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Lizzy Jan 2015
"Poor Yorick!",
His soul is saved.
Safe and sound,
In cold unbeing.

Cold unbeing,
For whom I am so hungry.
It's bitter tundra will fill me,
But my fire won't go out.

The burning won't stop,
And my ashes only gather.
There's something very wrong,
With a blistering winter.

Oh Yorick,
I envy.
Your sleep is undisturbed;
Where I am only tired.

You are bones,
And King Hamlet is a ghost.  
Floating like him and stagnant as you,
I cannot rest.

My sleep is disturbed.
Like the king, I can't find peace.
But like Yorick,
I am hollowed bones.
Lizzy May 2016
I think it's time
For me to close my eyes
And slip into the sleep
That I've always desired.

I think it's time
To say goodbye
To everything I've grown to know
And everything I'll have to let go.

I think it's time
To find out
Once and for all
What dreams may come.
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
To coffee shop, The danish, laughs
You’re not mad,You’re just dieing
Your own stomach;
can't even understand what you mean.

For you, Who disappeared, today?
‘To be’ is a rarity,
And as a non-believer,
This life is just random.

To the coffee shop danish,
Who didn’t show up For work , today
In those silk stockings
Just to stock the coffee,
There is One less, on the streets
To go lording.

We don’t Stop them from living
Nor step aside for them dying
To stain your smock with their colors
When your being ordered.

the day old screams
On her privately.
the best Danes are in a danish
Lizzy Nov 2016
Light of my life,
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous fortune
Bloom a rose
In the deeps of my heart.

And so I came forth
But could not behold the stars.
The slings and arrows,
They trespassed upon my thoughts.

And I cried that I came
To this great stage of fools,
But it echoed loudly within me
Because I am hollow at the core.

That outward existence which conforms,
This inward life which questions
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece of.  

I don't exactly know
What I mean by that,
But I mean it.
This is made of quotes from some of my favorite pieces of literature
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
I should step aside
to my dreams, and find
by any, the means

if by my own stride
to make cowards, and think
of our own wings

surely then, I go...
like the one before me, who said to have known what?! and what it is "to be"... to rend what is going to be;... because that- is itself as each of you can find daily the messengers of the world.

To be me-
dreams, that are
Police, who are
Bodies, that are
My father’s, who are as a
Matchstick's head, that are as a
Thread wrapped around, who are as
all that am
the Trigger who I am
and Are, hidden that I am
as Are agendas who at the least
Are ghosts that are
As dreams that are
In every Hamlets’ who are
To be.
Shakespeare was always fond of tragedies.*
From the star-crossed lovers of Verona,
Romeo and Juliet,
to the revenge-stricken prince of Denmark, Hamlet.
Sometimes I wonder
if he was the author of our fate,
for our love has slowly become a tragedy.


(k.p.)
Jeff Leslie Oct 2013
I watched a man in Central Park
Read Hamlet to a dog
That did not even turn to bark
To make me move along

Instead he sat with ears transfixed
To hear his master’s voice
With no desire for fetching sticks
Or chasing cats and toys

Although he failed to understand
"To be or not to be"
He wagged his tail and watched the man
As though he set him free

Then suddenly a thought occurred,
The man is like the Christ
Reciting from His holy Word
The reason for my life

His will is in a language
That is vexing to my brain
But still I sit here hanging
Onto every Word the same

And though there may be times I pray
"To be or not to be"
With every Word in every way
He sets my spirit free
Simon Bechtel May 2018
Rotting meat lined the walls
of the spot where the crime was committed
Locked from the outside
Shut in as the oil burned,
the smoke engulfing,
the flames consuming the people as they screamed, "Let me out"
but the indentations of the footprints on the door spoke loudest
They spoke of 25 beautiful faces
lost in pursuit of the American Dream.®
I don’t know who
I’m supposed to be
Who I am
or who they want me to be
The answer’s not
so easy to see
Not well known
There's an uncertainty
Knee-**** answer
is to be
wholly free
I'll explain
in detail
Paint a picture clearly
A tutor's not needed
No need to study
No higher degree
With candor
I’ll speak

