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Sasha Paulona Sep 2021

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss;
Between whose hills her head entombed is;
Where like a virtuous monument she lies,
To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.

Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet, whose perfect white
Showed like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay
Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair like golden threads played with her breath
O modest wantons, wanton modesty!
Showing life’s triumph in the map of death,
And death’s dim look in life’s mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify
As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life.

Her ******* like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honored.
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,
Who like a foul usurper went about
From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?
What did he note but strongly he desired?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his willful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified;
Slacked, not suppressed; for, standing by her side,
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting.
In ****** death and ravishment delighting,
Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.

They, mustering to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset
And fright her with confusion of their cries.
She, much amazed, breaks open her locked-up eyes,
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.

Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking.
What terror ‘tis! but she, in worse taking,
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
The sight which makes supposed terror true.

Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies.
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting antics ugly in her eyes.
Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries,
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast
(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!)
May feel her heart (poor citizen) distressed,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity,
To make the breach and enter this sweet city.
Aurora RW Aug 2019
As love flows free beneath the trees,
Thy heart unbound eternally by love
Poisoning self with the disease,
True love knows no shame, nor bounds
Thyself is ruined in love, forever to be
Stuck among the stars,
The heart is open, never to close
In the center of this destruction
Heart is unbound, unstrung,
All hope of salvation
Lost to this consumption
She feared a most dreadful act
His lips parted and love reached his lips onto hers
Her face pale,
His eyes grew with passionate sincerity.
Merry Mar 2018
According to William Shakespeare,
Poor Tom had wits
And was witless
All whilst in disguise

According to David Bowie,
Major Tom left our blue Earth
And got lost amongst the stars
Becoming the titular Space Oddity

According to Led Zeppelin
Poor Tom was the seventh son
He led a life of work and play
But killed his ***** wife

According to The Cab
Major Tom would sing along
Whilst chastising the dreamer
Or, perhaps, seeing himself in young love

According to all these men
This muse man named Poor Tom
This muse man named Major Tom
All suffered an ill fate

According to I,
Arrogant poetess,
I pose a pondering:
What if they were all the same person?
Madam X Nov 2017
I'm locked in a room with a desk and a chair.
I want my stomach filled, but the cupboards are bare.
I'm sitting here with only one option:
To continue to write, during this lock in.

Is writing a talent?
I say to myself, as I look over my shoulder at the book on the shelf.
What about Melville, and Shakespeare, and Twain?
The all have much knowledge to send to my brain.

But people these days just don't understand
That we can do more than just sing and dance.
There are so many talents that slide under the rug.
"I wonder what mine is".
I say with a shrug.

But then I remember that I am equipped
With a whole set of skills that are right on my hip.
They rest as a tool belt, and as a reminder
That if I wanted to, I could go farther.
I realize it ends abruptly, but I couldn't find the perfect way to end it.
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2017
"I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks; and ever thanks; and oft good turns."
- Sebastian in the Twelfth Night.
Written by William Shakespeare.
I can't believe that I have 30-31 followers already...
When I first opened this page, it was during a rough time.
Every piece of poetry I wrote on this page was a way to express myself as well as reflect on who I am and who I can be.
It was a way to hone my craft and do it honestly too.
No words can express my gratitude for the followers I have.
For the people on this page who continue to add to my craft.
Thank you so much!
Dylan Whisman Dec 2015
Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.
Poem inspired by Hamlet. Have a wonderful day humans.
ordained Nov 2015
i think it's bad luck to say your name, too
when you introduced yourself, it was loud and you repeated your name twice (i smiled and said it back, a confirmation, a dream, a prayer)
and i started to fall, slowly
but i did also fall, clumsy as ever, as you walked me home and you laughed and carried me the rest of the way
and i started to fall, slowly, in love
with the idea of love, with the idea of power
and once i got a taste of what it felt like to rule, i couldn't stop breaking the rules
i was MacB, lusting and craving, and repeating your name at every chance i got, like a chant, like salvation
and when you said my name, i felt every laugh i'd ever laughed warm my body and sing until my ears were filled with kaleidoscopic pleasures
and then i hit the ground, too tired to run
and your name echoed through the glens and i was alone
and i felt the full effects of the Scottish hero's pain
and i drank
and drank

but every protagonist becomes the antagonist eventually, and you let me drop
and so i think your name is the cursed one
boys are bad, both fictional and nonfictional, dead and living, king-killers and heartbreakers
ordained Nov 2015
cursed and plagued and ...
whispered on the candy stained lips of ******* children,
just hoping that something bad will happen
i was one of them, testing the limits and toeing the line and waiting,
baited breath and excited eyes, for the "break a leg" to become more than just a saying for good luck
and maybe i pushed the envelope a little too far,
maybe the bard punished not the production but the girl with wild hair and a wilder grin, sending her the karma meant for lady mac herself
maybe i am that cruel woman
or maybe i am her fairer husband, because the weird sisters that predict my downfall are named Anxiety, Alcoholism, and Anger
i wish i had been superstitious as a child
(forwarding the chain emails and reblogging or ten years of bad luck didn't drive me to the cliff's edge)
because maybe i would be safe now
i keep reading the scottish play and wishing desperately i hadn't whispered his name into empty rows of theaters back when i thought superstitions were for sissies
Girl On The Wing Mar 2015
Shall I compare thee to a winters day?
Thou art more cold and more merciless.
Sorry will

— The End —