By Edgar Allan Poe, this is perhaps my favorite piece of poetry. It's very vivid in its imagery. First published in 1845, Poe made several revisions over the the years, small ones, and these revisions are evident in the various published forms of the poem. I read it to myself as I lay on his original resting spot in Baltimore, MD, on 19 September 2015 when I visited.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe


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 mortal 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 marveled 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 blessed 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 farther 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 my sad 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 lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls 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 of 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 lamp-light 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!



If you would like to hear The Raven read by Sir Christopher Lee, please click here.
The words are included in the video, or you can play it in the background and follow along with the poem above.
Perhaps you would care to listen to Omnia's version instead.
They have altered a word here and there, but it's still a lovely version. Click here.
Enjoy, all you pretty people out there in the dark...

I've had this memorized for many years. It is an old poem or folk song thought to date from at least 1400 CE. The author is unknown. It's very romantic, vampiric, and spiritual. I find it very soothing at the same time and I wanted to share it.

"The wind doth blow today, my love,         
    And a few small drops of rain;         
I never had but one true-love,         
    In cold grave she was lain.         

“I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;         
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave         
    For a twelvemonth and a day.”

The twelvemonth and a day being up,         
    The dead began to speak:            
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?”

“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,         
    And will not let you sleep;         
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.”

“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,         
    But my breath smells earthy strong;         
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,         
    Your time will not be long.

“’T is down in yonder garden green,         
    Love, where we used to walk,         
The finest flower that e’re was seen         
    Is withered to a stalk.         

“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;         
So make yourself content, my love,         
    Till God calls you away.”

This is the review for my holiday tale A Christmas Canticle from A Grave Interest website.
A Christmas Canticle is available on Amazon.com in both kindle and paperback.

Book Review: A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger

For those of us who love a good ghost story, no matter what time of year it is, Frank E. Bittinger provides a fun holiday read with A Christmas Canticle.

Channeling Charles Dickens' novella A Christmas Carol for inspiration, Bittinger gives us his version of Ebenezer Scrooge - Bronson Ghostley, a demanding gothic horror author, paranormal television star, and all-around media personality who has no time for sentiment or holidays.

This twist on the familiar holiday tale has been up-dated to the 21st century complete with cell phones, DVDs and the internet. Although the story is predictable as to the purpose of the visiting spirits (And how could it not be?), Bittinger leads us along with enough interesting details that we accept Ghostley as a modern-day Scrooge.


His spin on Marley’s ghost is unique and interesting, especially when you begin to understand the backstory of Ghostley’s childhood. The Ghost of Christmas Past has a unique vision, offering Ghostley “two sides of the same coin.”

The Spirit of Christmas Present provides more illumination into what makes Ghostley tick, reminding him, and us, that “even when we can see, sometimes we are still blind.”

The final spirit, the dreaded Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, is a “real bite in the ass” according to Ghostley. But the death coach that propels Ghostley into the future does seem pretty cool!

All in all, A Christmas Canticle is an enjoyable holiday read offering a message that transcends religious ideology and simply asks that we treat our fellow man, woman, and the animals, with respect and caring.

[The Youngblood’s 1960s song Get Together kept running through my mind as the perfect soundtrack for this book:
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now]


The Author and A Friend
Bittinger originally wrote his book as a Kindle exclusive to raise money for animals in need.  Now available in paperback, a portion of the royalties from A Christmas Canticle are used to assist in rescuing and caring for animals that have been abused and neglected. So go ahead, order the book and enjoy the guilty pleasure of reading a rejuvenated Christmas novella by the fire knowing that you're helping to save lives, too.

A Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good read!