Let me tell you about
so-called “un-pleasantries"
The list is quite lengthy
A few;
maybe three
Gonna rattle them off
What's been mentioned to me
Not the worst of mistakes
but a category
May irritate some
To others
‘let be’
Saying that’s who I am
and as such
accept me
A minority group
not the majority
and by far
and by few
They are lost in between

Some say I’m intense
and can be
quite chatty
Loquacious
a talker
‘Verbose’ tendency
Don’t deny what is true
But not always guilty
The day in
and day out
doesn't constantly stream
Not sustained
They can change
Just like who
we will be
Not robots
Not copies
or placed on CD
Live a life
of routine
but not one
on repeat
Even still
I must say
there are worse things to be

Empathetic and kind
I give generously
All I have
My last dime
Will donate
each penny
I'm not searching for credit
Approval don't seek
Like to make others happy
Inside, I’m complete
When I focus on others
No discrepancy
I’m not dwelling
or thinking
of my tendencies
Please don't offer
your pity
or give charity
Try to bend; compromise
don’t perceive me
as weak
I'm the chivalrous type
Will get down
on one knee
Not walled off or closed up
Bare my soul
Give freely
But there's more
locked inside
So when time comes to speak
It’s a flood
a deluge
There's an intensity
Give too much
Give too quick
Try to stop
inside keep
I can bottle
it up
but sometimes
it still peaks
Little may trickle out
Suddenly
it will seep
If an access is given
Explodes
in a heap
When I love
I dive in
You may think I’m a freak
The emotional type
Tug heart strings
and I’ll weep
Not a blubbering fool
my emotions
run deep
A calm hand
I can sooth
Situation-ally
In a crisis
I’m strong
This unfortunately
is something
that I know
But don’t wish on
to speak
Life presents me
two roads
With both closed off
to me
Feel locked up
in a cage
while I look
to be free

A locked door
Here I stand
desperately for the key
Wanting answers
Assistance
A new found decree
Need a mantra
A mission
systemically
affecting systems
The true stem
of what’s me
Fundamental
My core
Sprouting roots from a tree
Happiness from the Sun
or beneath canopy
Not about
getting answers
Away goes the fee
Hamlet asked long ago
If 'to be or not be'
I know that it's different
Just work with me please
My point
is the question
In life, what to seek?
A life
that’s authentic
or society
We conform
and adapt
What they want us to be
If like me
you're unsure
It can drive you crazy
Take a chance?
And be pure
Live a life that's taint free
In return
you'll endure
Side remarks
and critiques
Is the juice worth the squeeze?
Be like them
or unique
Written: September 22, 2108

All rights reserved.
[Anapestic Hexameter Format]
David Adamson Feb 17
The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Dramatic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody dies.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly crap. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.
Yenson Jul 2018
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes

another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see

for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes

for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils

As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does



Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed

Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee

eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes

come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee

This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs



Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam

Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex

but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes

perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee

Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms



Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee

so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches

we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas

in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah

for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes



Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we

lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches

indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea

and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies

It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence


Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
This is based on the experience of some one victimized by a contemporary Left-wing Group for daring to criticize their views and believing in aspiration. This poor fellow has been hounded all over London, lost his job, isolated by smears and outrageous lies now broke and on the verge of suicide,, all because he aired his own stance against socialism. The Reds are forsaken bullies, I dare say this. In the old Soviet States dissidents are subjected to a program called Slow death, where they are discredited, harassed, hounded, mobbed everywhere, isolated, they are smeared, character assassinated and persecuted. they are unfairly dismissed from jobs, denied basic Human rights and some are framed and institutionalized and declared insane, in essence their whole lives are summarily destroyed and most end up committing suicide. I regret to tell you that this happens to some in this great Nation too. Pls research Criminal Gang-stalking, Cause Stalking and Community Vigilantes online.
Luna Feb 18
Madness like a red coat
Around her throat
Drowning in the ruins
Of her own misery
And
Own sorrow
O’ dear child,
You should have stayed
In that garden of yours
Among the myriads of
Growing daises
And
Gifting each of us a violet
For centuries to keep
But how long can
Leaves shade you
From the
Many faces of fate—
The cruelest ones always name after us,
Victims.

