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Amanda Hawk Oct 2020
In July, I collect stardust
And text dust
I linger in Shakespeare’s shadow
And who knew
He had a home in Oregon
I walk along his stairs
Finding myself hovering in front
A trio of theatres, tall witches
Brewing a cauldron of magic
Each performance, enticing
Crowds from every corner
And I follow in suit
Getting lost in the magic
That makes me want
To not return home
My favorite place is Ashland, Oregon
Shakytrumpet Dec 2019
'Tis not the tender
Paper betwixt mine cheeks, 'tis
Mine hand that greets me

For fragile parchment
Hath been punctured by me, the
Derrière-keeper
Elegant **** jokes are fun
Traveler Oct 2020
Big Bang of aesthetics
Cognitive creative thoughts
The universe is expanding
With thee inertia of the god
........................................
Traveler Tim
Strying Sep 2020
All my friends had given up
They'd taken the easy path
The one where straight A's are attainable
And sanity is sustainable

I moved my mouse in a different direction
From their perplexion, I knew
My complexion would never be the same

I knew that taking these courses
Would be no vacation
The certification was hard to achieve

Yet I got to the point where I wanted no more than to get down on my knees!
Plead guilty
For the crime
Of being in over my head.

I couldn't retain information
My mind was an augmentation
Of my imagination
A collection of mistakes,
Aches,
And earthquakes.

No more could I stand on still ground,
my knees shaking from your sound.
My heart pounding from
the inevitable loss of my innocence
which came derived from your
rejection.

My friends
the ones I held dear, my very own
Turned their face, shielded their eyes.
I was a damnation to everything they stood for!

For everything I tried to become
They became the opposite.
They fought their own, in the worst way possible
And I was left to battle my
impossible alone

Alone with the hours of homework,
And alone to face the very
housework we had built.
To see it crumble down before
my very eyes,
as I fumble to even close the windows to my soul,
as sleep is for the weak,
and I have too many bleak thoughts.
Far too many to ever be able to really dive deep
in this menacing society.

My school which shuts its doors at the very sight of me
And God who rains smog down
and it's not the year 2020, it's the whole future, past, and present.
It's our actions that will never be corrected
For we have had too many opportunities
And pennies for thoughts squandered into oblivion.
For maybe we should stop making
excuses,
and start accepting our fates.
For one day we are all destined to be gone,
yet isn't it odd,
that ignoring this,
that is how we survive?
I really needed to rant in poetry today. Trying to work on my word choice, hope you enjoy this :)
Ruheen Sep 2020
Wanting to be like someone
And wanting to be someone
Are two very different things.
....one is identity theft!

To be or to be the other one.....that is the question.
A momentary burst of sarcasm.
Enjoy!
To be or not to be someone like Shakespeare....that is the question....!
Anais Vionet Sep 2020
Pay Shylock his pound
of flesh, give Richard his horse,
let Juliet love anew.

Let go of the ghost -
Shakespeare’s doomed heroes
- pronounce them all dead.

Fight no more battles,
release strings so puppets
finish their dance.

Dismiss the actors,
set horses to pasture,
lower the curtains.

Ever-refreshed
villainy, once banished,
has taken new stages.

Human suffering,
in concert - you won't miss it
- it comes to you.
We recognize villains on stage - why not so in life?
annh Aug 2020
Three Scottish hags brew up a political storm in a...cauldron.
Inspired by Suri Ben N who got me overthinking about brevity, Shakespeare, alternative storylines, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the existential milieu in general.

‘We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance
somewhere else.’
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
they say,
but are we players or the played?

Words are planted in my head-
it's not my choice that they are said.

But of this mad,mad world,
who's author?
To make this place,one
must be a monster.

This is a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing-
should we out this brief candle,and die-to sleep-no more-
or shall we stay,and make this last syllable of recorded time meaningful-have all our virtues ,and sins, remembered?

how oft men are at the point of death.
Let the coin flip one last time.
/curtains-exit left./
exit, pursued by the weights we bear.
Well hung life's life's painting
Droplets of hope
Scattered  pages.
Leaves of fresh words
fall from poetry's summer
Love's unsung theme
Inked on chaptered scrolls,
We'll keep Shakespeare's signature;
painting mists of blissful autumn
in the sea of  our early dreams
  Shaded chrysanthemum smiles
and salty mistletoes.
We'll add the last piece;
Splashing
pretty hues of yesteryears
and ringing tones of
cradle's  laughter.
Life's colourful stress
caught in the fluffy strokes
Of breath's brushes.
In our adios
Well hung life's painting.
Life brings unexpected valleys to us as individuals alongside unforgettable memories. It's our duty as poets to paint them into immortality. Dedicated to all poets on hp
Graff1980 Jul 2020
Could it be
sweet dreams of thee
that break me
from the shell
and take me
from the hell
of ignorance.

As merry sprites
split in two
and come together
again in view
like night lights
or those flickering few
glow bug butts that
fly crookedly in the air.

Could it be soft stirrings
that bequeath
a wreath of
rapturous love.

As Puck surveys
a sunny to
rainy blue
beautiful day,
preparing
for the sharing
of tricks
he plans to play.

As cold skin
starts heating
with lust’s
full intent
and the furies
are tame
compared to
the passion
I bring you.

Oh Ariel
what a tempest,
in a midsummer’s dream.

As golden strands
of fantastic plans
unfurl,
I see the girl
who could be
my whole world
but she is
as imaginary
as all of Shakespeare’s’
strange characters.
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