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...I'm all mixt up, am I?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXI)


Sweet blue skies with soft gilded clouds t'avail,
Red Maples' baby leaves now flutter hence
So lightly, and how dandelions thence
With sunny yellow heads dot green lawns' trail
To yonder as songs flit and call like bail
From every bush, tree, covert, nook, a sense
Of all we cherished in that note, no scents
Of pine, fresh grass nor clover to inhale.
But how the lake now ripples as winds stir
Across its face, the sparrows gaily too
'Non calling as geese rest. If plovers cure
Night's blackness, how frogs chorus through
The welcome touch of chill. And Shakespeare, poor
As subterfuge, remains cloaked. What is new?

23Apr25e
Enjoy?!
...neither of us.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXX)


She calls to tell me of the wondrous scents
Now wafting in from her oped windows hale
In clover and fresh grass, whose sweet detail
Is not, she sez, though that can't be pretense;
And I am glad for her. Wisconsin dense
In such is far too perfect. I'd avail
Me but I am in Lincoln's Land sans bail,
And country living hers, I've no defense.
Best friends now from a distance, what is poor
Is we can't hang out anymore. We knew
Such parties in the day, shared dishes fer
The fun of it, went groc'ry shopping too,
Together, and now only have as t'were
Our phones. Thou gav'st all, LORD, and we wait You.

23Apr25d
A diversion? Perhaps.
Ah, dearest Will, you win, hands down.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXIX)


Dear William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, they'll
Not know you as you are. Tis as fr'intents
You wanted; oer four hundred years quite dense
With progress have erased you; that detail
Used then to masque is all they know t'avail
Them of as, "in black ink [my]Love-" fr'intents
Not thee, "may still shine bright." Tis called pretense
Whenas I try t'acknowledge thee. I've no bail?
The "gordian knot" who set in place to stir
That world back then has worked so well, what's true
Is not known now. As for thy Love, in poor
Reply what Francis Meres knew shall not do,
You are a pervert now. Your love in tour
"May still shine bright," yet your Love is just who?

23Apr25c
See again David M. Main's Treasury of English Sonnets.
Hmm.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXVIII)


Tis Shakespeare's birthday, and his sonnets' sense
Of who he was, with notes of that detail,
Preserved "in black ink" like he knew'd avail,
Yet nary read by most, still face fr'intents
School children who would rather find defense
In play, but where I've learned much, likeas bail,
Including when the seasons are, in frail
Excuse for what we're taught, til what's pretense?
I wonder. For he clearly knew as t'were
What is, and what shall be. Or did he through
Whatever means but know the half in tour?
That this earth is reserved for fire how few
Know even now? What good is black ink? We're
Not going to read aught then. LORD, we wait You.

23Apr25b
By 1819 B. Heywood Bright untangled the "gordian knot" presented in the opening page of Shakespeare's publication of his "sugared sonnets" and by 1832 James Boaden publicized this assessment.  I stand by these gentleman's work in that case. See David M. Main's Treasury of English Sonnets.
...as does 1580.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXVII)


Rain falls likeas a nursemaid's calm voice hale
In tender solace, where the light from hence
Has not resolved itself, and night seems thence
Reluctant to depart, the soothing scale
Of sheer relief what children gladly hail
When fevered as myself, for tis defense,
The soul aware within that note of whence
Being still hid by sheer mists, but what'd avail.
Late morning, how the dove calls from as t'were
Near yet half distant, sparrows, and geese too
'Non chatt'ring as the feast called breakfast's tour
Waits for indulgence, eggs, tomato to
Grapes, bacon, cottage cheese, banana fer
All that and brie with apple asking who?

23Apr25a
So, the controversy over aka William Shakespeare hasn't ended nor has his identity been established except by half.
One life,
one light to shine in our allotted hour
a single strutting chance upon the stage
a single line writ large upon the page,
a chance to love, to live, to give
and what is more,
one entrance and one exit, no encore
Mia Apr 22
Oh, for all a nights bliss,
A woke for them to make haste.
Stands them two, a gliss
For their strides, to be a waste.

