M.S. Capulet it's time to be honest with my self
time to wash my chest out
come clean about all I've really felt
This isn't perfect, isn't close,
but neither was the romance that Speare wrote
feel like a fairytale frog with words stuck in my throat
been trying to speak what i feel but so far only just croak
                    Let me be your romeo...

Dove, you remind me what it's like to fall in love
at midnight like a Montague
you make me want to
throw pebbles at your window
come over late on nights like this when i don't know
because you would't say and you fell asleep
(you thought this might just be a summer thing, some sort of fling)
But I'd do almost anything
to keep you Juliet
no regret, no joke
         I don't think there ever were words big enough for this hope. . .

And the two lovers they were starcrossed
just like my fingers when we started "us"
that night we stargazed but i guess I'm just
afraid we'll shatter into stardust
he climbed but
she would have jumped if he asked
that's us
we're trying to get over our past. . .

I'm not gonna pretend i don't think about the past
that i don't sometimes wish it, but that's just it
we've got this chance and i'm not gonna miss it
we've got this time and i'm not gonna twist it around
I've got an ugly purple scar across my heart, will you kiss it now?
It's been far too long trying to get this off my chest
but let's write our own tragedy,
       hell, romance is a mess, miss. . .

"Her spirit stronger than the sea's embrace.
Not for her a watery end,
but a new life beginning on a stranger shore.
It will be a love story.
For she will be my heroine for all time."

William Shakespeare (Character)
from Shakespeare in Love (1998)
Written by Tom Stoppard, another British playwright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Challenged thus, scrape off early morn simpleton ditty dust,
Gauntlet tossed, the speare launched, not a  request, but a must,
I flinch, but the table bare, but for tea and imagery of my love,
The Englishmen have slapped/stoppered my face with his worded glove,
Having thus battle commenced, his fire to be returned,
Complete this arc if you can,
Are you poet or just an ordinary man?

For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.

For she will be my heroine for all time,

A trap for poets young, for time is a couplet with
Sublime, chime, thyme, come easy these 9th grade raps and rhymes,
Becrusted with a chilly, stale, white **** frosted rime.

But I am a century more a poet-worker,
(In 1901 died and was reborn, you could look it up)
A young'un by compare with old ***** "a tale to tell" most fair,
But a trick or two of the Industrial Age, I can employ,
Advantage me at our Wimbeldon^ match, where I am skilled,
And he, poor fellow, commoner, is not...

For she will be my heroine for all time,

T'is easy, for t'is true, and with truth arrives a companion,
The inspiration flys in the air, like petals of the tost-wind dandelion,
Come to me my distich line, your presence sensed,
Let us to Will back, our repartee sling and send!

Oh woe is me, my boastful heroics, are smoked,
Try try but nothing doth appear but familiar fairies to mock
My speechless eyes and rusted tongue, dry and blind.

But wait! My woman encarriaged returneth,
Her body now supple'd delighted from eastern magic.
Her yogi has bent n' sent her, back to me and my
Eye crust melts and the honey drips and the all clear rings,
***** Boy, you *******, your mine!

*For she will be my heroine for all time,
This simple true and forever complete, need I say more?

Shakespeare’s Dog


in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden

So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.

get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:

this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!


kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.

The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.

he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:

well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.

in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.

We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.

his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.

ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.

so if a farting pug before your door you’ve  found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.

long hair long johns of sad happy
clear fog is the dog god doggone dog

kind of you to kind of listen
kindling burns like Hong Kong midnight brightlights
whose birthright, or birthwrong

down-under daggers for flags
flagged
flagulation
creative sensory compensated penitentiary
forward lad landing laughter for the last log on the fire
the last day for earth to say
please plead for plaid shirts to pay for themselves
otherwise there will be ****** for you to see

summer in the winter if I sprinkle a little bit more wood on my splinter
sink or swim, sink and swim, sink to swim
swim to sink
ah
um
oh
ehhem
undo your dress and undo your last mistake

please retake the photo so I can stay awake.

