The sonnet form's antique and mired in dust,
Why should I strive thus so to write one well?
If bard I be then learn new styles I must.
Will I achieve my goal, who can foretell?
So here I sit again with pen in hand,
Attempting some new quatrains that will rhyme,
Entreating Muse to guide my falt'ring wand.
The formula, so strict, takes lots of time,
But I'll persist 'til fourteen lines are writ,
One final couplet crowning three quatrains,
Persistence now completing this last bit.
There's something 'bout a sonnet tests my brain.
Yet I prevail, these fourteen lines once one,
The prize obtained, this poet's work is done.
This Cosmos knows all must escape the war.
The sky beckons peace for the Bard's journey,
Hoping there will be joy forevermore.
Music, dance, poetry--art is beauty!
Raise a cheer for nature's forest bounty.
Let's gather memories that are gleeful!
The green woodlands breathe with vitality
And gift to us a rocky pocketful!
Awen drifts through every breath of nature,
Kindling the mind with vivid ideas,
Flying forward to chase the bright future.
Bards guard pure hearts as meek overseers.
Every balm that will make us feel better
Spills from the Cosmos' wildest pleasure!
I wasn't truly attuned to the Bard
Who tried to show cosmic significance.
On the dark moonlit forest's stage, he starred.
His Bardic thoughts defying arrogance.
I met the night Bard while he was singing
In chorus with Oaks of the magic grove.
Sprouting with seedlings was his beginning.
Raised in the forest, his true treasure trove.
This bounty lies protected by wet clouds.
It seems nature knows how to calculate
The number of elements it enshrouds,
Even as they waltz on the lovely lake.
The wind plays the wooden flute merrily,
Pleasing the Stars with chants of forestry.
.
yesss
'tiz 'bout
her
hern
herz
'mostly
yet
yessss
Yahweh
Y
Yeshua
yelp
i
My kingdom for a horse he said
Yet Richard the Third we've not read
Though the play's assigned
Shakespeare’s such a grind
We'd sooner chill with Mister Ed
.
right into it
blind'did
love
A sonnet by this arrant bard, an other,
whose sole half-brother, a real piece of work,
and single parent (mother like no other!),
together were no warm nor loving perk.
In her heart, mother disowned me in life.
My younger half-brother begrudged my genius,
whilst being a rival who sowed seeds of strife,
in mother, against me (how very jealous
was he?). But I, an outright bard, complete
and sheer, make their dysfunction a rhymed affair
to exorcise these memories: defeat
this duo by whom I'm “an other” in despair!?
But if I could return my estranged mother,
I still wouldn't—and call my half-sibling, “Brother!”
If deeply roars a bard for epic muse,
like newborn lambs that crave their mother's milk;
if feet that lightly trip along with shoes
of Mercury whose message speeds, like silk,
with lightning's sudden flash and peals of thunder;
if fate told jokes, regaled with humor's laugh,
then life, Greek tragedy, with comic blunder,
mocks man's pride, hubris, ego, using his gaffes
(with bathos). But high drama's theatric peak's
for bards and Elizabethan playwrights
who, like seers, see with vision, craft unique,
wond'rous, and grandiose plots of lofty heights!
But to give up this dream that seems sublime,
I'd wish for, still, love, children, peace, and time.
.
my heart reachez to
the Heavens
whence
Jehovah God Almighty
Resides
pleading for truth
"doth my offend you
Father
clinging to herz
whilst wait'n
for
Your Great Day"
i were born'd this
way
oh how comely
such thuh motley
alwayz front mine vision
Your
pretty shez
evez
Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...
The Bard Bequeaths
'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
After the end of all the loudest times
A poet breathed in yet another breath
Finally prepared to present his rhymes
About love and hate, even life and death
Prepared to give stories with falls and climbs
To tell the tale of Mark, Calvin, and Seth
Many more indeed was planned to be told
Every story worth more indeed than gold
He went out giving stories from his lips
He told and put people in raptured spell
His normal words seemed to do tricks and flips
He gave stories from his deep inner well
He proclaimed heroics and he bowed dips
He did that until his endless joy fell
His great morale and hope not even spared
For behold not even one person cared
He begged and begged to those listeners dull
Each of those precious tales he tried to give
He tried, tried, to make those people’s lives full
They may have survived but refused to live
So the bard was forced to not save their souls
Each soul silent as under sedative
So, sorry to leave the hopeless, he left
Left unable to share those works so deft
.
all ten
lusty
warm
wrap'd 'round'd
whilst women
watch'd
i
i
she'll do
*“Lusty.” Merriam-Webster.com
:hearty; robust
I be but a Trubador Bard and poet
I travel on my donkey
Everywhere to village and every town miles apart
With a feather in my hat and my Mandolin
With a whistle and a song within my heart
I come from Nottingham
And in the castle, I have often played
To noblemen Kings
And Maids
I don't just entertain
But I also bring news from far
And tell the tale of Robin Hood and his merry men
And who they are
Hoping a purse opens and someone
Is there to give
A few pennies or more
So I can live
Lemon tinted phase
gilded skyline blown
by ethereal fused mist
eager bard imbued
opal dream flotilla
beyond tarnish while
flash point chariots
of gleam-well canvass
astir or astern perforce
taunt a hued vase
porcelain image fest
for stoic earthbound
soul’s cry parched
stoic migrant famish
sapphire plume ray
bounty veridical
pink chalk sketch
granule blush pots
pearl beam spur
to jumpy pilgrim
white elephant garb
drifter’s lull prone
metre of skewed
and barren glib
dull tossed aside
rambles and brambles
from cerebral quartz
grey quirky quill
nose twitch petrichor
glacé smelt rain
lava veined fillip
fervent fetal floe
ignited indigo inkling
as noonday nuanced
glance en dash
away from orange
peel cloud skies
toward spring rush
urban junction fare
as founding cue
for zeitgeist driven
western world eden
a hazel eyes bard
or bird jump among branches
to see more branches
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