"shakespearean" poems
Poetry is like a *****
in its wobbly, dangly freeness
(This poems not the cleanest so stop reading if you're a little squeamish)
Some have it, some don't
some use it, some won't
some like it awkward with a twist at the end
like a shakespearean couplet but on the person it depends
for others its merely secondary
(oh but always necessary)
to the holder - their Mars or Venus
So, as god is my witness,
poetry is a *****
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
why do you act like hamlet,
all depressed and grieved,
for your own heart shuts me out,
and it's you who's deceived?
when did you think like othello,
murderous and violent,
irrational with decisions,
making me suffer with guilty silence?
how did you turn into macbeth,
from the silky words that grace your lips,
to the venomous fangs you bit back at me,
stinging like burning, sharp whips?
because i thought you were romeo,
with your adventurous soul and romantic antics.
now you've faded away,
with all your heroic tactics.
wherefore art thou, romeo?
don't call me juliet,
if i'm just another rosaline.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
*Her eyes are a metaphor,
a conceit, fantasy
No shakespearean sonnet
even a lyric, will suffice
to describe the elegance she carries
Her smile, the greatest curve,
all simile will be denied
Haikus and couplets
even the long ones
will not be enough
Her laughter is a song,
a perfect harmony and melody
She is neither a hyperbole
nor full of irony
instead she is perfect rhyme
She is a walking poetry
a personification of aesthetics
Almost an abstract
unfathomable beauty
out of the ordinary*
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
You and I
A song that started clumsily, mid-stumble, then fell into a beautiful flurry of violins playing lithe.
It’s a Shakespearean epic draped in a cheap suit of modern conjectures that caught my eye.
You and I
It’s climbing up a mountain-side, daring & tempestuous -cherishing every moment, not just the peak, but the hike.
Even as you’re pushing so hard its hurts to breathe, the air so thin your gasps are overlapping fighting for air– you’ll die if you quit, having the time of your life.
You and I
Seeing sheet-music for your favorite tune, as an illiterate fool, but somehow feeling the rhythm and time.
It’s enticing & startling, it’s the smell of privet-hedge and pine –familiar, refreshing, & divine.
It’s you and I.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
vintage polaroids
mountain air
girl scout cookies
summer hair
ed sheeran lyrics
mint lemonade
blowing bubbles
christmas parade
harry potter
winter park crew
biscoff spread
morning dew
british accents
plaid shirts
old castles
chocolate desserts
breakfast for dinner
big bang theory quotes
shakespearean language
cape cod sailboats
sweet nostalgia
the smell of books
longing wanderlust
forest nook
80s movies
neon lights
time with friends
caramel delights
the great gatsby
walk the moon
old typewriters
plumerias bloom
bombay bicycle club
chinese cuisine
abstract art
seafoam green
vineyard vines
life of pi
scuba diving
monarch butterfly
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
*never date an artist:
for they’ll find the beauty in the fight -
they’ll grow to remove themselves from all the light,
knowing nothing lasts forever,
it’s all a stroke of fate -
or a pen’s dance on a paper’s grate.
never date an artist:
for the moment’s together will be exaggerated into a shakespearean play -
love’s trance will be in every date,
never knowing if the words spilled are the beauties of your’s or estranged gains of a moment’s escape,
for everything is painted by the beautiful eyes of an experienced guide -
is it real or a work of art they’re just trying to explain.
never date an artist:
they’ll miscommunicate everything they care to say -
not knowing how to communicate beyond the artistic escape,
an artist will rejoice in the gain of a moment’s grace,
finding every reason to hide from the honest’s truth -
for an artist is nothing but a fairytale’s goof.
painted, writen and expressed to be everything they wish people would see,
washed up and beaten by reality’s plea -
never date an artist, for their life is nothing but a conglomerated mess -
of how to escape the stress of the everyday and live in hopeless harmony,
they’re nothing but an anomaly:
never date an artist.
trust me.*
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
Once at a halcyon sea thee dare glance,
And you'll see her smiling vivaciously
To render eyes of thine into a trance
By lullabies crooned rhythmically.
And if thee dare saunter by the shoreline
Upon a shingly beach in a brisk breeze,
Kissed by glassy waves you'll feel so fine,
For in mist of joy shalt thy worries freeze;
Yet if thee stroll by a fine golden day
With heaven's eye fairly raining her light,
It'll betoken joy to forever stay
Like of a bird upon her maiden flight.
