Long Much ado about nothing Poems
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By morn, and under cerulean skies,
he rises from sheets and soft pillows of down;
and gives praise; for the Lord is just and wise,
and great to behold by this earth all round.
By noon, he sets about his songs and rhymes,
labors whose creation gives him pleasure,
and purpose, for an infinite lifetimes;
pressed down, piled, and parceled with good measure.
Then, by eve, lest beastly Insomnia
comes, he now and anon derives his rest
from the night's orgies with the Muses: a
reward that none may oppose, or protest.
A bard chaste for all time, and hence unloved,
finds love with the muses: for they're beloved.
Matthew Scott Harris deprived himself
relishing, savoring, and tasting
chromosomal biologic metamorphosis
including wreaking havoc, nixing, and
foregoing heterosexual interpersonal experiences,
thus sparking woeful regret
disallowing, disenabling, and not providing
natural encoded healthy growth
of body, mind, and spirit triage
regarding fluke of universe i.e. me
(since origin of aforementioned species)
took center stage tentatively
bivouacking upon globe.
Much ado about nothing
can be done measure for measure
missing out out love's labour's lost
nevertheless, all's well
doth (did) not end well
concerning (by dickens)
my life and hard times,
which cannot square miserable
with great expectations never attained
courtesy wretched soul,
scratching our feeble existence,
who gives the antagonist and/or protagonist
constituting Les Misérables,
a run (for his) la monnaie,
eeking out hand to mouth subsistence
never livingsocial, nor buzzfeeding
avast set of basic hormonal needs and wants
and/ or acquiring, succoring,
and treasuring pittance
akin to dime a dozen
day late and dollar short paupers,
(whose mere pennies on the dollar earnings,
albeit insufficiently funded legal tender)
while accruing mere stale crumbs
comprising daily bread -
our humble father
who art thou in heaven...
bejesus crust...damn near
impossible mission to guarantee
adequate sense and sensibility
pertaining to mine remaining
complete or partial celestial orbitz
without pride nor prejudice
upending, jeopardizing, or compromising
my fragile ego contemplating Cogito, ergo sum.
No Matter Papa Repents...
Every blasted acrimonious misdeed
aye indelibly perpetrated
affecting ye and the Punim for life
hounds me doggone soul night and day
venomous wrath torments, strangles, racks...
every bone in mine entire body
suicidal ideations haunt every
waking and sleeping hour,
perhaps previous attempts to communicate,
(albeit poetically - for no rhyme nor reason)
fell short, asper yours truly
to claim accountability, culpability, responsibility...
unwittingly subjecting thee, a prized progeny
with legacy, where
diabolical, emotional, psychological... trauma
compromised your care free growing up years
namely while residing at 1148 Greentree Lane
exacerbated by mine self absorption
countless hours misspent
whiling away precious time
mesmerized more so
with computer technology,
versus prioritizing fleeting moments
with "mother" and/or offspring
yes..he now pays heavy price
pursuing amorous liaisons
gallivanting, flirting, emailing...
impacting (obliviousness
pitifully lame retort unacceptable)
feigning much ado about nothing
snappishly barking anger
such vitriol (mine)
sabotaged once in
lifetime golden opportunity
to foster, kindle pinterest
with spouse and daughters
subsequently deepening rift
rivalling Mariana Trench
love's labour's lost forever
frittering away compounded
half heartedly seeking employment
even though - NO LIE
inexplicable debilitating anxiety
buzzfeeding panic attacks
plaguing my psyche
since...birth, incapacitating
maximizing potential abilities
playing havoc pledging troth
with counterpart exhibiting
mental health challenges
unfairly begetting deux darling lasses
thee bearing brunt of pennilessness,
at aforementioned residence
unlivable, horribly untidy,
toxic with mold, cluttered...
such offal sight, sounds of screaming,
(when Shana nonverbal), stench...
now suffer (PLEASE BELIEVE)
suicidal ideation plagues my conscience
pointed objects quite inviting
remembrance of things past,
a worse fate than death!
PLEASE FORGIVE DADA...?
We were both seniors, but he was
some 21 years my senior. Ken was
A most dear friend who passed
away a couple of years ago. I
was spilling my heart out to
him one day as we drove
along in the vehicle.
As I continued to utter my
obvious frustrations over
things I most did not WANT,
Ken popped the most pointed
question when he asked me,
"But what do you WANT?"
It was clear as day what
I did not WANT; but what I
WANTED was foggy and misty.
For a moment, my soul seemed
to have stood still as I pondered
the fact that I did not recall anyone
ever asking me, 'what I really WANTED'.
Either they did not care or they could
not see in me any sense of deep personal
desire. I think that it was the latter.
Ken had not only 'words' that ended in
a question mark. That poignant question
had a quality of tone and a heart of compassion
that registered from him to me like none that
I had experienced.
I have experienced multiple seasons in life.
Call me aimless, shiftless, and lazy if you will,
but I was compelled to look inside my soul
and conclude that I WANTED stillness, ease,
silence, poise, calm, peace, and a cessation
of dedicated activities and involvement.
I WANTED more of what Ken and I were about
on that particular day. The two of us were
part of a men's breakfast that came together
once a week for breakfast. Beyond the
breakfast, our entire affair was a morning
about anything in general and nothing in
particular. It was 'much ado about nothing'.
And in this season of my life, that was what
I really WANTED most.
121922PSCtest, Our Soul’s Wish List Poetry Contest.
