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JcA 3d
The world is a stage, and we're merely players. Love is the game, so we're at the table. Look at the cards for the queen of my heart.

It is you.
long gone are the days I had a muse
oh, whatever shall I do?
sans an inspiration to write
my love for words – how do I pursue?

eyes that can see every colour and light,
every season, all the blues in the sky,  
but in this constant conflict of life,
they are still searching the real I

it scares the doves and hummingbirds
as the Wolves howl in the wilderness,
getting better, getting stabbed
poison or medicine – the same bitterness

I sense something hopeful in the air today
a buzzing in my ear, is it a bee?
send me something sunset coloured
and awaken beautiful verses in me

the stars are shining, the moon is full,
time flies by as I sit and wonder,
a thought that numbs my fingers,
could I ever write like Austen or Shakespeare?
As ink flows onto pap'r
From mine own lips to thy ears
I love yous art all thee shall hear
At which hour the moon is full
And thee can meeteth me h're
Und'r the hawth'rn moon
©LadyRavenhill 2018
Medusa Oct 3
"She should have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

~Shakespeare, from 'Macbeth'
Jack L Martin Sep 17
Oh, for what was I a boy, so long ago,
Dancing freely amongst the tall tree tops.
Greedily breathing the morning dew's glow,
Mind settling down, vast daydreaming flops.

Gazing eyes upon sweets and fruits of bliss,
Sorrow has it's days and merriment be.
As bitterness eye followed for a kiss,
Delivered confusion under my tree.

Curious rovers bellow sounds of bleak,
**** fellows chamfer happiness askew.
Mind's eye worrying a shadowless shriek,
Running humming my innocence aflew.

Events that played out like song of sorrow,
Gift to thine eye and forgotten tomorrow.
My first Shakespearean Sonnet
Arke Sep 17
for all the love of life that is now lost
your voice rings through my mind like a warm song
regardless of sweet summers ending cost
creates poetry in my head ere long

our melting of minds and bodies now gone
but forgotten, your touch could never be
simple as the dusk which becomes the dawn
my love for you as pure, as it is free

I know you may not feel of me the same
perhaps never again will you be mine
and gone is the love that once easy came
perhaps your silence has become a sign

but my love for you will always ring true
and your love alone has carried me through
Brimmed hat, scruffed beard, fixed gaze - who is Ezra Pound?
Sir, may I be your friend?
I am also sensitive, very shy, lonesome
Institutionalised four times,
We made it through in the end

I’m not Shakespeare, but we’d make a
Good pact, a team of poets
With our visions,
And love of dejected paintings
I’ll die trying to be quite as precise as you
Sir, may I be your friend?

We’d make a good pact.
Inspired by Pound’s A Pact.
The imagination is evidently pure; its here --
The ascent of ideas and valiant colours, and hysterics
In matrimony- on this delirious evening mood
(But he needs more paper to write)

We are familiar with The Great what's-his-name?
Ah - The Bard, out of the reserved shadows he would abrupt,
Create scenes of quiet saints turned to garrulous beings
(But he needs more paper to write)

On his tattered paper, he would write of idle witches, comedies, tragedies, of
The insanity of Love, the flaws of princes, fools, knights,  daughters, servant boys,
His work resembles that of festival with black and blue harlequins
(But he needs more paper to write)

The pity for Jesters, Twice as bloomed as the audience laughs at him!
What pessimism, what insanity, caused such a twist in this plot? they say
To understand the agony of the human spirit, where he writes inexhaustibly
(But he needs more paper to write)...



                                                    ­      
I

As she lay dying there in the sleeping water under vigil skies,
Her paleness and poised hair drooped as her soft ankles thinned.
On this dying night, weeping violets and lonely daffodils sweep beneath her
Under the damsel skies, where the stars were bright, with rose tinted spectres above.

What innocence! Where soft eyed men pour their souls in foaming despair
Floating in dew time; Flowers shake beneath her quiet memories
Only in a dream, she felt, that the rivers let her go with no sweet pain,
Away from the foggy embrace of soft manes, called ample to sleep!

Within her sighs, pathetic Nature vile her against the Fumes of men
Yes - there she drowned! Twice the burden on the crazed self, her poor mind!
Although it seems as it were too lonely, the desolation and stillness, soft as muses
For twice she died! For the scatterings of a Man's heart, and bruised voices pouring forth

It is not plain to see the Spring turn to dreary sounds of woe in ember
She died with a Love, like a pale knight of many dying conquests!
What soft kisses fill her body's breath; polished gentle hands float
In the abyss of roaring sounds of freedom, as sweet as a White butterfly!

II

And with her handsome self, her garments flow deep as winter's face, to the bottom!
Ploughing ceaselessly against the bitterness of Denmark's treasures, darkling we listen
To her angelic voice that melts her own hair, preserve what's left of her!
The Tender innocence! The forlorn child! As we stood in tears against our land, dreary!

Yes- You have died! The breath of the disastrous wind played a part in you passing.
And we wake in incandescence, Is this a dream or a bitter awakening?
That your little lips won't touch the cheeks of your lovers,
Nor your several hells fail to come terms with the love you have cherished

What can April flowers do to your begone body? What shall I dream now?
A curse to valour and nobility?  What beauty lies beyond her?
The pale voice of Love bestows you, the distant cheers of men at sea
With your twisted hair curl towards the seasonable thickets of death

It is in much grace and passing style you have made the saddest heart bleed
That your weariness leans yourself towards perilous seas, heavy once more
We remember with pompous caution the fragile heartstrings of man
The poor madness, leading Men to bow the knee to preserve your infinite virginity.

III

And the poet, comes seeking for flowers in the garden for her passing,
Where she picked a great Lily, poor Ophelia, will be for all, everlasting.
Inspired by the Shakespeare's Hamlet
Jeff S Sep 8
...And kirchéglise(Notre) dame
   o u r l a d y m y l a d y
encyl-able, Pope or Pope or popedeux
and vindicate the waysteland
   My caska is openclosed!
(pews is pause is putride and prodigious)
Et tout-en commun?Gizerly pharaoh HA
lf gone.
Source-error of Oz
Ymandias
and dust, and dustinction

   *** pull downwhich?

or fleurs-de-litigation.
Vini, vu/gesehen, conquered/konkeri?
And tot
And mort
and trunks gefallen.
Fantast-asy—I flail.
pause

S e m p i ternam.
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