"feste" poems - Hello Poetry

There once was a young man named Feste, and he was not a very good young man. He was a thief, and a sneaky one at that. He would go to all of the stores in the market and steal anything that he pleased. He loved to steal from the baker and the butcher especially. He would go to his hiding place in the forest after his deviousness and eat away his stolen treasures, brooding on what a “clever little boy” he was. The baker and the butcher knew though. They noticed him coming in most days and leaving in quite a hurry. They could not actually catch him in the act, but they knew beyond a doubt what he was doing. They were having drinks together one night though when they devised a clever scheme to stop him from stealing ever again. The butcher carved up a juicy ham, and the baker baked up a delicious pie, but they added a little something extra to it… The butcher made sure to quite a bit of alcohol into the ham, and the baker did the same with his pie. They both set their two traps in the store, right when the spoiled thief Feste came strolling into the market with his eyes gleaming. The baker watched him walk into his shop,the pie disappeared. The butcher watched him walk into his shop, the ham disappeared. They both smiled and went about their work. Feste rushed to his hiding place and devoured his stolen goodies so fast that he didn’t even realize how peculiar it seemed to taste... Not long after, he started to feel strange. Numb and stupid. He ran towards the village, acting a buffoon. The villagers stared and laughed at Feste acting so odd. His mother found him though and brought down the fury. “Feste! Why are you acting like a **** fool?" She demanded. He threw out a few words in a drunken stupor and swayed in place. "Wait.. have you been drinking!?” She screamed. “Noe maum! Allll Ie had todae is pie and haam!” He stammered in a drunken sway. “And where exactly did you get those!?” She inquired. Feste had a look of terror on his face and grew silent. He was found out to be the no good thief and was punished severely, because his mother thought he stole the alcohol as well as the pie and ham, and he couldn’t prove otherwise. Feste never stole again and he even apologized to the butcher and baker, though they still do have a laugh now and then… The End

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Jan 15, 2013

Jan 15, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC

BarelyABard

The Steal (A Short Story For Children)

There once was a young man named Feste, and he was not a very good young man. He was a thief, and a sneaky one at that. He would go to all of the stores in the market and steal anything that he pleased. He loved to steal from the baker and the butcher especially. He would go to his hiding place in the forest after his deviousness and eat away his stolen treasures, brooding on what a “clever little boy” he was. The baker and the butcher knew though. They noticed him coming in most days and leaving in quite a hurry. They could not actually catch him in the act, but they knew beyond a doubt what he was doing. They were having drinks together one night though when they devised a clever scheme to stop him from stealing ever again. The butcher carved up a juicy ham, and the baker baked up a delicious pie, but they added a little something extra to it… The butcher made sure to quite a bit of alcohol into the ham, and the baker did the same with his pie. They both set their two traps in the store, right when the spoiled thief Feste came strolling into the market with his eyes gleaming. The baker watched him walk into his shop,the pie disappeared. The butcher watched him walk into his shop, the ham disappeared. They both smiled and went about their work. Feste rushed to his hiding place and devoured his stolen goodies so fast that he didn’t even realize how peculiar it seemed to taste... Not long after, he started to feel strange. Numb and stupid. He ran towards the village, acting a buffoon. The villagers stared and laughed at Feste acting so odd. His mother found him though and brought down the fury. “Feste! Why are you acting like a **** fool?" She demanded. He threw out a few words in a drunken stupor and swayed in place. "Wait.. have you been drinking!?” She screamed. “Noe maum! Allll Ie had todae is pie and haam!” He stammered in a drunken sway. “And where exactly did you get those!?” She inquired. Feste had a look of terror on his face and grew silent. He was found out to be the no good thief and was punished severely, because his mother thought he stole the alcohol as well as the pie and ham, and he couldn’t prove otherwise. Feste never stole again and he even apologized to the butcher and baker, though they still do have a laugh now and then… The End

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“Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.” — Feste, Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare Pulling into Colbert on a mid-week afternoon, I stride through drifts of passengers falling from each carriage. Inside, they deck the station out in wait like chess figures. I leave as soon as I arrive. Blessed with rain again, pestering the roof tiles, great sweeps of grey water dash each street. Across, a building's squared face, chipped bottle green. Namelessly familiar, my hermitage. I enter half-drowned. I place myself on mark at the bar, flanked by fellow veterans. To my left, a lowered head, the dark hide of a colt retired early from his race. Right, a creased face and suit I dimly recognise. Before my eyes adjust, I limply raise my hand — few fingers outstretched, Christlike. A head bows in response. He moves to draw a black slick glass; a tarred trickle, foam-topped like stormed wave. The first. A swash against my lip, my mouth a vacant cove. Bitter, it gathers in the pit of my tongue — my pleasure, I swallow half in one surge.