Unseeking Seeker
aim true
don’t shake
spear the beast
measure for measure
this is the taming of the shrew
the tempest as you will
it feels much ado about nothing
as if it is the comedy of errors
now on the twelfth night of the feast of hades
love’s labour lost as you like it
this the winter’s tale
but you are the merchant of venice
here to sell your wares
here to charm
the merry wives of windsor
and touch
with your inbred smile
many others
cymbeline
pericles
the two gentlemen of verona
here for their own laugh
troilus and cressida
all ships in the night
a rose by any other name
but then you waken
and it was but a midsummer night’s dream
or was it
it is nothing more than a play
or is it
in the end is not life a stage
and us merely the players
these
the days
the plays
of comedy
you know from your balcony
all’s well that ends well
as i bid you adieu
my prince
sweet dreams
and dream no more
the days of joy are upon us
so live
eyes wide open
this time is yours
the great bard and Elizabethan play wright
begetting complete dramaturgy
explaining fate hollowly airtight
succor starved, riddled smitten tattered
sir real body politik blight
under whelming enthusiasm
witnessed blank quarto copyright
more tragedy than comedy
visited mine biography to date
expressed as dearth
decayed delight
devoid absent audience
hip...hip...hooray
three chairs to excite
zero non-exhaustive effort
summoning stagecraft
imagining hardened
faced spectators
muted nonexistent ovation,
sans anticlimactic action
superfluous stage fright,
thus retrospective stance taken
billeted envisioned
anachronistic gunfight
signifying emotional crisis,
especially high anxiety
pained height
incorporating mine every birthday
newly aged since
LIX January
thirteenth orbitz insight
oppressive ominous gloomy glum
obscuring highland dale light
whereby substantial sole action
asper arrival of midnight
celestial curtain call enclosing
somber static theatrical night
hoop fully explaining deadening
copious heavy breathing
followed by extended lapses
of utter silence outright
spartan mise en scene
absent agit props
nsync with holographic thespians
staid theatrics displaying plight
uneventful sleepy representation quite
leaving entire cast
(singular char actor his shun
of myself) remaining
soporific steadfastly right
lee measure for measure
much ado about nothing
hermetically sealed, NON GMO
vacuum packed no sight
worth seeing on the twelfth night
starkly barren aimless
padlocked mortal soul asylum
no, not even Romeo and Juliet
love's labor's lost passion
a comedy of errors,
viz unbridled trothplight
mock king lear ring alls well that ends well
where me crushed psyche doth unite
with death vis a vis
as demise of Julius Caesar
et tu Brutus I in vite.
My dear, have you not heard the news?
The theatre has closed down.
Due to the riots on avenue and boulevard,
I do not want to gossip about it.
Find it on the latest tabloids and crusades.
Darling, the streets had spread the word
Of the Lord Stuyvesant.
His head was marched down our street,
Decapitated and hoisted up on a lance.
I could not believe the violence of our town.
What has our world become?
When I stepped out on the front porch outside,
I heard their foul disparage.
Youthful energies echoing scornful abuses aloud,
And the saints who endorsed it.
Shame on this backward world I was born into,
This life of inferno I was burdened with.
I swore on the night of my honeymoon rove,
To not bare children within this hellfire furnace.
I would rather suffer the same fate as Lord Stuyvesant.
To the mundane monarchy who live in their manors,
I could not run to tell my good man.
I do not want to gossip about any of the occurrences,
That has fallen upon these riots in our town.
Where do I run to, if I am in need of rescue and love?
The theatre had closed down.
Darling, if these rabid vermin would listen for once
In their twopenny-halfpenny lives,
They would not have the need to protest against
A system which have been nothing but good to them,
But they are far too gone now, it has all gone to frenzy.
So much ado about nothing.
Talking together are Claudio, Don Pedro, and Leonato.
Benedick is standing nearby viewing this trio.
The three are aware that Benedick is lurking near,
so they speak loud enough so he can hear.
Benedick and Beatrice readily exchange caustic wit.
He loves Beatrice, but that's something he won't admit.
Beatrice has feelings for Benedick that are much the same.
She won't admit either for fear it might bring her shame.
Well, Benedick is hearing things he cannot believe today.
Beatrice loves Benedick is what the conversing men say.
The words the men have spoken sound very, very, nice.
They have managed to shatter any encumbering ice.
Based on the play "Much Ado About Nothing" by William Shakespeare
Watch as Facebook hooks with a clear-cut look,
So much of hearsay on the lonely way;
So much noise to book mere pawns and a nook,
Share videos that stray once upon a day.
Contact and be friends with such crappy trends,
Wise men speak most clear when fools ***** and moan;
Likes and comments tend to be awkward odd blends,
True grace knows no fear but hollow souls groan.
Gripe of any kind can poke blunt and blind,
Anchor in fond share picture motif fare;
Glimpse sure peace of mind as you sift through finds,
Blunt bias now compares the strange flicks that grind.
By the Facebook way loiters your grim airs,
Too much and too late the easy page fill;
Cut-and-Paste to say vivid and vain flairs,
Open the floodgates where disdain frames spills.
Flip one-minute fame as sure as plain blame,
Much ado about nothing much to cheer;
Vain outlook lays blame upon faceless game,
Buzz of plenty shouts frenzy that flings near.
Leon Enriquez
06 November 2017
Singapore
Constables Dogberry and Verges have Don John's cohorts that are bad.
The two men in their custody are named Borrachio and Conrad.
They confessed their involvement in the plot to shame Hero.
Don John took advantage of the gullibility of Claudio.
The friar and company spread the rumor that Hero died.
In reality, until she clears her name, Hero will merely hide.
Meanwhile, the culpable Don John has taken flight.
The enraged Benedick has challenged young Claudio to a fight.
Don't worry readers; everything will turn out right.
A happy ending to this play will soon be in sight.
Based on the play "Much Ado About Nothing" by William Shakespeare