Best Macbeth Poems
If we could look into the seeds of time,
and say which grain will grow and which will not,
we would arrange our affairs defiantly
in the face of current opposition.
If a thought should geminate and flourish
in the barren soil of the status quo,
it would likely be by sheer providence
that ideas would come to fruition.
Our dreams, our very imagination,
are what keep our momentum in this world.
Sans the prospect of incremental feats,
we would not strive to attain excellence.
If the portent of riches entices us,
would we forsake every value system
to attain the pinnacle of success?
No one could portend the foreordained path.
Dandelions, babies crying
walking in the woods,
astronomy, philosophy
chickadees and childhood.
Speckled trout, (a technical knock-out)
strawberries red and sweet,
winter, spring, summer, fall
Butterfinger and little "Twinkie" treats.
Dragon flies, questions why
There’s anything at all,
Making mistakes baking cup cakes
Cumulous clouds and rainfall.
Dancing, prancing and romancing
singing by-gone songs,
Christmas giving, loving, living
here at home and gone.
Wishing wells, magic spells
rivers, lakes, seashores,
children growing never knowing
what's in store.
Big parades in sun and shade
wild animals in the park,
ice cold beer and someone near
when comets pass in the dark.
Climbing mountains, drinking fountains
Liars, tricksters, cheats,
Saving grace and holiness
And poetry that speaks.
Dishes, wishes
and a pocketful of dreams,
Timbuctoo, Kalamazoo
New York and New Orleans.
And boats that sail watching whales
reading, writing books,
never-ending always spending
money on good looks.
History, wizardry and mysteries
inside a grain of sand,
life and death like old Macbeth
we may never understand.
March forth Macduff, your sword to smite.
The head of a king for your requite!
Ten years he has reigned
with innocence feigned.
Greed and slaughter his ultimate blight!
Daggers in smiles
Seeding wiles drawn
Pun viles, feeding
With greed in his breath
The deed of dreaded Macbeth
Doth speed to him death
Half flesh, half steel, sinews and twined wire,
Begotten in the heat of half-love, tempered
By hatred and the axe, fathered by one
Who killed her mother, the male chauvinist boar
Whose eye-teeth, razor-sharp, saw through the spine,
Joy-sword in sheath. Wrought iron, blood vessels,
Bone and cable, one part conceived, the other forged
On the hard anvil where gusts of blood are seed
Of all the axeman most does fear – cast iron woman
With stanchions for a trunk, iron breastplate,
A malleable black heart, a metallic chastity belt
No man may boast of stealing and still live,
Who beats men at their own battle games,
A dab hand with the axe herself, as salty tears
And globules of mercury exude from grey glands
In Praise of Lady Macbeth
By Elton Camp
Poor Lady Macbeth so many revile
But a weak-willed hubby was a trial
He had an excellent chance to be king
Yet to bring it about wouldn’t do a thing
He didn’t want to act to help it occur
Hopes fate’ll crown him without his stir
King Duncan was in her castle to sleep
Into his chamber she proceeded to sneak
She didn’t let scruples get in the way
Rather, the old king proceeded to slay
And acted wisely without any shame
So that his attendants took the blame
So she got a little blood on her hand
He decisive action was a thing so grand
Duncan to perdition was gone
She and he sat on the throne
Perhaps she couldn’t be called kind
Yet, it’s too bad she lost her mind
To Lady Macbeth, let’s raise a statue
Courageous for what she had to do
And signifying nothing, upon life’s stage
meaningless, endless, a cruel war he waged
Fretting and strutting, as the curtains narrowed
Out, out, foul vegan, who doth hate man’s marrow
Comes back for encore, to be mocked, and broken
Having found mere hate, vaunting the unspoken
A shadowless ghoul behind faint shrills of woe
Sans a candle, roams hell’s abattoirs below
A dedication of respect on the
nihilistic tragedy of Macbeth
# # #
Bastardised here indeed
but more so each day by
a bard who flunked all meaning in life
# # #
Yet has somehow found faith
in putrid flesh eating flowers
# #
No doubt whilst searching for a niche
on the last syllable of soybean @urd
By
David Kavanagh
One who has nothing to show off is boasting to himself on the stage.
Macbeth though sat on the blood stained throne he would soon be dethroned
by his own slaughtered hands because he became a king by killing his own king.
Why are you, then, mounting your high horse? You will be thrown out from that stage soon or later, just like Macbeth.
If you are a clown you may be an object of mockery
but your awkward gestures may occasionally induce
active sympathy from the audiences.
Why are you flapping the wings of arrogance?
Though you are not even a clown
but a foolish snob incapable to insinuate through a jest
sarcastically about the whole of this world’s hypocrisy
[who shall I to blame for my height;
Father? He is the one who bore me to see this world,
Mother? She is the one who taught me the meaning of love.]
Actually, I am not short
but a bunch of idiotic dwarfs come together
toasting wine glasses in the air shouting “my height is the standard.”
He's valor's minion,
ere he quelled, he was a loon.
Hark! Death do us part.
I found a crooked dollar
and hired a crooked lawyer
to pursue a crooked case
before a judge to place,
but we found no crooked court,
however hard we sought,
but as long as we keep looking,
we'll keep the cauldron cooking.
Noble Macbeth! Perverted by a scheming wife, Oh sorry fate!
So write the critics ,mainly men, but you, Macbeth, and I know better.
She was the fourth witch who brought home the message of the spectral three.
She was the helpmeet of your choosing who spoke out what you dared but think.
Yet noble you were, like Lucifer, lord of the false dawning light,
And proud you were as he who scorned Creation for being not his.
While they who love continue creation, grow fruitful as the vine,
They who hate are barren, must hate the seeds of life and wish their death.
So with you, the vanquished of Banquo’s seed, whose death was life.
You have one weapon yet, to mock what you cannot beget,
To declare all vain, an illusion, a cheap trick, an idiot’s tale
Though you named “King” do wear the gilt-rimmed crown, I hear your end’s approach.
I hear the rustling of leaves, and though you hang the herald of truth
On the gnarled trunk of a dying tree, green leaves and fresh wood advance.
To the hill they come to close you up and cross your vain ambition.
Where died a seed a plant shall grow whose leaves shall heal the nations
Now thy battle’s won and thy traitor slain.
The good King’s son is princely heir anew
And honor is due to the worthy Thane.
Beware, for envy oft forgets virtue.
The trusting master visits loyalty
Alas! False friend is he, we are to learn
Treasonous betrayal we are to see
Glory dies young whilst thy greed is eterne.
Power, that corrupt foe, brought greed and hate
And whispered in thine ear of blood and death
For three weird sisters vowed he would be great.
Blood will flow from the dagger of Macbeth.
Think not upon’t else the heart will grow cold
For death is the end of such tales of old.
Not even its oceans could cleanse Macbeth’s guilt,
Etched into palms and cut into lifelines, within skin everlasting.
Poisonous serpents twist like gaseous clouds acrid, in a helix of
Trust doubled, betrayed by a cousin valiant no more.
Unknown and unseen, unjust and unkempt - a fate handed down unanimous.
Nocturnal damnation circling circling, that coven three upon a heath
Erupting at the manipulation of a man come undone.
You wanted to give me everything—
everything—
every last thing—
you bared yourself and said—I am yours.
You said—
we would out-do Mellors and Constance!
And I, l'idiot—
I looked at you through the eyes of a man—
voracious—cunning eyes.
When I stopped—mid-stride—
I saw it all—suddenly—clearly—through your eyes.
Too late.
Je suis Le Fou—non, je suis une fou.