Dwell in the many layers of rosemary and pansies;
Look how is ironic history just became
With its indelible smell of
Fennel and Columbius ;

Drawn towards the many
Spun webs of the
Golden singing spiders—
She floats amongst the
Water lilies
From here on.
Paul Hansford Oct 2018
Here,
I’ve done it,
A new kind of verse,
All by counting syllables.
The lines all have odd numbers of them.
One, three, five, seven and nine,
Then back down to one.
Just like this,
See?

Once
Paul Verlaine,
Famous French poet,
Claimed there was more music in
Lines with odd numbers of syllables.
I can’t say if he was right.
Is there music in
This simple
Verse?

Look,
Number three
In my collection
Of syllable-counted verse.
They are not really too difficult.
So now what shall I call them?
That is the question,
As Hamlet
Said.

Ha,
Eureka!
Make it a Greek word.
Now what’s Greek for forty-one?
E n a k a i s a r a n d a s y l l a b i c s.
That is what I can call them.
Such an easy name,
Don’t you think?
No?

Well,
I’ll tell you.
Why don’t you try it?
Not so easy now, is it?
Can’t you think of anything at all?
Are you ready to give up?
Can’t say I blame you.
That’s all now.
Bye.
As far as I know, I really invented this form, and anyone who wants to try it is welcome to have a go. I'd be pleased if you'd comment here to tell me, or message me.
Btw, enakaisaranda is Greek for forty-one, and with it having six syllables just by itself, how could I resist it?
Jordan Rains Sep 2018
There is no other soul with a heart as pure as mine
I'm getting better with time at lying that I'm fine
I taught myself to cry in the silence with dry eyes
I break into a smile nimbly when my mind cries
And I have wrapped my pang in my ****** heart
Undying pain scampered at me as smarting darts
I start to hibernate and then more pain generates
Trapped in these blackouts, like young Norman Bates
I'm dying to get my soul out of this dormant state
Just a Gatsby in search for the one who reads heart
I keep eyeing at my heart. Asking, will it ever restart?
I repressed all my emotions and lingered to ask
How I'm gonna unmask my heart from this masque?
My soul interrupted and concealed my thoughts
Gave me a shield to protect me when unrest erupts
Self-doubt disrupts me downright, it corrupts my mind
And now when I think about all the battles I've fought
The ones I've won are only a few, quite a few I've lost
Did I learn anything from all the lessons I was taught?
Maybe I did, still, I regret the things that made me weak
Peace of mind is all I seek when they start to critique
These hidebound **** sapiens are all around
Populous solitude make me bound, I'm spellbound
Wandering to heckle in a Hamlet, they come at me
with a mallet when I jot down my rhymes- bright palettes
It doesn't matter to em- whatever I write is ******
I'm roving solitary in the crowd in search of a mantlet
I go around running in circles, makin' my back way around
Echoes of my mind forbid me to put down more words
Though distractional voices divert my mind
Trying to get rid of the soul who impedes my mind
Undying forces assure our writing proficiency
But the nocturnal creature pitilessly disavowed
Incredulous power instantly accepts things which I wrote
And the words spirit away from my heart to Far Far Away
I scribbled a few words for the opposing side too
But still, they tryna repress my words; *******!
Mortals are continuously humming around their "profound"
opinions- it's all noise but when I listen, I hear 'em sound
They are out of their flipping minds but I do care
what they all are sayin', I'm gonna find a way in-
to their crooked minds when they start weighin'
rights and wrongs from every single word I write down
They say my rights drown. Should I take a break now?
Nah! I'll never go down without a fight. You all clowns
Keep your half-crowns back in your freakin' pockets
When I put my pen to paper what happens is
like the explosion on the collision of two rockets
I was empty as a shell until your flair filled me up
You glared out of my heart, you thrilled me up
I push out all rage onto a page & it gave me courage
I'm gonna mock em out, preparing myself to knock em out
Time to lock down this scene, As you all have seen
what I've been through my rhymes, yeah I'm mean
Now gettin' ready for the final knockdown
I've stacked my courage to scoff them around, I mean
Every living soul needs to accept the fact
All human beings are open to criticize
But before you get ready to paralyze, try to visualize
At least try to understand what's goin' around
Everyone is going through some sting of the life
For me, writing it all down is the way of life
ever standing
body lithe, strong
trained to strike

