Best Shakespearean Poems
The quintessential of nyctophilia, wrapped in bridal attire, slowly and slowly as in somnambulism there goes the heroine of timeless tragedy to supersede her lovers feigned insanity.
Her beloved father is no more, being killed by her suitor's intrigued tyranny;
ignored to be drowned, to burn in the flame of plotted felony.
Jilted, to be startled by the selcouth performance of her handsome wooer's vile strategy;
there goes the most beautiful heroine ever to be the victim of fated irony,
immersed in senseless lunacy, to vanish from the sight of Hamlet's fatalistic eyes to bid adieu to the agony,
slowly and slowly to be disappeared into melancholic darkness from the dazzling maniac opaque sight;
there goes the Danish heroine of evergreen tragedy.
Halloween Sonnet
It's Halloween, that spooky time of year,
when scary monsters prowl the streets at night,
those freaky ghouls make me shiver with fear,
in costumes that give me a dreadful fright!
Pumpkin lanterns cast a dire, eerie glow
as eager children arrive at my door;
Candy offerings on them, I bestow,
while their excited eyes say, 'Give me more!'
Sometimes older ones take it much too far,
playing mean tricks when they don't get a treat.
I'll find eggs splattered on my house and car,
and hear bad language I dare not repeat!
Children celebrate on this festive day
and dress as specters who've come out to play!
checked with how many syllables
Shakespearean Sonnet (with Prizes) Contest
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
Ring size 7 I think
favorite color for gems Green or Purple
10/14/18
Iambic Pentameter
A renaissance delight beguiles our sight.
Such enigmatic smile on face doth hold
our wonder why such cheer's in gentle light,
and hidden secret's veiled from view untold.
What name do we ascribe to model's grace.
Is she from noble family fame and ease,
but certain nomen's sore to know or trace,
for artist gave us no clue known to seize.
Does picture only show a simple gaze
of painter's own self seen in lake that day,
well hidden by disguise in lady's praise?
A genius played a game some few would say.
If game is played, tis more a better scene.
Let be, for maid appears a regal queen.
Ascend to Shakespearean summer sky.
I loved Shakespeare as a girl
When a sonnet was like a melody
And I was not admitting
Impediments to true minds.
Our mark is fixed with the
Demise of one as the only force
Powerful enough to cast our
Corporal union null.
And separation will be Doom each for the other.
If I remain, the grief will raze me and my
Only consolation in not having to hurt you.
If it is I who die, I’ll be with the bluebirds.
©Kathryn McL. Collins
April 13, 2004
Plucked from Shakespeare
and plopped in Central Park,
Sturnus vulgaris, the mimic,
conquered New York.
It made it there,
You know it made it everywhere;
The continental stage stolen.
And here on my fence amid this tragedy
To be blessed with a modicum of bliss;
The sparkling spring songster
with his treasured chest pumping
my missing birds song list.
22.04.18
Craig Cornish's
Spring - Poetry Contest
3rd Place
Upon the steamy broth of words we feed,
A spoon of sonnet’s spice, a pinch of rhyme.
Each simmered thought, a poet’s secret seed,
Stirred gently through patient hands of time.
The flavors mix—metaphor, verse, and sound—
In bubbling cauldrons, meaning softly sways.
Within the bowl, lost syllables are found,
And every line a seasoning conveys.
How savory the blend of joy and pain,
When seasoned hearts compose the lyric stew.
From humble roots, a feast of art we gain,
Where every taste and tone is rendered true.
So gather 'round this meal of crafty strains,
Poetry soup forever feeds our brains.
I love to swap things with my friends.
Today I’ve got a recipe
to offer you. Please send me yours.
Let’s make some “soup” with poetry.
You must have fourteen cups of fresh
strict meter. Just one brand will do;
that’s iambic pentameter.
For spicy sonnet flavor, you
add just a pinch of all of these:
A B A B, C D C D,
E F E F. Stir well before
you add the special spice—G G.
For soup with substance, metaphors,
hyperboles, and similes
add robust taste to sonnet soup.
Add more—whichever ones you please.
Bring to a boil. Then cook on low
to medium two hours. Before
you serve it, taste. Does it taste great—
or not? Does it need something more?
April 28, 2017 entered in Brian Strand's Premier May Contest: 25-line max, any topic or form
May 19, 2022
Poetry Contest: Merger with Food
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
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Macbethian witches, their curses, their physicks
bubble, bubble
whatever they are they're a great deal of trouble.
The moon doth appear in that dark horizon
And glistens with a beam of drifting light.
Let thy passions stroll with the companion
Of forlorn hovering clouds in moonlit night.
O Nature, sing not thy lonesome songs again
For I doth find a friend in each of thy cells.
I rejoice in thy touch even in wrecked pain
And my life hath mend its stuttering wheels.
Dazed weariness once mocked my forlorn being
Ere it came unto thy shelter, Mother Nature!
Whilst my morale dips in bosom, come and sing
A song of Love that warmeth every creature.
Nature hath a bliss that drenches our dry mind,
Pouring tender showers amidst the roughest wind.
(This is the first time I have tried to write a Sonnet, so, please pardon my shortcomings)
Thou has the fairest of features my love.
