Tag Archives: @Shakespeare

Ugly Duckling

‘There once was an ugly duckling –

turned out to be a baby swan –

rookie error!’ said the crow.


The rook took offence to this.

‘Now listen here,’ he started,

‘You crows always diss

us rooks.

I know we haven’t got your looks,

or the brains that you were born with;

but we knows the difference

between a duckling and a cygnet,

a hawk and a handsaw,

and chalk and cheese.

‘So, please, will you stop

looking down upon my kind?’


The crow, looked below,

and asked the rook,

‘Why is a Raven like a writing desk?’

The rook didn’t know the answer,

and the crow wasn’t telling.


The rook flew off, yelling,

‘You think you’re a clever so-and-so,

but it isn’t just me that doesn’t know!’


This was true, but the crow

held the higher ground,

from which position

he’s always found

that a positive claim

would bring him fame –

whether he was correct or not.

I had rather—

I had rather hear a crow

bark at a dog,

than the other way round;

but, Shakespeare knew what he meant,

and I know him

better than he knows me.

The Seven Ages of Man vs. The Four Stages of a Butterfly.

Which is great as a title goes;

but, what can ‘I’ write upon the subject?

Who knows?

I am no leopardopterist,

and certainly no Shakespeare;

my words are too pedantic

to compare,

if I said I was,

I should grow a long nose.


You may feel

a little short-changed

if you


to read

my last post.

But, please be aware,

that not all that glisters is not gold;

that aphorism is good to hold

on to…

And if you can,

please do.

Asking for an imaginary friend upon the anniversary of Shakespeare’s alleged birthday.

Is there – my friend would like to know –

any reason


most poetry

is so rubbish?

My friend would like to be excused

from having one’s ears sorely abused

by being forced to listen to acrid rhymes.

Sacred, are the times

when the rest is silence –

as the Bard wroted.

Which Bard, it should be noted,

was also a poet –

my friend says that they endured one of his sonnets,

but wasn’t sure how far to throw it.

Nerdle and Bardle

Numbers and Shakespeare,

what’s not to like?

It all adds up

to a mindful conclusion;

Ariel from The Tempest,

and Arden from the Sum of the Dream,

both seem a part of the whole,

a Bard of the Soul,

a solution of worth,

Labours Lost in such mirth,

and All’s Well

That Ends…


Flies and Bees

A fly asked itself one day,

‘To fly or not to fly?’

and then chose to fly.

A bee, on the other hand,

would ask whether,

‘To Bee or not to Bee?’

Beecause Bees

have that much more gravitas.

William Shakesbee

One day, a bee said to another bee,

‘Have you heard young Willy Shakesbee?’

‘No.’ said the second bee,

‘What is it with he?’

‘Well…’ said the first bee,

‘He is wondering aloud whether,

‘tis better to bee, or not to bee!’

‘Ahh!’ said the second bee,

‘I think he is an actorbee,

rehearsing his role in the bee tragedy.’

‘The bee tragedy?’ asked the first bee.

‘Yes, ‘Beelet the Great Bane’,

or ‘Let it Bee’, as it is oft referred to.’

‘Ah.’ said the first bee.

SD there is a pause

‘But I thought he was a writerbee,

not an actorbee.’

‘Well, we know he’s not a fighter bee

or a workerbee, maybee he’s just getting into the role as a writerbee must if he is to write anything of import.’

‘Shouldn’t that bee import ants?’ quoth the bee whose turn it was to quoth.

‘Ha! You are a comedianbee!’ sniggered the other bee.

‘That I am, that I am.’ quoth this bee or that bee.

‘Quick! Let us bee off, beefore the Queen marries Beelet’s Uncle.’

SD They both Exit stage left pursued by bees.

Imagining Hamlet

Listening to the play,

obsessing on the words,

what Ophelia will say,

the melee with the swords.


A radio adaption,

scene by unseen action,

and imagine all the people—

yes, all of them, go on!

One, two, three—

Yes, even the ones

that you do not know;

the ones that eat scones

and the ones that eat scones;

the sloths and the sparrows

(in people terms, that is)

and when your imagination narrows,

perhaps admit that the rest are embroiled

in silence.

Re: Claim

I staked my claim

back in ‘62,

was given a name

by ‘you-know-who’,

grew up bad

or good

depending on the situation,

and here I am,

under evaluation.


‘21, where I am now,

got myself here,

don’t quite know how;

and here I am,

all covered in mud,

with a hint of Turmeric

running through my blood.


Yes, I know,

that I write bad verse;

but, if anybody read it,

it could be much worse,

‘Worse than what?’

I hear nobody ask.

Ask me another,

increase my task;

and maybe one day,

when the weather is right,

I’ll write a ‘proper’ poem –

I might, I just might.


So, on and on

the words they go,

is there no log-jam

to the endless flow?

I’ll stop when I think you’ve had enough;

when times are good,

and rhymes are rough,

I’ll be the Bard

with quill and ruff.