**In sweet delight it'll thus dawn upon thee,
For nothing smiles than a halcyon sea.**
#Decasyllabic
#Attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros. 7th.Dec.2017. Jumeirah, Dubai.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC
I feel your love,
Yet your marksmanship is poor,
For towards me your love aims not.
Your intentions aimed elsewhere.
A past lover.
And I am not he.
Malicious Misery pushed you too far.
Too far this time.
Your life is precious to me,
Yet a treasure you seek not.
It dwindles within these machines,
Like a strand of seaweed.
Being crashed upon by the waves,
Of this poison you endowed yourself with.
Much a tragedy this is.
Yet not that of Shakespeare.
No, this much too real,
To take a form of fictitious imaginings.
This, much more complicated,
Than a Shakespearean masterpiece.
For if so,
Your love would be aimed at I.
But it is not,
And in resent, I mourn this tragedy.
Yet, I must let love,
Travel upon its everso hellbound path.
My eyes lie upon thee,
And my heart within the feeble hand of yours.
Yet your mind lies elsewhere,
And your desires lie with your mind.
Upon he.
The one currently at your arms reach.
The one at your desires demand.
The one you truly love.
I must not resent this,
For love hath struck thee as it struck I.
And Cupid's arrow hath stuck he as well.
I can see it in his sorrowful stare.
He loves you in a way that I cannot.
A consentful love.
For I am just a scapegoat.
Temporary.
Well now you've quenched your desire.
You've acquired what you sought.
Love of he.
(And I, for whatever its worth.)
His love is a precious gold,
And mine a mere coal.
Black, unwanted.
Only able to provide temporary warmth.
Pardon me for obstructing.
Love hath stolen my precious vision,
And wandered, I,
Into the meadow in which you hunt.
As a poor marksman,
Thou cast thine arrow of love upon me,
And realized I am but a scapegoat,
When the white stag is what you seek.
Once before,
you lined him in your sights.
But evasive is this mystical creature.
And once, he escap'd.
If your life so solidifies,
I shall replinish my vision,
Banish my love,
And obstruct thee no more.
Instead,
I must prosper in silence and patience.
Shun my hearts desires,
And let thee hunt.
I apologize for my inconvenience.
I shall groom each of your horses,
So that you may ride into,
The meadow of love together.
Hence, beware of hunters,
And wandering creatures.
Teach thine unsteady hand,
And this time...
Don't miss.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 4:19 AM UTC
Emerging from the darkness,
Your face is encircled with stars of Orion.
Fog surrounding your silhouette.
Overwhelming force field separating
My aura from yours.
Walk a fine street of plated gold,
Deploring plastic cores,
and camera stores.
Flying fast,
Screaming at the past.
Back down from the galaxy.
I scream with ecstasy;
"I am Shakespearean!
I am Freudian!"
You are Napolean,
King Henry and Led Zeppelin!"
Crash, smash, crack myself open.
Electromagnetic magnetism.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I will write myself to sleep.
I will write long, pathetic
poems instead of texts to my
ex. I will write
the novel of my life
instead of asking you
for attention.
I will write
the new bible
on isolation, chronological
volumes
on loneliness.
I will write ten million
haikus before I write
you again.
I will write love letters
to myself until my fingers
bleed, until I
believe them.
I will write the handbook
on neglect, the idiots guide
to dealing with it.
I will write vague
fortune cookies about
self-acceptance and
self-forgiveness.
By the time I'm finished,
I will have exhausted
my depression.
I will write Shakespearean
prose about this
rejection.
I will write suicide notes
on my shield and armor for
protection and I will
save myself with them.
I will write angry, violent speeches
to rally the voices
in my head.
I will write a pledge of allegiance
to myself and recite it daily,
after coffee.
I will pray to the Gods of
"move on," and "get over it."
I will baptize myself
in holy water
that makes me
stop caring
completely.
Holy water, oh well, whatever
move on. Hallelujah.
I will write the ten commandments
on how to be
abandoned.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
Not snowy seraphs of heaven above
Nor lustrous gems by heaven's stonking wall,
Shall outshine the eternal mark of love
Thou blazoned upon the skin of my soul.
Though midst my wake and dreaming hours I know,
Heaven's meanest pier is of burnished gold,
And celestial shores chatoyant than snow,
But all not as bright as the mark I hold.
