Chapter (27) ODE TO SHAKESPEARE

In silent sweeps the white plume weeps

It's tears in words of inky black.

Each parchment page, a stage, where plays

are writ and formed, yet not performed.

No hand lifts the quill, still yet it writes.

It needs not the candle lights

to script the follies and the fights.

Sonnets born of ghostly hand

Never read or played in any land.

No actor acts nor singer sings nor speaks

the words with passion,

out of fashion, the player's ancient art.

The desk, wood worn, oak hewn, with papers strewn

holds the secret history, a mystery now

who's hands invisible that take the pen to write.

The quill's master long dead, his ancient words today still read

and praised, once raised the crowds applause.

Reviews

[Beccy]

I adore Shakespeare, and just loved this celebration to his genius. No doubt he is looking down from his lofty perch and shaking his head in wry amusement at our efforts.

Beccy.

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Thank you Beccy. I'm pleased you enjoyed it.

[Onyia-Ali, Kingsley Chu..]

Well articulated poem in remembrace of a great poet of all times William Shakespear. Your last two lines carries the weight of the poem.

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate your comments.

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

You have down sweet justice in a serenade to Shakespeare… his work is still relatable today.

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Thank you I'm happy you enjoyed it

[Marie]

I agree with Momzilla. It seems he wrote for everyone...this poem makes it sound as if his ghost is still writing...somewhere...

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Hi Marie. I'm happy you enjoyed this poem.

[MomzillaNC]

And still "praised," and "raised" to "the crowd's applause." Shakespeare's writings never get old!