~ Joy


About the Author:
Over the centuries, Frank Bittinger has experienced many existences. In this incarnation, Mr. Bittinger is a vegan who lives and writes in Western Maryland, sharing his home with a menagerie of pets, several alternate personalities, and the occasional ghost. One of his favorite pastimes is taking walks in old cemeteries in the evening. Ancient Egypt holds a fascination for him; he has a scarab beetle tattoo between his shoulder blades as well as a collection of Egyptian items and books in his deep, dark red bedroom. Learn more about the author at his web site: http://www.frankebittinger.com


Book Details:
A Christmas Canticle by Frank E. Bittinger
Published and available at  Amazon   (2014)

Baltimore, Maryland, a very historic city, has its share of ghostly figures, one of the most famous being Black Aggie, but there are a number of others.

Westminster Presbyterian Cemetery, or Western Burying Ground, is located in Baltimore, MD, and arguably its most famous resident is the man himself, Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849) is reputed to be Baltimore's most haunted cemetery, and it can indeed be found on many lists of most haunted cemeteries.

Upon learning of my lifelong desire to visit Westminster and the grave of Edgar Allan Poe, my friend and paranormal investigator Nancy Stallings encouraged me to do so. She told me about the time she and her team made their own midnight visit and said I would very much enjoy the cemetery, also telling me I would be safe as long as I showed my usual respect.

Finally, after all the years of anticipation, I was going to go and I couldn't have been more excited. So. on Saturday 19 September 2015, my good friends Tammy and Lea Ann took me to realize my dream of visiting Edgar Allan Poe.

Coming to a stop at the corner, I exclaimed “There it is!” to my friends Tammy and Lea Ann. If we had known exactly where we were going and had stopped just a few second sooner, we would have been able to park right in front of the open gate, right there where Poe, his young bride, and his mother-in-law are interred. It's a breathtaking sight to see the monument right on the other side of the wrought iron fence from the street. At least, it is for me. They knew what they were doing when they exhumed him, reburied him up front, and erected the big marker.

We turned left at the corner and parked on the right hand of the street, and then walked back up to the front gate to enter. Just seeing the wall and gate and church from the street is an experience.

The Screaming Skull of Cambridge, Maryland, rumored to be the skull of a murdered minister, is buried here—allegedly encased in cement with its mouth bound to stifle its horrendous screams—but we didn't as about that and there weren't any muffled, horrific screams shattering the atmosphere. Perhaps on the next visit.

For being in the midst of the city, the grounds were eerily quiet and very peaceful. All three of us remarked on that as soon as we walked through the gate. It felt as though the sounds of the city faded away.

Strangely enough, even though we were informed by the volunteer there were other people in the cemetery, not to be afraid if we see someone, there wasn't anyone else until we'd strolled through the property and taken all the pictures we'd wanted to take. Then we noticed other people had begun to enter the cemetery.

Finding the original resting place of Edgar Allan Poe, his burial spot from 9 October 1849 to 17 November 1875, is exceptionally easy. All one has to do is follow the brick path from the front entrance, where his new spot and the large monument is located, to where the bricks end, all the way to nearly the back corner.

Sources indicate Poe was technically reburied on 1 October 1875, the dedication ceremony was held on 17 November 1875.

For a man who was originally buried without a gravestone and didn't have one for many years, except for a simple sandstone block that read “No 80,” he ended up with two very nice ones.

Westminster Hall and Burial Ground—formerly the Westminster Presbyterian Church—was constructed over a part of the original cemetery, approximately a third. The church is immense considering the plot of land it was constructed upon, so I can see how it would cover at least a third. The graveyard still exists as a catacomb underneath the church. Lea Ann, Tammy, and I did not get to see the catacombs during our visit on Saturday 19 September 2015. Touring the catacombs is by appointment only and we decided we'd just have to make an appointment and come back for another visit.

The cemetery is very well-kept and not nearly as big as I'd anticipated. An atmosphere of serenity, peace, calm, however you wish to term it, permeated the grounds on the day of our visit. The weather was very nice—neither too warm nor too cool. Of course the sun brightly, but there were still corners filled with shade from the trees and the walls of the burying ground.