don't, I mean, yes
yes

hands could be cold
but
then
a
g
a
i
n

I just call it what I must
plustwo double yous in a zoo for the future flu's to cruise like truce
11/11/11 armistice
missed the list when you kissed my wrist
I extracted bliss from the Buddha's jist
just
cause?

just call for the muse music

don't mind me
I mean
yes,
yes

motorcade king of spades I got laid to the silence
of a forest in the poorest richness I've never ditched this
**** zip
zap
my zipper is a little critter crawling through the litter on the city's twitter account
doesn't amount to much but I sound like I'm salted in breath
dead like MacBeth, the challenge was the shaken speare
sprained everclear of the diamond tear or the shattered cheer of ancient seers

truth
is greater than fiction.

bright ....butterfly.......talent
.....flicking tongues
of ......allitrative illustratation
unsure..... of present improv
packaging.....puckers lips to pout and preen....
........grunge moth in hoodie
comes to sauce the play....
tounge twister fandango
...... paperlace lizards ...dreaming...days streamin by....
all the mouths....... of ritual making.......
fourth wall breaking. ..
.....accummulate the method
scribe..... to the write
........formulate the figure...
linguate the lyrical....
left..... to the pintered flighted sighs.....
.....shake the speare this night
with finger drumming colour rhythms..... reveal the reasoned might ........of the fledgling dramaturg.....
foot stomping . ...posse blighted ....... brainstorms
.  .burn limelight bright burn...
throw your fleeting..... searing glow....on these little dramatic vacations from lifes realities.....
freezeframe ......moments.....
......of luducrosity..... and. . humming allocentricity ......
....egos pay homage to floor
door and wall...
drink..... the life ....the love ........the fear
pinprick and bucket dance it ......come one ..... come all.
learn the art of the comic pratfall ...... here at the home
of drama 171 improv
. ....by the pants of your seat
and other mellowed..... dramatic.......completes

What say you noble men of old?
William with your pen shaking
Like the Speare of a savage?
Spilling your mind across the pages
Which Robert in all his haste Burns

And you lonely Oscar?
Having passed Eugene in the corn Field
And Rupert by the trickling Brooke,
Only to lose yourself in the Wilde

What say you of Edgar Lee,
Who left his Masters
And with Swift Jonathan
Crossed the Gray Moore to the Thomas’s

And when said Thomas stood
With handman, noose and Hood
“What a pity”, as Robert said
Laying them in their winters Graves

Oh JD how I admired thee,
your sinister sarcasm,
your sharp screeching scream,
your pink pursed lips,
always as if you were to whistle.

You sat in your chair arms rested,
after another exhausting session with
disengaged delinquents,
I'd always feel a sense of guilt,
as your red face cooled down after every class.

I'd always appreciate the days when we pleased you,
How hard it was to please you.
The prince of of punctuation,
when will these fools stop forgetting where to place their commas,
when will they wake up and realign to the standard Oxford rule.

I wonder if you studied there,
or why you wouldn't drive one,
perhaps that's why you loved the phrase manners makyth so much.

You taught me about literature and African history,
the best possible combination of Shaka speare,
I feel that I impressed you more in the latter,
but that doesn't really matter.

We're world's apart now,
as you continue in your most precious profession,
I lay in my bed writing poems,
slightly clueless about this post adolescent world.

I forget much,
but I'll always remember the strolls to the cats and dogs,
the advice and complaints,
the doubts about saints,
the sky blue in your eyes.

How I wished you would fly,
above  from the gloom that seemed to,
keep your head bowed down to the ground,
that you would once again smile at the sound of the birds at dawn...
Bygones be bygones.

Little did you know that you became a father figure,
I respected your resolute resolve to stand for your convictions,
clarity climbed off the cusp of your tongue as you cried,
you were sure of yourself and spoke your mind,  
I do think you could have been a little more gentle,
kind.
So could I.

I learned so much from you,
but I may have also learned your sadness,
but it's something I had to let go,
your roots run deeper than I'll ever know,
maybe something sour happened along the way to embitter them.

Whatever the case may be,
please forgive any inaccuracy,
I'll always hold you fondly,
JD.

Kanyanta