"shakespearian" poems
The natural you and what about him
The Zen gold egg climber Prince
Got his "Godly" rinse of the hen
We always knew their way upon
our thinking "Jumping Jack Flash"
But to be the change the day single
let's be feasible naturally, we mingle
The Holy water medieval drinking
By the night call, something is moving
Like a creature not in human form
We need to meet our expectations
More spoken revelations and terms
Naturally, we were born to be told
we have the fire to move any force
Even when our bones are getting old
That powerful love but someone is
watching us above
With higher hopes will make
it through lovesick she coughs
The Passageway like a click of her heels
Feeling the beauty but climbing high
Naturally being cool with her sigh
Or the carriage day vintage wine
Her lucky wheel
World’s are invitation the engagement,
The sweet words or the terms of endearment
Be the Higher lover up in the Prince bow to her
A need to get higher inside the
Castle what a love hustle like a stampede
The rampage turning the ancient pages
Rock and roll ages or the Gothic pale
Victorian beauty her name Judy
Sir page the Grand Marnier
or change of pace human race
The drink Moet
High Mighty King singing
Her heart shape ring beating
Fresh-cut or worn out smoke put out
Brighten her pleasure the rose repose
To be born not a piece of paper torn
Like a Queen reborn
For love how its spoken not just
City Girl with her token for-God-sake
can you look through her
wing turned up she is curled up
in her new threads of sheets
eyes please she is not ready
to hear goodbyes to your beat
What do you read is she naturally
beautiful than or now
Her naturally glow lights up
The Shakespearian castle
Two nature healers, not the
same as card dealers
Butterflies the fireflies
Her love shape naturally
that's no lie
It comes naturally to be loved __
More like homed bakes muffin ___
Google the nature of things spoken but
they may not come
Please don't wait too long
Perhaps there is always someone
to copy your song
Be the climber love for who she is
Her vegetables her sensuality is quite
organically raw
She loves her side dish coleslaw
How nature made us in the womb
Naturally spoken things like her sub combo
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
i
This is for thou both miss Vicki, and miss Beth Stclair, true poet's
Miss Beth StClair, thy sonnet style, brings back the old smile I see;
Miss Vicki, writing of love so quickly, so beautifully inspiring
Miss beth, thy word's got me flying I'll buyeth thy book real soon.
ii
Miss Vicki, thou art an old soul made of gold, a home amongst homes, as thou liveth in mine state, miss beth, I'd seeith thee if I go to England, amongst the Beatle street's we'll speaketh of ourn living's, and reciteth sonnet's of Shakespearian knowledge.
iii
Miss Vicki, thy jargon is wrapped like a bouquet, glazed with honey, thine words art displayed, people in this world like Thee I do prayeth, that thine life wilt be joyful, and harmonious in thy tommorrow, beth, I feeleth thine wild's, as the sixties thou hadst.
iv
Beth StClair, if it was back in the day, we'd be wonderful friend's, thou wouldst hath watched me on a stage, singing poetic thunder, miss Vicki, when thou feeleth down and under, continue to write thy creator in thy works, and I promise thou both, thou both hath
A friend in me......
©Brandon nagley
©Miss Vicki/miss Beth StClair dedication for both of you (:::::
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
William Shakespeare: playwright and poet
My absolute favorite of all time
The master of words in plays and sonnets
Unappreciated during his prime
His comedies still make us laugh today
Who could forget The Taming of the Shrew?
Now it's told in a much different way
A movie: The Ten Things I Hate About You
People think of his many tragedies
Othello, Romeo and Juliet
We still feel their sorrow; weak at the knees
We cry for the Prince of Denmark: Hamlet.
"But soft! What light through yonder window break?"
The work of a legend those words do make!
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute.
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
2.1k
It is in those broken moments we find ourselves,
Torn to pieces, with no explanation –
A dark crevasse molded to fit our shape,
Holding our deepest thoughts, encasing our forgotten spirit,
We tend to allow ourselves to be encompassed by this abyss –
Explaining to ourselves the need to dwell on the darkened past,
Swallowed by its projection of memories,
Sprayed upon the walls of our mind like murals –
An endless catacomb of images, seemingly permanent in their manifestation…
It is in those broken moments, that we find ourselves.
