And to some who are pardoned

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

Here wanders Shakespeare’s spirit

Haunting like the ghost of father Hamlet

Dead like his brave and young son Hamlet

Dead like the star-crossed Romeo and Juliet

Dead like the maddened King Macbeth

Dead like Caesar, stabbed by the Senate

Dead like Othello, driven to hate

Kills Desdemona but his crime is passionate

Yet the playwright doesn’t always assassinate

Because nobody dies in As You Like It

Antonio is saved by Portia’s wit

And Hero only fakes until she makes it

A toast to Shakespeare’s departed.

And while you’re here, you might also like poetry about drinking. Here are a few also published in Illumination:


The one day I did not care

Image: Author


Late to bed but early to rise,

Whoever said sleeping is wise,

Mix my coffee with some oats,

I take my time, I let it roast.


Idle, idle, faraway look,

Skimming pages of a used book,

Summer heat by the swimming pool,

Waste my day on a plastic stool.


There’s an ashtray full of butts,

Watching films that are uncut,

Empty case, pull it here,

I think I need to buy more beer.


Photo by zengxiao lin on Unsplash

Am I speaking too softly?

Can you hear me,

Can you hear me?

Are my words unintelligible?

From my tongue, they roll,

They roll.

Am I acting too strangely?

Can you see me,

Can you see me?

My hands are shaking wildly,

Can’t control them,

I’m damned.

Am I thinking extremely,


Or exactly?

Are my thoughts spread, scattered?

Were they heard?

I’m burned.

Am I screaming too loudly?

Should you hush me,

Do you rush me?

Is it better if I whisper?

Oh, my mother,

You there?

Am I stinking so badly?

Will you wash me?

Should you hose me?

But I’m feeling very thirsty,

Oh have mercy,

My dear.

Am I feeling intensely?

I was cedar,

Now I’m paper.

Is it better if I’m stronger?

But I wander,


How conflicted we are, humans. We complain that our worlds seem small, suffocating. But at the same time, we take comfort in the thought that we are all connected. The link makes the world feel not as big and overwhelming. We are on an ironic search for freedom and connection. We liberate ourselves from what we think burdens us, to discover something new to feel welcomed. The chase is indefinite. We’ll never be content. What a blessing. What a curse.

Kafka — may or may not be for the claustrophobic

According to Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse once called Franz Kafka “the uncrowned king of German prose.” (What a gossip). That was before Kafka was famous. Safe to say that in their time, he was

Franz the

It’s my goal to, at least once in my life, use…

I used three exclamation points and I know it’s not proper but I lost all of my writing discipline when I regressed to writing privately in the last two months. To be honest, I have nothing valuable to say. …

Harry Male

Here for music, literature, and good omens. https://bysshepls.wordpress.com

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