For when fickle time in layers of life
Shalt shroud me, and away I must then run
To meet the judge of souls, lest lasting grief
Were my soul's fate, I mean to burn and burn,
The fragrance of thy love could still linger
Freshly upon my soul's fading ember.
*#Decasyllabic
#Iambic pentameter
#Quatrains
#Couplet
#Shakespearean sonnet*
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Jumeirah, Dubai, 14th.Jan.2018.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
His means of self-protection.
How truly fortified is he!
Where is the beast his double
In forethought of emergency
And readiness for trouble?
Recall his figure, and his shade--
How deftly planned and clearly
For slithering through the dappled glade
Unseen, or pretty nearly.
Yet should an alien eye discern
His presence in the woodland,
How little has he left to learn
Of self-defense! My good land!
For he can run, as swift as sound,
To where his goose may hang high--
Or ****** his head against the ground
And tunnel half to Shanghai;
Or he can climb the dizziest bough--
Unhesitant, mechanic--
And, resting, dash from off his brow
The bitter beads of panic;
Or should pursuers press him hot,
One scarcely needs to mention
His quick and cruel barbs, that got
Shakespearean attention;
Or driven to his final ditch,
To his extremest thicket,
He'll fight with claws and molars (which
Is not considered cricket).
How amply armored, he, to fend
The fear of chase that haunts him!
How well prepared our little friend!--
And who the devil wants him?
2.8k
Charge forth into Dis-topi
Ah, City of Kanye-esque antics and Oxford commas looking for lovers
Bliss-ful dive and conquer in Shakespearean soliloquies thus
Learned to romance on the breast of Juliet and *** ******** despite plaque
Toe the line, Lady Macbeth, let your murderous rhythm sing harmonic
Matthew 18 rendition on the dias of Gatsby, 1920
Thousand and fifteen we still age inappropriate
Lee, Spike jump rage against God Hates **** yet black lives live without crack
******* Kublai Khan to the sanctified Amazons.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
"Hey good lookin' can I buy you a drink?"
A Shakespearean muse cannot alas venture forth upon the fragrance of allure
*** Are you high?"
Love is my intoxication and thus I've become an 18th century daffodil who shall remain chaste and true
"Dude! You got to hear this whack chick over here. Offer her a drink"
"Hey gorgeous... let me buy you a round! What are you drinking?"
I drink from the wine of discretion and allow its strength to escort me on as a golden fleece protecting virtue, honor and consequence
"HOLY **** Dude! You weren't kidding. This chick is out there!"
"Hey Aphrodite... but why are you out alone with all your friends? Where's Zeus or whoever?
He rides the wings of Pegasus looking for our land of plenty while his heart resides next to mine in a dance of promise and expectation
"Well if it was me I'd be right here because I'd never leave you alone"
The heart cannot be bound by another; it must be allowed to roam free in the wilds testing it's will and only then can one know if love is fleeting or everlasting
**** babe, whatever you're on I want a case...."
Search your heart for your true self; it is not an acquisition but a dormant flower waiting for you to shed your false notions of manhood and prideful restraint
"Ohhh kaaayyy." Good luck with that sweetie... I think my friends are leaving."
The hard part is to say it with a straight face....
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
"I am dying."
"Its hardly a cold."
"Will you fetch me a thermometer?"
"I will send for one, you Shakespearean."
"I am glad you can make jokes to a dying friend."
"Learn to hold your wine."
"You mean drink? Or what I am doing now?"
"Both."
"Will you still be my friend in the morning?"
"If you are alive."
"Good. I am dying you know?"
"You died a week ago and the week before that."
"It's real this time. You will not be happy in the morning."
"Why is that?"
"You will wake to a foul smell and realize that your mourning will be spent digging a hole."
"Oh, so like most mornings with you."
"You are a real pal. Pass the wine?"
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
If 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth graciously on silence's table,
and studyeth mine own evolved, yet un-evolv'd self,
undisturbed, unhurried, un-agitated,
by w'rld's brightest gulf
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.
if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth comf'rtably on peace's table,
and gaze mine own wounded, yet un-wound'd self,
un-agitated, un-deviated, unmoved,
by w'rld's s'rry self
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.
if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth calmly on agony's table,
and obs'rve mine own painful, yet not painful self,
unmoved, undaunted, unleashed,
by w'rld's weirdest self,
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.
if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth fain on glee's table,
with mine own eyes smiling, and smiling at myself,
unaffected, unguarded, unremitted,
by w'rld's unrequit'd self
. and grineth backeth, at myself.
if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
twill forsooth beest a did bless, contending miracle,
as yond's at which hour i couldst pateth & greeteth myself,
in real, in real, in real!
and maketh this fact p'rceivable,
yond our w'rld may sure oft hest struggles,
and our m're existence in t,
may just beest negligible,
but we nev'r gotta f'rget
to stayeth hopeful, smileth and giggle,
nay matt'r how hard the struggles,
as yond's the most wondrous fuel,
yond can oft causeth miracles,
in a w'rld,
so obsess'd with struggles!