Seemingly unbearable days, leading to sleepless nights,
Dreading the thoughts that creep their way to our dreams –
Resting in an endless adaptation of our subconscious,
Playing out their roles, as if upon a Shakespearian stage…
Each thought, acting its part with tragic precision,
Layer upon layer, scene upon scene…
Reaching back to grasp our inception of reality –
Griping its contents, and strangling the ideas to exhaustion; gasping…
It was in those broken moments, that we found ourselves,
With a weighted world pressed firmly upon our chest,
The ebbing soil began to crumble –
Giving light to the somber path traversed…
Filling the now hollow crevasse with purpose and meaning,
Each memory defined by the silver lining expressed in love –
The fleeting darkness, swallowed by the over-whelming feeling of home…
Finding it in the simplicity of a kiss, and the certainty of an embrace,
It is here that we find ourselves,
In the intricate details and delicate idiosyncrasies –
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
1.7k
Rubicon on broadway
young and beautiful
in white Cadillacs and Buicks
audio pop gods transmit
preludes for the night
through hair waves
and satellite finger tips
Buried souls are only resurrected
among friends
at Shakespearian rags
at 10
in mind
with wine, no whine
oh mine, oh mine
no more golden toads in Costa Rica—
the planet is a metaphor for the body—
old spice and white gum
our everyday gospel
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
The click clack echoes of cheap stilettos on cracked pavement let you know she's near
There is no fear in her eyes
Lined thick and black as the night sky
For she is the goddess of these blocks
And men would sacrifice their blood and sweat wages to worship in her temple
She is a walking master piece
Crafted in the shaky hands of abandonment and abuse
It took nineteen long years to create a soul so dark you could get lost just staring into it
And she's been trying to find her way back to herself for years
She is a walking tragedy
Of Shakespearian proportions
Her love stories are not so romantic and clean
They usually take place in some stranger's back seat
After some hastily exchanged words
Some stranger's rough cheek
Pressed harshly against hers
And from the outside it could almost be called love
Two people finding themselves in the arms of another
But still being completely alone in the world
This is her existence
Moonlit rendezvous
Short skirts and fishnets with holes up the sides
She's just someone to call during the lonely nights
And as they spread her thighs
They don't realize that they're filling her and killing her at the same time
She sells her body and her pride on these streets just to survive
No one knows of the little girl that hides inside that cries inside
That begs you with her eyes to save her from herself
Save her from these streets
Kiss her on the cheek and let her ride in the front seat
She doesn't care where you are going
As long as its away from here
Where ever you and she stop will be called home
And she will finally be allowed to rest.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
May I write a Shakespearian sonnet on
the square inches of skin
between your thumb joint and elbow?
I’m a pretty good storyteller,
I can narrate in blank verse if you wish.
Can I write poetry on your spine?
Up and down in broken haikus,
tankas quilting along the curve of your sides.
Perhaps a sestina?
So be it.
I can work bay leaves into tea cakes.
May I write alliterations across your toes,
over finger bones and broken knuckles?
I have enough form poems to
paint my walls a matte black.
Gloppy ink blobs,
carnation stamps,
over raised red lines of a villanelle.3
Can I write poetry on your stomach?
I have soft ballad-dipped brushes
that leak cinnamon sugar.
Acrostic biographies written to a jazz tune,
papier-mâchéd into a handmade piñata.
Spider web hair pins
left in the bathroom sink spell out
another useless cinquain.
May I write a rondeau on your calves,
rising up into your knees?
Epitaphs in your running shoes
make limericks out of the hail in your back yard.
Don’t try super gluing petals back onto stems,
they’ll fall apart eventually.
Poetry is written on you like paper.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Shakespearian Quatrain breathes
angelical choirs rise
steam from melting cold
anchors weigh down dreams
twin like orbits
shift and decay in wind
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 4:54 AM UTC
Just beyond the albatross
Skyloft the ghost's;
And mine woe's to dissapear
For one to be here for me, an angelic host.
She'll be a superlative dogma
Of man's fortune and fame;
Mobilizing me by her **** call
Again and again.
Cometh over here "boy"
She doth sayeth, as she doth none wrong;
Ill write all mine poems for her
And turneth them into song's.
And whilst I sing mine song's for her
She shalt savor ourn Shakespearian night;
Like two unruly children we'll becometh
Leaving this place all behind.
Being **** to ournselves
Open for all to believe;
That ourn amour' is true
As tis we'll dance on the sea's.
And whilst dancing the seaside
Losing ourn throat's;
From all the laughter we shalt haveth
Making love in front of the ghost's..
