Tag Archives: Shakespeare

The Worst Writing Advice from the Worst Poet Ever – NaPoWriMo #4

I know I said I’d be password-protecting all my poems, but this one needs to be accessible to the troll it was written for. Please let people write without diminishing their self-worth: you don’t have to like everything you read, but you should treat all people as human beings.
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Protected: Dandy Lion – NaPoWriMo #3

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Immortality – NaPoWriMo #11

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover’s eyes.“-Shakespeare, Sonnet 55

How many times have tapped keys cut the silent night seeking an immortality – because sonnets and scripts have a sorcery to them that hold sway beyond bloodlines brokered, beyond “I do” before God and man and here I find that my seeking has been done for me and my actions cut a path and a swath that signals out in the thumps of heart-throbs of every single jilted lover that I have longed for, abandoned, and been abandoned by.

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To the Hardest Working Person I Ever Met

Dallying nicely with words,
Wending away from the norm,
Longing for rapturous enlightenment that
Rends rapidly a form from the storm,
A’ aria could never constrain all she retains in her name.

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Lucking Out

Two lovers: Limber and Lithe,
lithic and mythic and always in time,
with license to lubricate in a libidinous lather labial lusts that call out, “Oh, faster.”

He’s mastered his rod, gives winks and nods,
gives praise to his God and keep his sword shod:
whispers sweet nothings, giving fodder for her rapture, if only the moment were preserved, were captured:

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From Prosperous Dreams

Prosperous dreams, like Prospero’s schemes off Antonio gleaned;
obvious breadth in the deep breaths drawn before sinking beneath the surface of a pool cooling in the summer’s crest;
chest out-turned, pounding with each step, subtle in its drama that sets aflutter the heart behind her breast;
to the death, two duelers fighting over faintly feelings,
conversing with each other in the dalliance of awkward dealings.

Sealed in solitude, sly stubborn mule,
styled in revile but gauged in the rank and file piled in a perilous upbringing,
fortunate in freedom, unfathomable in flattery,
stocked in the internal and the question, “what is wrong with me?”

“What hath thou brought for me?” Asks a deity that craves attention,
which is nothing more than wisps of smoke upon a moment’s odd reflection;
an a suspect’s introspection at the unction occultly occupying
the lines that she had once denied but prized on a cloudy night’s convention.