We followed the brick path until it ended at nearly the rear corner, and found Mr. Poe's original resting spot. Of course, the first thing I did after greeting him, just in case he was hanging around the spot, was lie down and take pictures of what his view would have been. Truth be told, I could have closed my eyes and taken a nap if I could have been sure no one would have called the police to come and cart me away, that's how serene it was.

Before my friends caught up with me, I read my poem/song lyrics Beneath the Shadow of the Raven to Mr. Poe since I'd had in mind dedicating it to him when I'd originally written it. I know he appreciated it and gladly gave me because I received what I interpreted as a sign while I was still prostrate upon his original grave site: a bird landed on my chest and stared straight into my eyes before taking off. Now, I know it wasn't a raven or even a crow, but I believe it was a sign from Mr. Poe himself, or one heck of a coincidence.

A very similar, if not the same, bird landed on the grave stone right before Tammy snapped a picture of me. It landed, looked at us, Tammy exclaimed, “Look at that,” and then it flew off again.

I leave it up to you to decide.

Do you believe? (Cue The X-Files whistling theme music now.) Do you want to believe?

In what? you might ask.

In life on other planets, of course. With scientists estimating 8.8 billion (that's billion with a B) Earth-like habitable planets in our galaxy the Milky Way alone, Vegas would give you great odds on there being life on at least one of those planets. That's just possible habitable planets; there are many billions more not estimated to be habitable--by our standards, at least. Who's to say our standards for habitation are the only possible standards anyway?

Now just attempt to imagine, if there are an estimated 8.8 billion habitable planets in our galaxy alone, how many there could possibly be in the entire never ending universe. (I don't think I can say entire in the same description as never ending.) Try this one for size: scientists can only seem to agree on an acceptable range of estimation and it is at least 100 billion to 200 billion or more galaxies in the observable universe.

That is awesome in the true definition of the word.

And why am I bringing this up?

The answer is simple: I believe there is intelligent life out there somewhere in the universe and I would like to share an incident with you that happened over a century ago in a small town, well before the infamous Roswell, NM, incident. What surprised me is it doesn't seem as though a whole lot of people seem to know about it.

17 April 1897. Aurora, Texas. What is known as the Aurora Airship.

This picture to the left is of the original newspaper article that appeared following the incident in the Dallas Morning News.

As with the Kecksburg, PA, incident, there were a multitude of witnesses to what they referred to as an "airship" as it streaked across the sky early that morning. The opening of the article seems to reference the fact that this airship wasn't a whole big surprise, stating "the airship which has been sailing across the country."

This statement leads me to believe there had been sightings of it before the date of the crash on Judge Proctor's farm, where the airship struck the tower of the windmill and exploded. Indeed, the author of the article, Mr. Haydon, writes of the airship's flight trajectory and states it sailed directly over the town's public square, basically in full view of the people, as it flew over Aurora. And not at a high altitude, either. The airship is described as flying low.

Why would this sight of an airship in the sky in 1897 startle and astound people?

This incident occurred easily over six years before the Wright brothers took their historic first controlled, sustained flight on 17 December 1903 at Kitty Hawk, so there could not have been any flying vessels cruising through the skies in 1897 because we hadn't invented them yet. Or should I say there couldn't have been any Earthly flying vessels cruising over Aurora, Texas, early that April morning?

Several documentaries have been made about the Aurora, Texas, airship as well as a 1986 television movie called The Aurora Encounter. The film has only the most tenuous connection with the facts as we know them concerning this incident.

There are those who claim it was debunked as a hoax, that the article was written as a joke, but the proof of that is as scarce as the evidence of a real spaceman crashing in Aurora. Mr. Haydon is long dead so we can't ask him about his motives. And permission to excavate the grave site has been repeatedly denied. One potential explanation I've come across concerns an epidemic of cholera during the time period causing deaths and since these victims are buried in the cemetery, the town is loathe to stir up the soil. From my research, it seems the outbreak was spotted fever, a tick-borne infection with Rocky Mountain spotted fever being the most lethal, and not cholera. I don't know which spotted fever caused the outbreak, but I can understand the desire to not stir up the burial ground after the outbreak victims were buried, even if it is over a century later.