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
The Scene and Sounds Invite
The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
Stage lights burn out.
I am left agog.
Eyes drop
incredulously
as what I saw before me
was very restoring.
A story of humanity,
a Shakespearian epic,
a turbulent tempest
that hit me with
the fierceness of Hamlet.
As Othello’s hands
wrapped around
his beloved neck,
as Thibault killed Mercutio
As Ariel and Puck
played their trickster games,
as Prospero planned,
and Oberon dawned
his elvish Armor,
as Titania loved an ***
and saw false love pass;
As the thorny crown
of King Richard passed
then passed again
whilst he ruminated
nearly naked in a cell of
dirt and stone, alone,
halfway mad before
he made it there.
As Caesar bled
betrayed by Brutus
in the Ides of March,
I await more wonders
for Shakespeare
has so much more
I have yet to get to.
I am descended
from that poet’s heart.
who passed down his purchased arms
of false nobility
to become a man of property
not knowing his plays
would make him greater
than any noble man of his day.
After all the pleasure
I sit in awe and ponder,
what if he had the eyes to see
what faces us presently
would he wonder at the cleverness of us
or cower at the current level
of our stupidity?
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
*Blessed are the weird people...
Poets, Artists, Writers, Misfits.
For they teach us to see
the world through different eyes.*
**Devoted living,
Contradicted goals are just the things we despise.
For we grow in contrast to your limited sky.
We live to be free
An avian species yet to fly.**
*Understand that your soul
isn't bound by a
three-dimensional
earthly existence.
She who is brave is free.*
**We yearn for the sky
Hope for the light
Treasuring the summer breeze
Escaping the cold winter nights
Trapped in our diversity
Everlasting battles of creative adversity
In times of logic
Rhymes and rhythms seems Shakespearian, somewhat nostalgic.**
*We are the drifters,
& dancers, the sun worshippers
& risk takers. The dreamers,
the lovers, the believers
& change makers.*
**We are the offspring of Creativity
The red-headed step child of derivative.
Conveyors of empathy.
And without us nothing would exist
We are the golden child of heavens bliss.**
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
Omnipotent juliet
the one of shakespearian recital.
Je suis thy wholly inamorato.
Dans le roi of thy sublime reason;
As tis
thou are mine only ***** . . . . . .
MINE SANCTUM. . . . . .
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
I once heard that there are
two kinds of love.
The first kind is the kind from
the movies,
the songs,
the Shakespearian sonnets,
the red-wine-induced conversations;
it is the
magnanimous
amorous
empowering love
that makes you lose your breath
and stumble across your words
until you fall so hard you
float back to the sky,
so emboldened you could
conquer the world in one fell swoop
and inspire hope in the most
hopeless.
The second kind
is the opposite of
empowering for it is
devouring,
cowering,
manipulative,
cold, and
a road paved with
adoring anguish as you
pour all of your bloated heart into
a desperate wish.
I've become exhausted by
door number two
and sit on the lip of
a hope and a prayer that
door number one opens for me
before I quit the
games(how).
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Living in the style of a Shakespearian play,
we are all tragedies,
Perhaps with a comedy thrown in the middle.
You and I,
We’ve been the
Lovers
In this
Divine Comedy
Far Longer than
Romeo or Juliet
Could bear to wait.
Yes, we have abandoned
The Unities of
Time
Place
And Action
So harshly,
That even we
Have grown into
A bored audience;
Searching out
Our Comedic Ending
But we’ve never really been
Good at timing.
We’ve made our
Repeated Exits.
Always coming back
A Cue
Too early
Or
A Line
Too late.
Each time
Twisting words
And Actions
Trying to make
Each other fit back into
Our Plot.
But what if we are the truest
Star Crossed Lovers
As our plays don’t even
Have the same
Title?
It has always been
“To be with eachother
or
To Not be with eachother”
And I really, really don’t want
To end like Hamlet.
But the fault seems to be
In the stars,
As each of our
Actions
Seems to seek
More and more
For a resolution
That neither
Our
Stage Directions
Nor
Lines
Seem to offer.
We round ourselves out
With table work
And character development
But with each interaction
We find that we are
Static, together.
It seems as if
We were a rough draft,
Left unfinished.
So we stand on this
Threshold,
Clinging to another possible
Classic.
But dissolving into the oblivion
That all
Unfinished works of Art
must face.
