A Taste of Amontillado

27 Comments

Poem Commentary

This is not a poem about wine or winos. It is about the supernatural and almost irresistable lures utilized through intents on your destruction. Howeveeer, i am indebted to E.A. Poe for the gripping tale of "A Cask of Amontillado" for the conceit.

A Taste of Amontillado

Clandestine, the sequestered potentates

Speak of plans, and set their dates;

They mark out humans, shape their fates,

The powers of the air.

 

Once they nobly bowed to Glory,

Face afire o’er chin beard hoary,

Until rash attempt to alter story,

These powers of the air.

 

Falling brightness, rainbow showers,

Lights go out on far off towers,

New toys for them to test their powers,

The powers of the air.

 

Fought to found new dynasty,

On tall cherub’s fantasy,

Deceptions transmit mutiny,

To take power from thin air.

 

These are fearful, splended beasts,

Once energized by heaven’s feasts,

Now found fed on toxic yeast,

Leaven rising without  air.

 

Puppet masters of their craft,

When God said, “No!” they just laughed,

And preened some dazzling pinion shaft,

While falling through the air.

 

Humans never see them much,

But they know how to keep in touch,

To mitigate the faith of such,

Whose superstitions share.

 

They have such names in children’s tales,

Spirits, ghosts in cursed vales,

Some guide whose fool with lies regales,

Fresh dredged from dragon’s lair.

 

They gave up sulfur long ago,

Stench and horror simply had to go,

They now maintain their laser show

As angel’s of the air.

 

What gives new machinations force,

O’er victims gained without remorse,

Since laws effect the fatal course

Of the powers of the air?

 

Yet, humankind seems mesmerized,

And kept off balance, so surprised,

Too late the soul threat realized,

When left deprived of air.

 

Devils dance behind their masks,

Faithful to their damning tasks,

Still feign Amontillado casks,

When no such wine is there.

 

Only drunks with false bravado,

Find in sin their el Dorado,

As addicts of Amontillado,

Still fall by such a snare.

 

Woe, heed such voices once allured,

Wake to find yourself immured,

Knowing not death’s truth’s obscured,

By the powers of the air.


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alreedus commented on A Taste of Amontillado

12-01-2010

Excellent, clever and maybe cunning: all part of a poet's medicine bag.

HarverTomsson

12/01/2010

You've been peeking, haven't you? LOL Harv

NevillePark commented on A Taste of Amontillado

11-29-2010

Harver - - 'Love this style. Wow! You are a Masterclass poet there is no doubt. And I notice that your word-toolbox is bigger than mine. I like to write songs in that format - like I said, it's a favorite style of mine.Good stuff!

HarverTomsson

11/29/2010

Very glad you enjoyed the poem. Harv

carynontherhine commented on A Taste of Amontillado

11-28-2010

This my friend was quite a masterpiece filled with descriptives of powers unknown to man and a insightful journey to places far off. Feels like Romans doing good and then sinful. I would have thought I was reading this poem out of an ancient book with much power. You are the power, you are most talented. Thank you for delighting me with this amazing write. Hugz

HarverTomsson

11/28/2010

Such ability to create thought. . . .almost like a Rorshach blot! Read other responses to get the gist of my intent. The powers of the air are the "fallen" angels of scripture. Harv

Artie commented on A Taste of Amontillado

11-27-2010

I like the message and insight you offer in this. Excellent write my friend - 10 from me

HarverTomsson

11/28/2010

Thanks Artie, Harv

stefy commented on A Taste of Amontillado

11-27-2010

perfectly structured and worded.....the mood here is fantastic.....like a taste of Amontillado.....smile:-)

HarverTomsson

11/27/2010

Maybe I'm a bit prejudiced, seeing as I've never had a taste myself. . . that I know of, at least. LOL Thanks for stopping by for a read. Harv

stefy

11/27/2010

have had a taste or not, it`s not so important....you described that amazing....and this is it!!!

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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