Long Shakespearean Poems
Long Shakespearean Poems. Below are the most popular long Shakespearean by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shakespearean poems by poem length and keyword.
The tangled woods invite my weary feet,
to step beyond markers upon the stone,
where ancient trees and heavy shadows meet,
I walk into the quiet wild alone.
No beaten trail directs the way to go;
no painted sign reveals the final end.
The mossy ground and ferns begin to grow;
as deeper into silence I descend.
The map I held has lost its former grace.
The rules of old no longer guide my stride,
I find a freedom in this empty space;
with only inner truth to act as guide.
I cast away the maps that others made;
The pathless path is found here, in the shade.
Where are you?
My search takes me everywhere
I find nothing
Moving through the maze of life
Hope guides me
But grows weak with time
Who are you?
Someone from the past
Or the future
The hardest question to answer
I wait for the answer
But where will it come from
Two souls moving through existence
Are you searching as well
You ask where am I?
I’m neither here nor there
Lost in thought
But I wait eyes, heart and mind open
Will you arrive
Or will we forever be lost
Who am I?
I often ask myself the same question
The answer also complicated
Yet I’m simple
A person of few needs
You are one of those
Looking for direction from you
Where are you?
Another one of my first attempts at poetry. I sent this to myself on June 4 2012, so it was written around that time. It was another attempt to leave the sonnet and venture into free verse. I didn't want to be limited by fxed form, but have since learned how much I actually enjoy fixed forms of poetry. The villanelle, Qautern, Quatrain, now the Terzanelle, and of course my original, the Shakespearean Sonnet, without the iambic redundancies of course, or should I say the iambic pentameter. I had read Lucilla Carrillo's poem Where are you, and reminded me of these words, although I think the two themes are different.
Hats are such a marvel,
when the weather is so garbled,
A multitude of quick coverlets to warm the brain
protect the head from snow, wind and rain.
A dapper, flamboyant chapeau
to quickly dawn where ever you might go,
A fedora brandished by some handsome man
that would display his appealing stand.
A stetson for the guy from Texas
who stands tall before the rest of us.
A tam, a topper
a Panama show stopper.
Some pretty little girl in a bonnet
that inspires a Shakespearean sonnet.
Better yet, a woman's choice of millinery
to walk a fashion show off fritillary.
To church or same gandiose Easter parade
that gleams and stands above the seasonal charade.
Hats are such a blessing
when the cold requires warm protective dressing.
The prediction is for gusty winds and cold,
hats need only be warm not necessarily bold.
Take your pick
but make it quick
your nose, your face, your head
need covering, that goes unsaid.
as temperatures drop
Bringing out waves of electrifying glamour
fully captured by antennas of nature
giving matter a new meaning, science a new puzzle
and all phenomena, something to ponder
makes even your stains worthy of adoration.
Oh my lady!
so shining and robed
with the feminine light of the Shakespearean days
the women of fine ligaments, with jars of wine,
barbecue dances, chewers of berries
and admirers of calm and still waters
in the courtyards of medieval architectural dwelling places
you top them all,
even if you're from a different era
Provoked fires get injured and the sun shrinks to a cup size
when tears flow down your cheek.
All written articles both in the heavens and the earth
would be too insignificant
for a worthy honour of your elegance.
A faculty of goodwill
from your exhale,
it's finished product
many are dying to inhale.
Existing in the class of your own
with inscriptions of Angels
makes men go round the borders of the oceans
until they find all appropriate words
to sing the praises of your charm
and the psalms of your tenderness.
DISCLAIMER: This is a tongue-in-cheek, sardonic critique
of my own poetry from the perspective of a fictitious non poetry lover. This is not aimed at any of you wonderful Soup poets... please do not be offended!
Tell me who has the time for a poem?
If there's facts to know, I want to know 'em.
You enjoy sounding Ivory Tower-y
But I don't care for words super flowery.
Your analogies and your hyperbole
Like intense gnats annoy me disturbally
I will catch all your facts as you throw 'em
But I just don't have time for your poem.
All astonishing alliterations
Will arouse in me no titillations
Your undue fascination with meter
Is not shared by this philistine reader.
Your iambic pentameter’s boring
And induces in me rhythmic snoring
You may claim it’s Shakespearean rhythm;
But perhaps we should bury it with him!
Your obtuse meta narrative's yet a bore
Please remind again, what's your meta for?
Your insipid attempts to use simile
Are like choking on smoke from my chimile.
Your pursuit of profound allegory
Should be saved for your purple prose story
But as I've said before, I've no time
To be reading your 4-stanza rhyme.