We are less than a tragedy,
As our deaths are silent
And no one will ever weep at our tale,
Simply because it will never have been told.
At my brink of oblivion,
I want you to know
Our story should be a history,
Simply a reflection
On the fact
That we were
Not fiction.
Lower than
King Henry
And
King Charles,
But Still,
Real
Like
A Golden Crown
For which we did not ****
But simply pleaded
To no avail.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
she's the homily accolade by which i liveth,
Idyllic radiance tis she doth giveth.
I am servile to her every needs and wants.
I Shalt tout her,
an implement daily her mine shakespearian vows. . . . . .
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
I wake from life, the sleeping of the soul.
A body now before me, still in death:
A boy turned man turned corpse, and now the toll
Of measured time; serene and spent of breath.
In thought without a skull to harbor thought,
Reflection and conviction now refresh.
All Earthly duties, unfulfilled, shall rot;
Life’s aspirations fading with this flesh.
No blood to carry chemical caprice,
I witness being, true divinity:
At last as spirit, I arrive at peace
And join the energy, infinity.
In life, the sleeping soul is ever tried,
And waits for death, when life is justified.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I visited Stratford-Upon-Avon one sunny day
I Saw the beauty of the swans and an old Shakespearian play
Statues and churches with stories to be told
I listened intently to learn about history 400 years old
But my favourite by far was sailing on the River Avon
who could not be enchanted by the character of the black and
white timbered haven?
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
The mystery did Venus descend to a nightly wood invest her uncommonness upon the maiden fair she stood deathly still the moonlight
Turned her skin to porcelain white the black hooded cloak gave her the airy feel of disembodiment and then she moved it wasn’t steps
But a floating fluid motion across the glen timeless shadows she stirred into the mist she disappeared I will go back in this dream
For ever how long it takes till her hand I may take and with loves embolden voice I shall speak so tenderly the night air so brooding and
Heavy will easily bear its weight in the cradle of wonder she brought powers of the long ago chants amidst hoary frost the dark forest
Knows the call of sounds so deep only the deadly silence brings reverberation from a mere whisper a gasp would be the equivalent to
Thunder I seek not mortal treasure but loves essence never will it divide and scatter as dispersed light tinged in every single living
Expression how the heart swells as it dwells on delicacies forbidden to the casual visitor but come with a burning hunger for love
You will not know disappointment romance is in the tenderest shoot the tendril vine trembles with the slightest breeze it’s the portent
Of a mighty wind the heart and locks of a warrior has come into view love will wind and turn on its own path it will amaze lovers to no
End come and know private and secret dreams its breath blows in from coastal winds invigorates all before its march a song you will
Sing among all that is wild you are invited to play among Shakespearian hills and fields know uncommon heights carry new found
Knowledge over boundless seas to lands stooped in backward ways you will be their guide the crude and mundane you will over rule
With one taste of your freedom you will give them the path if taken will make them kings and builders of kingdoms
Face bookers try to ignore this
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
Did’st thou forget where hopeless lover sprang from
Not your modern sparkling blood suckers
Not your star crossed werewolves
Not your dainty upper crust debutantes
But from poetry
From the poems of life
Which art does so poorly imitate
From the scripture of the worker
From the not so quite ancient days
When lovers sailed away
To find their place
From the rash heartbreaks
From those verses of yesterday
Not those shades of grey
That displace your face
And find your faith delayed
But from the plays we played
And the words we said
From Romeo and Juliet
Began that creative trend
Rushing full blushing
In to their foolish end
But then again it is their love I covet
Hence my love poems are birthed
Pale imitators of past affections
So when I say I love thee
As the sun loves the moon
When I rush to reach what can never be grasped
If ever we are together
Knowing it will never really last
Let me hold you in Shakespearian affections
All lust, and love
All ash to ash and deadly brash
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
a delay in my eyes= my head is gone
i had better plans for the future
follow through (a taste of codeine)))
a shakespearian poet once told me that my face would look better with his **** in my mouth
hahaha huh aha they sing baby rattler snake bite bi teME
I TOLD YOU my head is gone ? the lines are all mixed up
i cant read you like i can the back of my palms (blck… tar )
crack babies *** want some of [ REDACTED ]
stop walking by my door i know you want the rent but all i can give you is a black eye
satan mustve been a pretty fun guy
you think you can Swallow a little bit of my breath
it# barely moves ###
break even-even break my bones before i die
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC