Shakespeare

Visscher's View of London

All along the river are landing stations and stairs,

surviving conspicuously since Chaucer's tales. 

Ode to the joy of bear-baiting and drunken affairs.

Ode to the joy of affairs.

All along the Fleet, 

one might meet a young man fleeing from charges of parricide.

All along the Fleet, 

one might meet a young girl fleeing from a den of men.

An evening at The Rose might admit impediments.

An evening at The Rose might last until the edge of doom.

If Visscher's view had outlasted time,

these last 400 years could serve as a paradigm.

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Die for You

Folder: 
Beautiful Imagery

Brother,

I will die for you. 

But please, do not rejoice –

this is not a declaration

of my loyalty to your life.


I plan to kill myself tonight, brother…

for you – please do not try

to stop me. 

I do not want to hear

of my life's value; I

do not want to hear your rage

at the thought of my

perceived uselessness.  

I know my life weighs on your soul,

and challenges your style of living.  

I know that we clash

more often than we intertwine, and

it is for that reason that I

choose to die. 

I will rid myself

from your existence,

for you.


I do not say this to implant guilt;

please do not misunderstand. 

I choose this path, brother, because

I love you.  More than words

can ever hope to describe

in a world filled with words

callously used to hide behind.


Sister,

I will die for you. 

Please, hold back your tears –

this is not honorable.


I will end my own life…

for you. 

Do not worry; I love life,

and all of its splendor. 

The trees call to me

in sweet tones that allow my

mortal mind to forget time. 

I am allowed space

to unfurl my physical trappings,

to relinquish my understanding

to the Soul of the World and

refill my cup with eternal love. 

The symphony of life quells

my restlessness in

ways Western medicine seeks

to mimic, but cannot quite replicate. 

But my reverence for such beauty

is in opposition to construction

and progress.  I cannot abide

endless consumption, so I

will remove myself from this

global equation,

for you.


Lover,

I will die for you. 

Do not look at me with such disdain –

this is not Shakespearean tragedy

manifest.


I poison myself because

I long to die… for you. 

I am not naïve;

I already dearly miss your skin,

the current surging within

that revitalizes my soul. 

I will forever hold your love

as the pinnacle of this physical world;

the height of true majesty,

paling the purple of the mountains

from the land we came from. 

Most of all, I adore your eyes,

as they diminish my existence

with the immensity of Gaia’s power,

wrath, and benevolence… I

will miss those fiery windows most of all. 

I realize my Aquarian tendencies

leave my head cloudy with images of

utopia – images in stark contrast

to our civilization,

this reality you remain grounded to. 

I know that is why we are no longer

in each other’s arms; your absence

shaves my humanity, membrane by

membrane, so death seems

inevitable.  Why not cut

to the chase?...

for you.


Humanity,

I will die for you. 

I will not be a martyr – I

am not strong enough for this world. 

I imagined myself an actor

in a new age play,

a catalyst of a movement toward

enlightenment.  But I am

meek, and incapable of lasting

through to the end of this struggle. 

When hard times come,

as they always do,

I will not be here.  Someone

more capable will take my place

beside you.  Someone with

unflinching bravery and

unlimited strength to guide,

and be guided by you. 

I am sorry and I apologize;

it cannot be me.  I

am weak.


CLF 2015

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please help me with this; I would like it to be critiqued.  I am in the process of editting it, but I am currently fatigued as a result of what this piece means to me.

Do not worry, I am not actually suicidal -- this poem means to vent the frustration constructively, to avoid such an outcome from seeming attractive to me. 

No sonnets

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
No, for I am not old Will.
I cannot scribe you a bouquet 
nor utter you paintings, still. 
 
Sour Winters haunt my lines; mine
and his, seasons apart.
A pauper in song, coin and words
but for you, rich is my heart. 
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It’s Shakespeare [Sheikspeare] not Sexpeare!

I hate it most and can’t tolerate the least,

When people intentionally and by chance mispronounce,

The name of the greatest dramatist,

They don’t even deserve forgiveness equal to an ounce.

 

The ‘Bard of Avon’ would possibly slap that very person,

Once he heard his name pronounced as Sexpeare,

Thus none should ever worsen,

His own position by abusing the name of the wonderful star.

 

Shakespeare’s spear was his gracious pen,

A genius none could surpass earlier, none ever can!   


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dedicated to the genius, William Shakespeare.

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Finishing Shakespeare

Folder: 
human beings

"What will you do when I'm gone?"
He asked, with his usual warm, selfless way,
Sharing ice chips and Shakespeare,
As we brought in the dawn,
The shadows of night fading
On the pale blue walls
Of the beach house, and seaguls
Meeting on the balcony, frolicking
To the sonatas that called out from the foamy shoreline.

 

As I reached for the washcloth to wipe his brow,
He querped, "Probably go to more yard sales...",
And I smiled a smile,
His jovial verbal caresses
Unveiling a still sensuous glint
Of the timeless rapture
Shared by two people within a single lifetime,
...I sighed,
"Yes, why, of course I will my love", I replied,
And our eyes locked,
As we reveled in the last moments of a sparkle
That had found it's way to light the many years, now
Bidding a quiet and majestic farewell,
"And after that?", he muttered, gasping one last breath...

 

...and then...the warmth of his hand held in mine until cool and ashen.
Wiping the single tear from my cheek, replied,

 

"I shall finish Shakespeare,"

 

             ...as the sparkle left my eye, and found it's way to my heart,

                                     to be tresured for eternity, the part of me that is also him, deep inside.

 

11:30 PM 5/11/2013 ©

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Juliet

My Juliet, my vine,
‘Did my heart love till now?’
The unbreakable seal,
So lost in the torment of my soul,
Broken by a single kiss,
drawn by the ‘Sin from thy lips.’

And you may ask I love thee how?
You purge my soul,
Like an artist cleansing his palette.
Oh give me my sin again,
Teach me how I should forget to think,
For every day is full of wantedness,
Like a petal floating in the abyss,
Caressing the ocean bay.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

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Silva sonnet

I long to watch you sleeping,
I want a note on the door that says 'we're not in',
I want you to tell me you're feeling,
A reflection of yourself in,
My eyes that do adore,
Your very special being,
Meteor in my dreaming,
And the cold night it passes,
Till galloping horses chariot the sun,
And comes streaming,
Through endless mirrors of dizzy days,
And peace transcends,
Until again the moon rises,
And I long to watch you sleeping...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

In honour of silva inspired by love......

Curtain Call

If all the world's a stage
and all the men and women merely players
Then I would like to know:
What happens when the curtain falls?,and
Who will make the curtain calls?,and
Who will incite the roar of applause?
All these things and one more-
Who is running the show?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I dont know what it means really; well I do but I can't really put it into words.

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LOVE'S MEMORY.

I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table,—heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

by William Shakespeare
"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I.

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