So who is to say who is buried beneath the bent limb of that old tree in the Aurora Cemetery? I'd still like to visit, just because I want to do so.

Now, I'm not trying to change your beliefs. Either you believe life exists elsewhere in the universe or you don't, and nothing I can present to you will sway you one way or the other. I simply want to make you think, and if you're going to think it might as well be about something as interesting as this.

I remember being entranced many years ago by an article I was reading about a dollhouse built by a loving father for his little girl. In fact, the article had such a profound effect on me I cut it out and kept it pressed between the pages of a big, thick book for safe-keeping, taking it out to reread every so often. The article remained pressed between the pages of that book for nigh unto twenty years.

After I'd bought my home in my late twenties, I eventually got around to doing what I'd always wanted to do--frame the article to hang in my office/library in my house. The picture hung on the wall from then up until 28 May 2008 when an arson fire destroyed my home along with my possessions.

Miraculously, after all the debris had been cleared away and contractors had worked on the house enough for me to move back home, I started finding some things around the house I knew had been destroyed in fire, finding them in places such as in the new upper cabinets in the kitchen, under the cushions on the new sofa, in the new bathroom medicine cabinet. I still to this day believe the ghosts tried to save things they knew held great sentimental value to me and brought them back to me, but that's a whole different story for another day.

One of the items that made its way back to me was the framed article about little Nadine Earles and her dollhouse that had hung on the wall of a room that had been completely gutted by fire. The frame and glass were somehow intact. The article itself had a few water stains on it and it's yellowed, but other than that it was in perfect condition. This is the framed article. It is doubly valuable to me because it is something from my childhood and because it somehow managed to find its way back to me after the fire.

Like Rosalia Lombardo, I also wrote a little bit about Nadine Earles in my book Angels of the Mourning Light.

The place is Lanett, Alabama. The year is 1933. Four year-old Nadine Earles has been hinting she wants a dollhouse for Christmas. In November, she was diagnosed with diphtheria. Her parents, Julian Comer Earles and Alma Earles, hoping to make her feel better, gave her early Christmas gifts of a doll and a tea set. But what Nadine really wanted was her dollhouse, which, unbeknownst to her, her father had already begun to build on the property.

Her father told her she would have to wait until Christmas, to which Nadine replied, in the true fashion of an expectant child, "Me want it now."

Unfortunately, little Nadine would never get to play in her dollhouse. Weakened from the respiratory tract infection, she contracted pneumonia and died the week before Christmas, on 18 December.

Nadine Earles was laid to rest on Christmas Eve 1933.

Her favorite wanted to fulfill his promise to his little girl. He had the partially-built dollhouse moved to the cemetery. By the Spring of 1934 little Nadine finally had her dollhouse. Nadine's dollhouse was built over her grave so she would always have it. And each year on birthdays and holidays her parents would place gifts they'd bought for their daughter inside the dollhouse. They even held Nadine's fifth birthday there, celebrating with cake and ice cream.

Inscribed on the headstone inside:
"Our Darling Little Girl, Sweetest In The World
April 3rd, 1929 – December 18th, 1933
Little Nadine Earles
In Heaven We Hope To Meet"

Along with Nadine's demand:
"Me want it now"

Visitors can still visit the cemetery and see it for themselves. Over the years different people and organizations have taken it upon themselves to see to the upkeep on Nadine's dollhouse, cleaning, painting, fixing, and even decorating for holidays and occasions. Visitors come by, some stop to talk to Nadine, others leave notes and cards in the dollhouse's mailbox.

Her mother and father are now buried in the little yard that surrounds the dollhouse, not far at all from their beloved little girl. Instead of a macabre tale, it's a demonstration of the profound love a parent possesses for their child.

I have always wanted to visit Rosalia Lombardo in Palermo, Sicily, and Nadine Earles in Lanett, Alabama. Perhaps one day I will have the opportunity to do just that.