There he goes, mine to love
With her hand in his
For his to mine, a torn glove.
was my eyes a miss?
Or his, a sharp trove ?

Would you think her hands are soft ?
That mine lays a thorn too deep
Would you think her hearts aloft
That mine lays far too deep?

There she goes, mine to wed.
With his ring in hers
For her to mine, a sharp lead
Was his tone a soft purr
Or mine a bit red?

Would you think his eyes a lot bright?
And mine lacks it's luster?
Would you think his charms a bit right ?
And mine lacks it's luster?

Oh, for all a night's bliss
A grave for them to make haste
Runs them two, a gliss
For their strides, to be a tale
This piece is one of my favourites ever. The idea was there in my notes app for a long time even the first stanza has. But it was just a few weeks ago that I finished it.
The story is an interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, a Dialogue piece between Rosaline ( Romeo's lover before Juliet and Juliet's cousin) and Paris (Juliet's fiancè ) who in this story stands in the top of a balcony watching the lovers flee. The poem is a dual pov.
Vafa Abbasi Apr 19
"The Fallen Star"

Upon a storm-torn eve, when thunder roared,
And lightning danced with heaven’s silver sword,
A star, once bright in midnight's velvet dome,
Was struck and flung far from its starlit home.

It plummeted through clouds in tearful blaze,
Its brilliance lost in fire’s cruel embrace.
To Earth it fell, to fields of emerald grain,
Where fireflies danced in quiet, warm refrain.

No crown of light, no golden rays remained,
Just stardust weeping where its soul was chained.
The worms and beetles welcomed it with grace,
And taught it how to smile in that dark place.

It learned to hum the songs of moss and dew,
To cherish stars not only born, but grew.
It wandered paths where twilight softly crept,
And in the arms of humble earth, it slept.

But lo—one eve beneath the willow tree,
It glimpsed a silver photograph set free:
A picture of the moon, so high and wide,
Reflected in a puddle by its side.

Its stony heart began to throb and ache,
A thousand memories did swiftly wake.
The songs it sang with sisters in the skies,
The glow it wore—a jewel in night’s guise.

And from its eyes, long dry, the tears did stream,
Each drop a loss, a wish, a shattered dream.
The fireflies blinked, confused by such a sight,
As grief eclipsed what once had learned delight.

It cried until the morning broke the dark,
Its final breath a whisper, soft and stark.
Then stardust rose, in shimmered veil and gleam,
To where the moonlight weaves the weeper’s dream.

There, in the sky’s embrace, its soul took flight,
And kissed the Moon—a reunion of light.
No longer bound to Earth’s forgiving crust,
It lived again, in love, in stars, in trust.
"The Star Who Forgot Its Light"
A tale of loss, memory, and returning home to the moonlight.

If you’d like the subtitle embedded on the image too, I can do that!
Kalmia lily Apr 13
what benefit would there be for me to admit
to such shameful feelings
you fuel my every twist of hand
you make my poems the most refined
all my songs stem from the pain
you've inflicted to my heart
my most raw emotions and uncontrolled stem from your every action

what's the benefit in admitting something so destructive?
what's the point allowing myself to lose the one thing that keeps me breathing ?
cause how do I explain that my love for you leaves me for dead .
gasping for air ,
no more blood pumping my body
as it's core is no longer there
how do I explain my heart leaving me for dead
with  the sole purpose of running to you with it's fleeting energy left

how do I explain my heart leaving it's natural functions
committing suicide as without me it dies
for the the sole purpose of meeting your own?
like the mere presence of the one it craves is worth the worst kinds of death
the slow and heavy ones , that leads my vacant eyes to fathom the most untrue outcomes.

how do I explain that you drain me of all my being , with just one part of me being yours
Why did I fail to realise that in my chest was not where my heart lied this whole time
or that it belonging to you when you had abondonned me here to die
Very dramatic but was definitely a fun way to write constantly looking for the bigger idea haha
If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!
Nothing could keep poetry from existing, just like it is impossible to leave emotions bottled up.
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