And then with a sigheth,
a blooming grineth,
yet a sparkling desire within,
i'll did bid myself,
a farewell
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
*The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.*
Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.
Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a punch line.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
I.
leather skin
tattoos from youth that are laughable
as messy as a room gets every month
succumbing and cleaning up a mid-life crisis
a broken wind-up soldier
folsom prison's bar ‘s open every time the sheets get too cold
two year expiration date
grease
red wine at a dive bar
II.
never completely remember anything except touch
whiskey clouded brains and side-ways smiles
tongue-slinger
serpent waiting to strike
retracting and falling backwards far
slithering in during the AM
charming underneath the stairs
monotony
unwanted terms of endearment
the tea kettle will always whistle when the water gets too hot
III.
spells and red lights flicker at late hours on unseasonably warm nights
sweat and dragons both thrive from heat
smoke, from mouths and cigarettes
shakespearean scenes that melt to fingers grazing lips so effortlessly
this was all coming in due time after too many moments
spent on washing machines in an ancient haunt
falling into fictional identities when we come together
doe eyes
tears fell from poetic words spit so harshly on delicate air
a temporary home and an eternal momentary escape
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
In purple checked dresses we are confronted
Behind a piano sits ‘Miss Creak’ head of house
She has one bad eye, unfixable from childhood
But plays beautifully perched on an oakwood
And fabric stool. This is our secondary school.
On the wall above the piano is a framed print
‘Madonna of the Meadows’ by the artist Bellini
I pushed a drawing of a couple intertwining
Under ‘her’ door knowing she never would have
But a boy may have felt affection for ‘that’ affliction.
Here we all ate meals, did fashion shows and sang
I was glad my dress was purple not orange or red
Went better with my blue eyes and blonde hair
The rest of the school diveded into coloured checks
To represent Shakespearean female characters.
Just opened in Wandsworth a new comprehensive
Serving all abilities, behaviours and nationalities
Cordelia, Beatrice, Juliet, Katharine,
Portia, Rosalind, Olivia, Viola a rather unsuitable
Vision for such an uptake of adolescent froth.
Miss Creak was, kindly, I wish I had always been.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
He, was in love with her plays
her masquerade
tragedies
shakespearean days
Her fences
Defences
Her armoured-
Sensitives
Her past
her facade
her lovely charm
and, learnt, laugh
The curtains close
the room brightens
But he'll fall in love again
the next night,
when they reopen.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
cry baby, cry
all the world was in front
all the past was behind
and you dropped the ball.
it fell right out of your hand
and for what?
don't say it was for love
because that would be a crying shame.
this life is not a Shakespearean play,
the ebb and flow just isn't here and
there is no rhyme, and there is no reason
and the grammar is bad.
so cry baby, cry
you let everything get to you
you cut off your nose to spite your face
like standing on the tracks to catch the train.
it's such a drag
maybe you should go back home
and leave those fiery, gun powder dreams behind.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
Like a Shakespearean sonnet it’s tragically written, but it’s no tragedy
Nor novel, journal entry, or even biography
It’s not an adventure, no action, no horror, no drama
It’s not very entertaining, like a speech from Obama
It has no family or friends, it’s all alone.
It’s nothing special, just a poem…
It’s not up, it’s not down, no smile nor frown
It won’t make a man famous or a king lose his crown
It can’t make a nomad settle forever or a hermit leave his home
It’s nothing special, just a poem…
It’s hideous not beautiful like a flower
It’s boring like staring at a wide white wall for an hour
It doesn’t smell delicious like an apple pie
It’s not even funny enough to make you cry
It’s not new, but old, chiseled out in stone
It’s nothing special, just a poem…
It’s not chaotic like Ragnarok, or calm like the sunrise
It’s not angry, happy, or sad, there’ll be no tears in your eyes
It has no meaning, the author will never be known
After all it’s nothing special, just a poem…
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC