Now is the winter of our discontent,
For our sins, we shall repent.
Not a soul can escape this torment,
Slowly turning us all senescent.
The cold wind in the east thus blows,
Falling are the petals of that frosty rose.
Our hearts have come to froze,
As we try to cast our minds to our woes.
Harm is the reminiscence of summer,
When we doth celebrate midsommar.
Oh the sun! What has now become of her,
Hiding in shadows, no radiance from her.
The hail hath come to end one and all,
The white rain on the earth doth fall.
How does one remove this hovering pall?
When the limited will cause them to brawl.
Sinking below this sheet of white,
Numbing our body, this frostbite.
Will we ever again see a twilight,
Or will this just be an endless night?
Now is the winter of our discontent:
evicted Tuesday – couldn’t pay the rent.
No consolation bourbon – dough’s all spent.
Can’t call the helpline. Haven’t got a cent.
Cops busted me for “Lurking Within Tent”
- now sleeping on Duluth hoosegow cement.
My grandpa, Richard: and my dad – absurd
that they should call me Richard (Dick the Tird).
My ex so named me, as she flipped the bird.
I’m so unlucky, bums think I’m a kurd!
I’ve fewer teeth now than a hobo’s comb.
When I get out, the fresh air is my home.
So tell me, White House – where’s my Golden Dome?
Do what you will – but don’t send Kristi Noem!
“Now is the winter of our discontent”
Richard III Act 1 scene 1 by Shakespeare
it is now mid-winter
and as I am such a venter
I know this is not what Willy meant
but this weather leaves me so discontent
CHRISTMAS WITH COVID
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made even darker by this wretched bug.
Forced into isolation when
We need to feel a loved one’s hug
And should we venture, as we must,
To shopping malls and public places,
There is an air of ghostliness.
Designer masks concealing faces.
But as the festive season beckons.
How can we overcome the gloom?
We’ll have to make the best of things
And spread the Christmas cheer – on Zoom
7th January 2023
Shakespeare in 2023 poetry contest
Sponsor - Anoucheka Gangabissoon
November descends delicately,
crisp, crimson-gold
landing languidly midway between
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day'
and 'Now is the winter of our discontent' -
dead center between its nurturing tree
and the leaf pile bound for burning
Casually clad in T-shirt and shorts
on my makeshift cardboard sled
middle age's gravity conveys me irreversibly
down summer's green, grassy slope
towards the snow-shrouded vale -
I find myself halfway between
where I did not want to leave
and where I do not wish to visit
Midway between the eulogy
and the forlorn trumpet playing 'Taps'
it dawns on me that life is not entirely about the
sunshine on our backs nor the coming snowbank
but about searching for the sunrise
on the far side of
the next hill
1 November 2022
Now is the winter of our discontent,
For our sins, we shall repent.
Not a soul can escape this torment,
Slowly turning us all senescent.
The cold wind in the east thus blows,
Falling are the petals of that frosty rose.
Our hearts have come to froze,
As we try to cast our minds to our woes.
Harm is the reminiscence of summer,
When we doth celebrate midsommar.
Oh the sun! What has now become of her,
Hiding in shadows, no radiance from her.
The hail hath come to end one and all,
The white rain on the earth doth fall.
How does one remove this hovering pall?
When the limited will cause them to brawl.
Sinking below this sheet of white,
Numbing our body, this frostbite.
Will we ever again see a twilight,
Or will this just be an endless night?
Now is the winter of our discontent
We are buried amongst our ancestors to lament
Yet in life we have everything but do not use it to our full extent
When young we play as we should in this world always content
You grow learning that meaning outweighs what we think we have learnt
We throw away the best of ourselves for the elders to seek acknowledgement
Then we truly realise that we have sought to find nothing but disappointment
Invent a world that you once knew and in this ambition you can rent
All your lives you know this is not how you were meant to have been to find enlightenment
The winters chill you more each year as the fire inside you dims to a flicker of fulfilment
All knowledge is inconsequential as it is when young and the fire was strong that you knew that life was meant
Now is the winter of our discontent.
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