too dashing for peeling paint
old verandas
slow-paced hamlet

waiting in country town
place to whizz past
road to tourist hub

how does his tale read
did he pay
for assault

struck the frame
holder of *****
spawning breath

cold fury
for scenes of his mother
thrown down

stain his every stance
grabbing mail swiftly
ahead of arrival

panther muscles
no more the crouching lad
shuddering

her screams
bounce off walls
as mother's body slumps

broken bottle scars
left to clean up the mess
as he leaves for school
forage into
fictional possibility -
penned
with deep respect
for David
of village
post office
SOUL OF THE AGE

Now, is the summer
of this. . .our content

made glorious
by love

the sunlight
kiss of leaves

yet through a glass
darkly

I am tolled by old
St. Saviour’s bell

back to
a December’d day

a Thames frozen
from Westminster to London Bridge

where Will
buries brother

young Edmund Shakespeare
on this the last day

of the year
1607.

I stand on the same
flagstones

as the King’s Men
gathered in black

rub shoulders with
Burbage

a Hamlet come
to life

a summer of tourists
walking through us

as the order
from the Book of the Dead

solemnly intoned

as his younger brother
is lowered

into an unmarked
grave.

Ferrymen call
from across the centuries

“Eastward **. . .
. . .Westward **!”

as Time slips
loose of its moorings

mastiffs strain
at the leash

await the bear
to be baited.

Methinks I see
the great Globe itself

flag unfurled
upon an horizon

“the forenoon knell
of the great bell”

as I return
to my self

and Shakespeare
stares at a wall

in Silver
Street.
Scarlet Aug 19
I've had kings and god's and poets in my bed,
Felt them reluctant and raw, dazed and ****** and delighting.
Darling Peter brings me breakfast every morning after,
Always get my coffee wrong. He's got his smile
That seem more of an apology than anything else.
Hamlet paces endlessly, ten long-legged strides
From one side of the room to the other. I've got through
Three cups of the right kind of coffee before
While he's just crossing the sitting room again and again,
'to be's fluttering through my hair

Richard makes love like he's never done it before,
Like every little noise is a sign for concern. I think
It truly panics him to be faced with the responsibility.
Coriolanus ***** like a wild animal,
Fidgety and agitating. He *****
Like he's trying to win.

