely, to imbibe a potion,

we long sat sipping,

upon this broad and lonely shore.

Only this and nothing more.

Uncapped this vial of Cognac from my satchel merely,

I swig then stop, and head uprearing,

spy some light horizon glowing,

turn back to your headstone moaning.

In haste I must conclude our visit,

only last year did I quiz you,

dropping query on your misery,

so about your missing heavy,

of the lovely lady merry,

the lady called Lenore.

Only this and nothing more.

While you in chamber weeping,

fearing, moaning of love so quitting,

fleeing lowing, lost upon your darkening shore,

did I comfort the no more sleeping,

loving keeping fiery meaning,

loving, clinging I found needing,

needing love the lost Lenore.

Only this and nothing more.

I fall to knees at grave untilting,

bend my head to grave unsettling,

while the raven’s slow entrancing,

kept you fearing, slowly dancing,

dancing round your mindful horror,

I was delving, gently waking,

the long asleeping of love your weakening

left upon the opportune door.

Only this and nothing more.

Your hands reaching out, covering my face,

on my bended knee of grace unwielding,

I keep repeating this loving greeting,

each year we make this memory meeting,

fog unclear not cleaning,

in our darkened meeting,

upon this boggy shore.

Agony filling, merely sharing,

I live with guilt so pleasant seeming,

while you sleep in death so freeing,

knowing that I loved Lenore.

Only this forever more.