In Shakespeare's Shadow

She basks on the edge of Shakespeare’s shadow,

Knowing she has no right, there she lingers.

Beneath massive hands, she creeps on tiptoe

Hoping to catch a glimpse of his fi ngers

Weaving words and linking our worlds like chain.

A fox observing him with cautious stealth ~

Content to rest below his next quatrain ~

To be a sponge, absorbing his great wealth.

Filtered light sneaks upon me as I lurk

And witness genius – soon to be retired.

His pen succumbs to future fl edgling’s work

All of which the true master has inspired.

Though Keats or Shelley may conclude I’m wrong ~

In Shakespeare’s Shadow is where I belong.

Morsel by morsel, eat fear and sorrow –

Sojourning as a mechanical form.

Husks of inconsequential stuff conform

Contemplating their soul’s fate tomorrow.

In meditation men’s thoughts are narrow:

Consume the goodly air, the sun is warm –

Frolicking in the rain whilst a thick storm

On the surface brews against their marrow.

Behind the sun, it is thunder that lies;

A secret kept from simple minds since youth.

‘Tis poison lungs breathe…Oh, how I despise

The haughty creatures convinced they know truth.

Have I gone mad? Or am I starkly sane?

This arcanum be told: Truth men profane.

There, there my darling yellow daffodil –

Standing statuesque with such dignity.

Your head held high and smiling up at me

As the arrival of dreaded April

Approaches with her deadly task to fi ll.

You release your aroma and beauty.

You ask not for my praise nor my pity,

But gladly please my eyes and my nostrils.

Your fulfi llment comes from freely giving.

No umbrage in the calendar can lie

While you accept Nature’s course of living.

For every fl ower blooms, yet they too die.

This I can express only by pencil:

How I admire you so, sweet daffodil!

I’d be a haystack, if you need a rest ~

To give you drink, I’d be a welcome well.

Should you lack peace, I’d be a secret dell.

To be close to your heart, I’d be a vest ~

I’d be any fl ower that you request.

Should you be anxious, your fears, I would quell ~

I’d be a lullaby, should your eyes swell.

If you were homeless, I would be a nest.

Solitude is sought? I’d be a cocoon.

I’d be a toadstool, shading you from heat.

To lift your spirits, I’d be a balloon.

Should you lose rhythm , I’d be a drumbeat.

I’d be all this to you, as you surmise,

Until eternity or my love dies.

The autumn of one’s life bears this sound creed:

It’s not possible to return to spring.

Jonquils once bloomed and grey doves used to sing,

Now birds have fl own and fl owers gone to seed.

The fertile fi eld yields to the brittle weed.

Leaves fade and wrinkle, stems are weakening ~

To their only life source they hope to cling.

Alas, to the beckoning ground they heed.

Do not mourn autumn, winter do not dread ~

For calm belies the stillness of the earth.

There’s much to seek and discover ahead,

Or hark back to spring and visit rebirth.

As autumn swirls and plays her violin,

I smile, assured, content in my own skin.

The scarecrow hangs on a nail on a pole.

Where a heart should be, there is a huge hole.

Without much substance, she sways in the breeze.

She’s stuffed with emptiness, like a disease.

Poor old scarecrow stands alone in the fi eld –

To desires and whims, she’s forced to yield.

With limbs of straw, she’s lost all her feeling,

The farmer sends her hay-fi lled head reeling.

He barks and shouts when crows pluck her sweet corn,

He put her there only to mock and scorn.

The violent winds and rains, she must weather.

Yet still she sings like a lilting feather.

The stake on her back compels her to stay.

I wish I could take the scarecrow away.

You buried her today, the little lamb –

Morbidly attired in her wedding gown.

Fittingly, in the garment she was bound,

Marks the apparel, by you, she is damned.

Rest assured, culprit, accused of a sham –

You will encounter vengeance from the Crown.

Dare not mock the King; no need to expound.

Gamble on the Serpent, forfeit your hand.

Linger beside her grave spuriously

To wipe a nonexistent tear away.

Inside your mind, so proud of this display –

The Great Pretender you shall prove to be.

Playing the Devil’s hand will never win;

You can bury the body, not the sin.