I wait for the real him and I say, won't you be a dragon this time.
Be a monster. Be whatever it is I am afraid of
When I put my feet up under the covers to keep them safe.
He laughs and tucks his face into my neck,
Squeezes his ankle around my toes.
No, he tells me firmly. Monsters tempt you enough
Without giving one my face to wear
This poem is not my own work all right is reserved and belongs to  the original poet/author Elisabeth hewer I am only sharing because of how alluring and elegant it is.
Yenson Jul 10
Hahaha..where are all the pip-squeak bullies
those ****-less keyboard ***** playing warriors
against Hamlet and excellence
while across the pond and in hallowed halls
our Man in Washington doing his job
is bullied and expunge unceremoniously
by that bully with the weave over corn-hair
and the trade-mark irreverent tongue of bullies
so where are all our pip-squeak bullies
from our green and pleasant land
fear not for the cowards will not speak up
why speak and lose your chips and burghers
whats international affairs to dumb bullies
whats dignity and integrity to scums and thugs
the Empire has become a laughing stock
first in Europe and now all this
bullying by big blond
pip-squeak ****-less bullies where are you
fighting sumo wrestling with one MAN
and he's taking the almighty ****
of you cowards!
Classy J Mar 25
Once again Classy J the definition of a sin,
Deceased kindness that passes down to my kin.
Addiction restricting timeless memories that pour's softly within.
Sadly this is the only time warmth ever greets me,
Can I ever change? Beats me?
So maybe when history gets spun again and again the future has no choice but to be grim?
Fairy-tales woven into white lie's that negate horrific sins.
Minds going crazy that's got me turning into Harley Quinn.
Happily never after reforming heroes, that severs off well intended meanings.
Exceedingly dreary reality fraught with fog that makes it hard to see where we first began.  
That lights holy crosses on fire like the ku klux ****.
Entrapping lost souls inside a raven claws diadem.
No glad tidings left residing in thee,
When humanity keeps going on killing sprees.
Will we ever be truly free?
Or is freedom just a double edged poisoned sword like a hamlet tragedy?
Fending off hatred but how can one do it peacefully?
For even with civil rights the media still has no problem linching minorities!
So I’m left Watching as nightmarishly thin cows start eating up the healthy ones, who knew one vision of a Pharaoh could become reality?
For when good comes, the bad comes shortly after, so maybe instead of pointless debates we need to implement actions?
In order to have a true happily ever after!
But that all depends on us incompetent humans who divide everything and everyone into class systems.
With phobias turning others inhuman or illegal aliens that are in need for dissection.
Chopping up our own kin or refusing to vaccinate them because some stupid doctor claimed it causes autism.
So, we’d rather **** our children rather than having them associate within a disorderly spectrum.
Hmm. If you ask me that’s pretty ******* dum!
Guess that’s what happens when humanity tries to hard to get to the sun?
Thinking ourselves as God’s that be damning what others have said or done.
Getting offended over everything, man this **** is sure getting tiresome!
The snow fell heavily
and laid a white blanket
over everything
from the top
of the plum trees
to the ground of the garden.

There was no school
as the school bus
couldn’t get through
the narrow lanes
high in snow fall.

You knew you’d not
see Jane that day
which was a shame
as you wanted to tell her
about the bullfinch
you had seen down the lane
by the small stream.

You looked out
of your bedroom window;
your siblings were outside
in their boots,
wrapped up warm
playing in the snow,
laughing.

You wondered what
Jane was doing;
was she looking out
at it like you,
or if she was outside
doing things.

The farm workers
had to cross
the deep snow
to the farm
to milk the cows.

You decided
to offer your help
to get the cows in
and help weigh the milk,
rather than standing
looking out getting bored.

On the other side
of the hamlet,
Jane was helping her father
clear snow from the pathway
to the house to the church.

She was wrapped up
in coat and scarf and gloves
and was getting quite warm.

She mused on you,
wondering what
you were doing,
wishing she could
have met you,
but the road
was too deep
to walk to your
parents’ cottage.

She shovelled away snow
to the sides of the path;
her father was at
the other end by the church
shovelling away snow
at that end.

You crossed the field
in your knee-high boots,
following the footsteps
made by the farm workers,
and into the farm and dairy.

They let you help them
get the cows
into the milking-shed
and weigh the milk
on the huge scales
in the buckets they gave you
for each cow
and you wrote it down
on the list.

Jane stood
for a few moments
getting her breath,
listening to the sound
of the rooks
in the high trees.

She wished you
could be there
beside her,
holding her hand,
your fingers
between hers.

She still felt your kiss
on the cheek
you gave her
last week.
A boy and girl in the countryside in 1961
Nesma Aug 2018
“Two teaspoons of coffee, one teaspoon of sugar, and pour it right before it boils down”, my mother said smelling the coffee she is cooking to perfection. I stand there and wonder what scent Hamlet was smelling when he said “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark”, I’m guessing it’s the same scent colonizing this house. I look at the ***** ceiling and start sniffing the air. My mother looks at me and says “your nose is nearing the skyline, keep it where your feet are. Men don’t like prideful women”.

I looked around trying to see what smelled so repulsive. My grandmother lit incense, my sister baked a fresh orange cake for celebration, my other sister splashed a few drops of the musk that the Arab man gifted us all over the house, and father held a stack of 500 Riyal banknotes to his nose.  

The rich Arab that knocked on our door last week asking if we have an extra womb for sale is visiting again today. My mother prepared a hot bath for me an hour ago; she said I have to smell like freshly uprooted Baladi roses, so I soaked in the bathtub trying to figure out what is this repulsive scent I am smelling.

