"laertes" poems
When Hamlet was young,
All was good,
Elsinore was proud,
Hamlet was young,
Ophelia too.
Now he is older,
Not everything is good,
Some things still are,
His uncle is his father in law,
This is not so good.
Now he is dead,
Ophelia is dead,
Laertes is dead,
Gertrude is dead,
Cladius is dead,
Yorick... is dead,
but he was at the start,
so he doesn't count.
Rosen... Guilden... dead
Old hamlet is dead,
Plonius is dead.
Horatio is alive;
can't imagine he's very happy,
because everyone else is dead.
Laurence Olivier is handsome,
he's dead too.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Unseen and scene,
Of both composed;
these aery heavens,
this solid globe.
Will roused my Sire’s
ghost from the grave.
Will would, for
that’s the part
he played.
What is Will’s will
I next should say?
Will I best Laertes
with my foil today?
Will the villain, Claudius,
be undone
by his victim’s
vacillating son?
What is Will’s will
regarding Mum?
Unseen and scene,
Of both composed;
these Aery heavens
this solid globe.
Now I lay dying,
and Fortenbras comes.
Let my tale be told
in every tongue.
“The rest is silence”-
Thy will be done.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
Rejoice, muses, for the traveler, descended from his namesake:
Odysseus, son of Archon. For he carries in him the spirit of his ancient father.
Time immortal has lost the tale of the ancient King of Ithaca,
Odysseus, son of Laertes. This explorer will travel the stars,
The vast Unknown shall know his name, and he will know it's spirit
As his ancestor traveled home from Ilias
His way inhibited by the gods
Meeting strangers along the twisted road.
Odysseus, son of Archon, rests upon his Captain's throne
Observing through the glass the void which called his name:
"Come, Traveler. Come, Adventurer. Come to me,
And all which is unknown will be known.
Come and see, Traveler, and I will set you free.
There are no endings here; no edges of the map.
There is only that which has always been, and will always be"
The Captain: alone in his ship. No crew would follow him, no crew was needed.
He was afraid. Odysseus knew his choice was made, and
He knew what lay ahead! He knew that he knew nothing.
A push was needed, and to his log he spoke:
"I embark today from home. This journey will take me far away;
Farther than any man before. I begin at mother Earth, and I go out and away.
Away from Mars, the crimson orb of furious war
Past Neptune, the super giant with its swirling eye.
All of this behind me, I will continue still.
I will follow the Unknown, to the vast beyond."
With that, the Traveler ****** forward the controls,
And in so doing, lost all reservation.
For seemingly innumerable days he did not stop,
Streaking away from home faster than light;
An arrow, which was not released but which leaped forth with joy.
Not fired away in anger, but shot into the stars, ablaze,
Seeking a place in which to bury its point.
A signal to all who saw or cared: man is coming.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Running down the riverbank
The moss is wet and slippery
The willow trees whisper in the breeze
As I dance with the wind
Smells of sweet honeydew and rotten leaves
Paint a smile on my face
The water lilies and narcissus bloom
White pedals in my wake
Ivy leaves like snakes do slither
And trap me in their grip
Tangle my flighty feet in its long fingers
And I meet the icy arms of the creek
The splash is loud and the slap is hard
But how I love to swim
It is cold and calm and I hum along
How it echoes in the deep
My feet are numb and my lip trembles
My battered clothes catch on reaching branches
tug me farther in
Like childrens hands excitingly pulling me close
Before too long all my troubles are gone
the restlessness finally settles
Blue blood like ink
pops out of my paper skin
I close my eyes and succor my speeding heart
And there I am, frozen and ******
From my seaweed hair to my dead white feet
The nymph of earth, water, and air
I relinquish this life of pain
Of empty pernicious words
Flirtations will no promises
Hamlet, Father, Laertes I am no longer in debt to thee
Ophelia my sweet, come from the waters deep
Thy flesh has grown so cold
Soft skin wrinkles into old
A bitter bark stains my tongue
Oh god what have I done?
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
You remember Byron from other poems
I told you about. You can look them up
Later. Most of what I said was true
(Same as Twain - Mark, not Shania).
When I arrived for my visit, Byron's good friend,
Clive, was there, holding a cold one in his country hands,
Before the wood stove in Byron's man-cave.
They were talking about welding joints,
Or the pitch of a roof frame, or something
I know ******* squat about.
Both men, uneducated, but clever as hell.
Without writing down a measurement,
Or drawing a sketch,
Could reproduce the Taj Mahal.
Like Plato's cave dwellers, they just see it, make it, nail it.
I brought up the problems my daughter is having
With her toy poodle,
And Clive joined in about his disobedient
Great Dane. I'll call him Laertes,
Though his real name is Butch.
Clive says Laertes never stops barking,
Shock collars don't work.
Treats were to no avail.
Obedience School only worked at school.
I could see Byron's hand on his chin,
Looking off and up to his left,
Out the window over the wood stove:
Have you tried speaking Danish to him, asked Byron.
Enough said.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Poor, thou, little girl who thought
Love would get to thee one day,
Bet thou never thought to expect
It would culminate in doom.
And I am the resurrection in thy tomb
And the life that speaks of mercy at close of day,
Muddy Waters carry thou so far away
From Polonius and Laertes,
Tears in bloom.
Denmark's Prince in shambles thine heart left,
Dissembling and conniving against kin,
In his heart only one ambition firm:
Take back his rightful throne and fair Gertrude.
Neither Shakespeare nor Victoria save thee could
From the evil of the quill, it's own mind set.
In the labyrinth of the parchment thine fate met
"To be or not to be?"
Aye, there's the rub.
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 10:16 PM UTC