My conscious of thy beauty shall not die,
It surrounds me thus, as immortal glove.
Your piercing beauty of blue eyes, as sky.
Thy warm body I shall ever cherish,
To whom my soul doeth forever belong.
Thus my desire for thee shall find flourish,
As the night birds in the night’s fairest song.
Thy lips my beauty drops as honeycomb,
It’s honey sweetness from under thy tongue.
From the pleasures of thy love I shan’t roam,
I am come to thy garden to raise young.
Thou ravished forever my heart my spouse,
From thy love’s presence I shan’t ever rouse.
Shakespearean Sonnet
In Honor of : Dr: Ram
Placed #8
Trochaic Pentameter
Pretty eyes that show such deep affection
make the joy bells chime this day in my heart.
Why should I now be her great selection
most think she's a wondrous piece of fine art.
My head resonates bell loudly ringing
like to tintinnabulary paean.
Eyes that make the chimes to peal with singing
say this male thinks he's a blessed peon.
Lovely eyes that goad both feet to dancing,
they don't mind the lookers' gaze and smiles then.
Toes now take this happy swain to prancing -
I am high above the hoi polloi's ken.
Color me all lucky; Joan is my gift.
Life is great for me, Bill; hey, what a lift!
The quiet city, is still half asleep
the morning moon's glow pierces through the sky,
stars gather close, as if they were in heaps
watching faint clouds, as they slowly drift by.
What will become of this December morn?
Will the birds sing happily, in the snow?
Forests of green, snow still waits to be worn
resting underneath, the morning moon's glow.
The morning moon's glow, seems to shine so bright
a cool, crisp feeling, settles in the air,
nature awaiting, the peek of daylight
to be held with warm, tender, loving care.
Silently, I gaze through my big window
standing in awe, of the morning moon's glow.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Dec.15/2005
This is the first time I've written a Shakespearean Sonnet. I was inspired by the brightly lit moon this morning.
ask yourself this:
do I, a romantic fool, dare
pretend to write of your perfect shape?
oh yes, I do … I must!
for your unadorned contours are
overwhelmingly staggering to
the naked eye, and if observed by the
average person this way
your stark beauty would stun
them into silence …
such enticing perfection on which
to base a written work
stands in all its glory before me -
if only the ink of my own pen
flowed with the unhurried, fluid motion of
your seductive limbs …
words spring (like a hungry jackal)
from the mind at just a
glance of your exquisitely opalescent skin -
words like touch, tickle, tease
and tempt …
even the wisest of writers
would struggle to find the right words
and clear phrases that
competently describe what your
body speaks, and the sultry curves that
your shadow paints on
the walls and floors …
only those who are blind as I am
with no VISUAL eyesight
are discerning enough in other ways
to gain abilities of fair and
formed appreciation and characterization
of the voluptuous elements that
makeup your physique …
those who are blind as I am were
born into darkness, aye
but we are yet blessed with a
highly developed "vision" of feel and touch -
the tactile pen I use is my palm -
my fingertips ...
the soft and tender application
of skin-to-skin contact …
the interpretation of very minute
electrical impulses from everything that
I use to feel with, and the
keen understanding of all that precise
sensory information being
conveyed to the brain …
let me read you now - let me put
my “pen" to the pages of
my soul and psyche …
let me write a story there upon you
let me know, with my fingers and palms
the wonderful words that
describe you in all your immaculate
and sublime perfection …
let me absorb the text of your curved form
and light the darkness of my blind world …
transform this curse of
mine into a blessing …
let me behold you as no one
else ever shall - as an epic of unequaled
artistry, an alluring tale ...
without end.
Sienna’s notebook matches the blue sky,
along with the stripes in her plaid shirt sleeves.
Cold pushes me and I wonder why.
The ground is littered with the trees’ old leaves.
Grass is dying from the lack of sunlight.
Trees constantly dance to their own wind song.
Ants run from it, thinking it is frostbite.
Leaves silently wish they could dance along.
Flowers wilt; frost covers like a blanket.
All the leaves in the ground are colorful,
not quite losing their bright colors just yet.
Plants die but nature is still beautiful.
The school buses getting cold from winter
resemble cheddar cheese on a burger.
Go look up the original sonnet called An Uplifting Sonnet. This one's called The Uplifting Sonnet because of the fact that it's actually much more Shakespearean and it flows better strangely. Rock on and pen on, all! I hope this verse is thrilling. P-soup me if you appreciated this fancy sonnet or just comment or whatever floats your demented boat!
~Written by Davey_Wavey_Rox37 =) It's not my real pen name, but whateverz
Mineth ear hath heard thee charming music,
Thy splend'r sounds formeth steady accord;
Tunes blend compliantly—therapeutic!
And this tune—it stabs me with a sharp sword
F'r through singer, thou wilt findeth talent
To findeth thy fantasy 'ere it dries
Squeal with joy—just liketh new born infant!
That hath his gift of uplifting thine eyes
Heareth what sounds turns crowd's woe to cheereth
Mine ears hast heard thy voice—is it songbirds?
Are thou awaken'd by sounds of feareth?
The desires I hath reap'd entic'd herds!
Ears grasp its wanteth to releaseth grace,
Draws attention to what they hear—embrace!