In fair Stratford-on-Avon
Is where we set our stage,
This town where
Our Bard was born,
The man for all ages.

In The White Swan
John's son, Will,
Was rightly being toasted.
Young Will had a way with words,
And used his quill
To turn girls' heads
Toward his finest,
His best bed.

Halfway down Market Street,
Just before the Barber's,
Lived the Hathaway girl, Ann.
Some locals called her Cougar.

Will didn't know how old she was
For she didn't look her age.

A few months on,
Her belly grown
They held a cross-bow wedding.
Ensuing vows
The reception crowd
Filed into The White Swan,
Raised their tankards
To toast the couple
With this Avon song:

*Shakespeare hath
His will with her,
But Ann hath-a-way.

Leave me to breathe and I'll write you poison
Of the darkest roses that bury me in your thoughts
You and I are poets of tormented thorns
This plethora of verbal abuse
Our building blocks for emotion
Gives us the power to captivate the very soul of innocence
And unto darkness we reign
For an eternity
Of true thorns
And a rose by any other name

All the world's a *******,
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******* and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked ******'s face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well ****'d, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his ****-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.

I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs
as I removed my source of Grecian power,
as if King Midas dared to touch the skies,
upon thy body fell a *******.

Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung
upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed.
The sun had set, thy set with wary hung
I thought, "How black a night, and blue a lode!"

I said, "What light through yonder ****** breaks?
It is the yeast!" And now my belly's yellow.
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes,
but 'tis not massive, I am no Othello.

And when that final moment came to pass,
like Christ I came a-riding on an ***.

.
         Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
         Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
         And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
         Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
         (Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
         Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
         And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
         A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
         And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
         I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
         Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.

Be this world, but a mad mad garden.
I am tilling, and planting with woe.
I eat occasionally, of its fruits
and when full, tenderly, I go.

Pardon-
my nature is of the child, and so
I pull this leaf, pluck these petals,
and stop to smell of the rose.

There is a chill in the air,
a cloud blocking light,
and an odor tickling thy nose.

Be it this time, or past, future
or fourth dimension; How can
I know?

There is no limit to my pondering,
no effort in this wandering,
enjoyable is the quest to know.

Ancient words
Spoken by older bards
Golden dreams
From England’s yard
Hundred plus years apart
Still stir and inspire
This tired but now happy heart
Those stories when told well
Recommend themselves
Speak highly
Boldly
Deeply
And in them
Return ancient words
Which move me

being alone isn't always lonely and being happy doesn't always mean with you. sometimes the thudding of my heart is more comforting than your voice and sometimes you never find the other half to make you whole.

there are edges and lines, curves and lies, too intricate the detail that only a master could weave it with the articulation of shakespeare.

my favourite things were moulding themselves around you and if life stopped i'd never press play, with you.

thoughts come in bucket loads and the river is over flowing and my mind can't contain it all anymore.

i said i love you and i know they're only three words but it's three more than i've said to anybody else.

i hold a pen like i hold your hands, tightly, until it hurts. you hold my heart the same way.

i went into an abandoned house once and imagined living there with you and suddenly the smell of death and lingering atmosphere subsided and although the windows were smashed and the drops from the ceiling felt like the whole place was crying, i was comforted. i guess you made every place feel like home.

if the world was upside down in the universe and gravity one day failed us, i'd descend into the stars happy to have known you existed.

but you didn't exist how i wanted.

did you know that fighting isn't always violent? sometimes it's metaphorical. sometimes you should fight, for me.

there are words more beautiful than people and that's why there are no words for you.

if i leave, when i leave, don't follow. my next journey is an adventure for myself and who knows? maybe i'll find my way back, but you'll be skipping along the savannah holding hands with someone much more graceful than me.

take care, and don't leave her empty like our abandoned house.

What would Shakespeare think if he were alive today?
Using hellopoetry as his platform to express all he has to say.
Would he choose twitter to tweet and have a Facebook wall too?
Instead of a using a pen he'd be stuck to his laptop like glue!