Should you give me a gift of a sonnet
I’ll be scanning for pawn shops to pawn it
Though you say if I tried hard, I'd love it
What I'd love most is if you'd just shove it!
Reading poetry takes too much work
And I'm only a mid-level clerk.
Your quatrains? I suggest you forego 'em
'Cause I just don't have time for your poem.
a muse cornered
screaming against mind's walls
locked in dungeons of thought
unable to escape
in verse, or metaphor
common words
without rhythm
faltered in sentences
unable to create imagery
recreate forms
or express depths of emotion
no temporary escape
from bottled pain
no ink to bleed
through metered words
just pages
falling ordinary
like a history book
lacking details
to bore you
to sleep
no shakespearean sonnets
to recreate, no plays to enact
no raven's of poe's to recite
no words to excite
no lyrics to songs
just music without words
falling silent to the screams
locked in mind's thoughts
unable to be birthed
through poetry
in it's nonexistence
January 20, 2020
if there were no poetry contest
sponsored by Silent One
MARCH LETS GO
On my knees, cosseted by blue jeans,
I tender the soil with magic beans.
March lets go of the Winter’s lien.
Clearing snow, dusting of royal green.
O the earth is suddenly Spring clean.
though stressed with Adam’s gene.
My multicolor flowers whisper as I lean
and I listen to their Shakespearean scene.
The lovely oaks hold each birdie while mother preens,
though storms might seize the branches, as they ween.
The story told, mankind sees as rather mean,
but God’s providence spurs on the flight of king and queen.
The ancient secrets of horticulture to glean.
A lovely morning walk with dewdrop sheen.
Spring choir of serendipitous joy so keen!
Rejoice, all life has sprung, after a long Winter’s lien.
3/8/2018
Contest: Michael Vacek’s Spring Fling Zing Thing King and Queen
The heavy clouds of gray begin to loom;
to hide the fading sunlight from mine eyes.
The garden we once planted loses bloom;
as bitter winds bear off our hollow sighs.
The gentle petals tear away from stems;
and scatter through the chill of winter's air,
They used to shine like brilliant crimson gems;
when thou didst hold me close and call me fair.
A sudden gust of wind begins to blow;
sweeping away love and warmth now closes.
My weeping eyes reflect the afterglow;
caught within this painful storm of roses.
Yet though our fragile bonds are rent apart.
Thy ghost shall dwell forever in my heart.
alternately titled: 207th leap year since 1582
the year Pope Gregory XIII world leader
(i.e. essentially paterfamilias among
Roman Catholic flock)
timely maneuvered around calendrical rock
and hard space implementing
viable system tracking years ad hoc
out of sync and lock
step by one day
with astronomical calendar,
slated more'n acceptable tick tock
off kilter around the year of 4818
after common era making mock
re: regarding mankind organizing and
witnessing global chockablock
Democratic celebratory anniversary party
millenniums after Republican dynastic deadlock
thoroughly walled imponderable gridlock
worse fate than quaffing hemlock
practically snuffing out lock, stock
and barrel constitutional birthrights
thirteen original American
founding fathers ghosts experiencing shock
how initial inalienable rights
activists sacrificing life and limb
united with linkedin armlock
said freedom fighters shackled
within crowded jail moldering cinderblock
cold upon hemorrhoid riddle buttock
diehard libertarians unified, pilloried, denounced
legion with repulsion as Shylock
purported, reputed, touted playwright
(William Shakespeare's sited anti semite
The Merchant Of Venice) doth mock
Judaism in vogue four hundred plus years ago,
smoldering think white supremacists i.e. skinheads
violently aiming to knock
non Caucasians upside the head
courtesy pistol whip,
and/or emptying gunstock
into human flesh disenfranchise scaring up
one after another racial and/or ethnic aftershock
aforementioned celebrated bard unwittingly
strictly opinion of me:silly poet -
despite hashtagged as laughingstock,
(plus vitriolic objection taken)
voiced by Shakespearean expert defenders,
yours truly reckons mine thought provoking
regarding storied, lauded, and feted Globe theater
literary King my interpretations not crock.
In my youth's frolic at King Lear and Pi
all my days were a Shakespearean tale.
Not algebra, not prose did edify
yet test and limits we pass lest we fail.
To learn and open closed minds to ideas
but I learnt before a fall comes a pride
with a conspiracy one alone bears
yet co-conspirators had much to hide.
For each lame alibi concealed misdeed,
each mad ruse and jape blotted my ledger
but we all do a true life lesson heed
when worn is a cowl or crown to measure.
Comic is the court and jester in school
but better a wise king than a wise fool.
Written: May 1992