Diary of an Upstart Crow
i
To waste the hours without fair reason
In cakes & ale to drown thy demons
‘Tis blackest bile & darkest cape
That stains this light – steals my fate
A book of hours – my soul’s delight
When rancid winds doth blow with spite
If I should wait until the morrow
Celestial skies mine only sorrow
Let Marlowe curse, might Jonson weep
Pretenders all – where worms do creep
My mind would dance upon this page
And players speak upon the stage
With goose’s quill by candle’s glow
In roundhand bliss upon the snow.
ii
Would that I in days to come
In finest strokes of oakened apple,
Seasoned with pure mind & gum
Would set my hand by moon & sun
Flee from courtly whim & dagger
And shun these taverns of rowdy vice,
Where moistened lips twist & blather
In darkened light with furtive swagger.
Would that I should start with crackle
To tell what maketh men consider –
To take thy leave from Avon’s babble
Cease the witch’s tongue with gravel
Would that I should leave no trail,
Nor writ on cobbles – to no avail.
©️Orion Foote
Visions of Orion Poetry 