Right after I finished my bath I told my mother “something stinks”. Her reply was dragging me to the kitchen where she teaches me how to make coffee. I say “mother, nobody drinks coffee here”, she says “You need to learn how to properly make coffee to serve our sheikh some tonight. Remember, eyes on the ground”. I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “Men don’t like prideful women”.

I hear people in the city overlook what lies beneath their feet; a 16 year old city girl will never know what it means to have to walk 30 kilometers with a broken shoe in order to read one book. I guess farming taught me a thing or two about looking down. I remember reading before that African slaves were shipped to America to primarily work in farms, coffee and sugar farms to be exact. I realize now what this stink is. I look at my mother and tell her “I will not marry him. This ring reeks of slavery”. She looks at me in astonishment, and I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “and pour it right before it boils down”.
my writings are usually inspired by something I've seen or heard. Sense of sight and sense of hearing play a great deal in my writings, so I tried to incorporate sense of smell here..
Terry Collett Oct 2018
Ham took you to a cafe
on London Road;
he was meeting
Bernard there.

Sit there,
Ham said,
indicating a table
by the wall with wallpaper
with a flowered pattern.

You sat; stared
around the cafe;
frowned at two men
at the next table.

Who's there?
You say,
pointing towards them,
wondering where
your Lord Hamlet had gone,
and these two jesters
at his court.

What's the matter, love?
One of the men said,
smiling, eyeing you,
taking in your hair and eyes.

Nay, answer me,
you said, stand,
and unfold yourself.

Ham came over
to the table:
Hush, Ophelia,
he said.

He apologised to the men,
twirling a finger
at the side of his head.

You gazed at your lord;
he contested
with these jesters,
you surmised,
eyeing them.

They looked
away from you;
conversed between themselves;
sipped their mugs of tea,
ate their breakfasts.

You sat gazing at your lord
bargaining with a rogue.

He brought
two mugs of tea
and bacon sandwiches
and sat opposite you,
his back to the jesters.

Bernard will be here soon,
Ham said, gazing at you,
behave yourself.

Bernardo?

Yes, Bernard,
so keep your voice down,
Ham said.

He began his sandwich;
you began yours.

Bernard came in the cafe
and ordered a tea,
and waved.

Bernardo,
you said,
you come most carefully
upon your hour.

Hush, Ophelia,
Ham said.

Bernard smiled at you;
he tried to understand you
and your vocal expressions.

Bernardo,
you said softer
and waved.

He waved back
and paid the rogue
and went, and sat next you,
facing Ham.

Unfold yourself,
you said.

Ham raised his hand
to hush you.

You sat and ate
and drank.

Your lord was speaking
with his minister;
he spoke of battle,
you assumed,
and jested of wounds
of war.

You felt your ***
beneath your dress;
it felt so sore.
A young woman, mentally ill with her lover and carer in London in 2007
Patrick longed
for Deo
and shared
a wafer
and where
we'd detail
a hamlet
to spite
a hornet's
nest with
a sparrow
on the
hedgy ledge
on the
south shore
and trump
New Yorker
a day in new york
Engineer -
Building towers,
Building walls,
Building keeps,
Are you -
Reaching for the sky?
Trying to guard something in?
Trying to fortify?
Building towers to mimic flight,
Building walls to keep them out
Or keep something, someone, in
Building keeps to keep,
But to keep what?
I might ask,
Hamlet, what are you building
In that kingdom of yours?
What are you trying to achieve?
It’s a fallacy, ‘to be or not to be’
actors strutting and pouting across
a stage, their black shoes burning
holes into the painted wood,

Their words lacking conviction
each action, merely an action,
but it’s what they have to work with
that holds the key, he secret ecstasy,
The escape route from Hell

Knowing that, given the choice,
‘to be’ is not where the scales will
settle. We are wanderers clutching
at straws of adventures, but we will
pick the short one, eventually

Where then do we go? When there is
no ladder made of gold to climb.
no pearly gates nor a wizardly,
kindly face

‘The play’s the thing’
wherein we catch
the conscious of
ourselves

— The End —