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Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC

nina-odonovan

Station

“Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.” — Feste, Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare Pulling into Colbert on a mid-week afternoon, I stride through drifts of passengers falling from each carriage. Inside, they deck the station out in wait like chess figures. I leave as soon as I arrive. Blessed with rain again, pestering the roof tiles, great sweeps of grey water dash each street. Across, a building's squared face, chipped bottle green. Namelessly familiar, my hermitage. I enter half-drowned. I place myself on mark at the bar, flanked by fellow veterans. To my left, a lowered head, the dark hide of a colt retired early from his race. Right, a creased face and suit I dimly recognise. Before my eyes adjust, I limply raise my hand — few fingers outstretched, Christlike. A head bows in response. He moves to draw a black slick glass; a tarred trickle, foam-topped like stormed wave. The first. A swash against my lip, my mouth a vacant cove. Bitter, it gathers in the pit of my tongue — my pleasure, I swallow half in one surge.

35

Oh Fools! The pain, the unheeded advice- Oh Feste, oh gravediggers, oh Fools! Hiding behind the garb of jesters, I hear your truth. I know the fate sleeping in the riddle. Alas! Poor Yourick knows it well. For that which lives must die, And that which dies has no tongue, No verbage to warn. Whilst the kings laugh At morbid jokes, The Fool sheds a tear, For behind all good jests Is a terrible truth.

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Apr 1, 2017

Apr 1, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC

kayla-morrison

Fools

Oh Fools! The pain, the unheeded advice- Oh Feste, oh gravediggers, oh Fools! Hiding behind the garb of jesters, I hear your truth. I know the fate sleeping in the riddle. Alas! Poor Yourick knows it well. For that which lives must die, And that which dies has no tongue, No verbage to warn. Whilst the kings laugh At morbid jokes, The Fool sheds a tear, For behind all good jests Is a terrible truth.

15

under this grey suburban sky thunders rolling as rocks and drums then silence in concrete transit spaces although wild beats inside our veins hunting scenes and escapes in vain taste of honey and salt on your teeth prey predators and carnival masks smiles dreams feasts fire tears running water silence and lightning remote storms gentle breeze essences and perfumes tobacco leather cinnamon and ashes smells of life and skin it's time to go home home where we will recall every flavor every hug every drop of dew every smile and every single tear their true meaning and we will ask ourselves why? why have we ever parted from our heart? ................ sotto questo grigio cielo suburbano tuoni che rotolano come pietre e tamburi poi silenzio in spazi di transito di asfalto e cemento anche se il selvatico batte nelle nostre vene scene di caccia e fughe invano sapore di miele e sale sui denti prede predatori e maschere di carnevale sorrisi sogni feste lacrime acqua corrente silenzio e fulmini tempeste remote e brezza leggera essenze e profumi tabacco cuoio cannella e cenere odori di vita e di pelle è ora di tornare a casa casa dove ricorderemo ogni sapore ogni abbraccio ogni goccia di rugiada ogni sorriso e ogni singola lacrima il loro vero significato e ci chiederemo perché? perché mai ci siamo separati dal nostro cuore?

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Sep 4, 2018

Sep 4, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC

marco-bo

why have we ever parted from our heart?

under this grey suburban sky thunders rolling as rocks and drums then silence in concrete transit spaces although wild beats inside our veins hunting scenes and escapes in vain taste of honey and salt on your teeth prey predators and carnival masks smiles dreams feasts fire tears running water silence and lightning remote storms gentle breeze essences and perfumes tobacco leather cinnamon and ashes smells of life and skin it's time to go home home where we will recall every flavor every hug every drop of dew every smile and every single tear their true meaning and we will ask ourselves why? why have we ever parted from our heart? ................ sotto questo grigio cielo suburbano tuoni che rotolano come pietre e tamburi poi silenzio in spazi di transito di asfalto e cemento anche se il selvatico batte nelle nostre vene scene di caccia e fughe invano sapore di miele e sale sui denti prede predatori e maschere di carnevale sorrisi sogni feste lacrime acqua corrente silenzio e fulmini tempeste remote e brezza leggera essenze e profumi tabacco cuoio cannella e cenere odori di vita e di pelle è ora di tornare a casa casa dove ricorderemo ogni sapore ogni abbraccio ogni goccia di rugiada ogni sorriso e ogni singola lacrima il loro vero significato e ci chiederemo perché? perché mai ci siamo separati dal nostro cuore?

53

I once had a love affair With Shakespeare From Nick Bottom's fuzzy *** To Launce Gobbo in the know And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess Then a new direction R&J breaking rules Pants on a Shrewess Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia Bleachers, lights and stage A comedy, no Error, then Tempest, the Next Generation Prospero in 2314AD. Yep. All of them: Complete works! (abridged) Before I left the park. A gap in time before Darkly pierced prince Mourning loss of mother Ends the affair.

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Jun 23, 2017

Jun 23, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC

james-floss

SHAKESPEARE IN THE DARK (PORTFOLIO)

I once had a love affair With Shakespeare From Nick Bottom's fuzzy *** To Launce Gobbo in the know And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess Then a new direction R&J breaking rules Pants on a Shrewess Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia Bleachers, lights and stage A comedy, no Error, then Tempest, the Next Generation Prospero in 2314AD. Yep. All of them: Complete works! (abridged) Before I left the park. A gap in time before Darkly pierced prince Mourning loss of mother Ends the affair.

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