For Plath.

 I think of how

Long and winding

Without you my life

Has been,

Though I have

Only just reached eighteen.

I glance through

The graveyards

And smile. How long my friends

And I have been apart.

Though centuries ago they

Received their last birthday card.

I turn to my friends:

Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Keats

And how the cycle of life

Repeats and repeats;

And now only can I

Into their work retreat.

Many have I loved

And been loved by in return

Though only for Sylvia

In passion did I burn

And as she is gone, never will I

Her affections earn.

Oh! Sylvia

Your illness wrapped round

Like vines and that man

To whom you were bound

By marriage and impure love.

I wish you I had found.

But we are years

Too late.

For you are dead.

I love thee, Sylvia, wait,

Do not cast yourself

Into the oven of hate.

My darling,

You secured

The windows and

The doors,

So that your young ones

May live forevermore.

Why couldn’t you

Be patient, my dear?

We would have found each

Other, without fear

And I would have cared for you

And kept you near.

Oh! Sylvia,

Yet you did die.

You need not even

Attempt nor try

To be the tragic heroine in

Mine and society’s eye.

Sylvia, my love,

You are her. 

l.s.

Young Vlad

Off the plane they stepped,

Onto the grey runway,

To the child and his mother

It was just another day.

To know she would have wept

And to the Lord she would pray

Lucky he had a brother

When he went away.

They entered the airport building,

Into the baggage hall,

When mother’s phone began to ring

With an incoming call.

“Hello?” she said with a tired voice,

(the flight had been long haul),

The child had a choice:

To stay with mother, or to crawl...

“Please stay away from the carousel!”

Boomed a loud voice from above.

the child looked up and knew well

the danger of the conveyor belt thereof,

the mother sighed and turned her back,

“what’s the matter, my love?”

The child moved towards the baggage track,

Unbeknown he would be gotten rid of.

Closer and closer to the carousel, 

He climbed onto one of the bags,

And soon in the underneath he did dwell.

What with tiredness and time lags,

His mother was yet to see,

What was to become of young Vlad,

But we know it could be

Somewhat  of a holiday snag.

“Help, mummy, help!” young Vlad cried.

“What is it?” she turned, her hands on her waist.

“It hurts, mummy, it hurts!” he replied,

Calling from seemingly inside a case.

“Oh Vlad, what are you doing in there?”

She said, walking over to the place

Where his voice came from with despair,

Expecting to see his angelic face.

She reached for the luggage

And undid the zip,

Waiting to gage

His pain by a quivering lip,

Only to find

Blood drip by drip

And a pile of organs left behind.

Gone was her son, gone was the quivering lip.

l.s.

The Fat Man And His Friend, The Scone

The Fat Man and His Friend, the Scone

He sat at the tea table

Gazing at the scones,

The cakes, the cream pies,

Thinking of how he and his bones

One day would surely die.

He asked himself

‘Why must I live

Each day alone

When I cannot even give

A home to so lovely a scone?’

These depressing thoughts

Would kill him in the end,

Why shouldn’t he eat

‘Til he could hardly bend?

“My! What a delicious treat!”

The lonely scone, Michelle,

Leapt up from the plate

And exclaimed in a high voice:

“Oh! My first date!”

And began to rejoice.

Tears welled in her eyes,

“I’m sat all day in this shop

Just wishing that into someone’s

Mouth I would surely pop

And be into their stomach gone!”

The fat man looked at Michelle,

And gave a wide smile.

Michelle’s sad life

Would end in style!

The end of her strife.

He looked at her once more

And set down his hand,

He ate her – one bite,

But she tasted rather bland.

“With some jam she’d be alright!”

THE END.

l.s.

A love poem

Life is

Loving

And living

And eating and sleeping

And walking and running

But without your breathing

I fear I will slowly

Become nothing.

l.s. 

Teapots & Tragedies introduction - a poetry blog~

Teapots

And

Tragedies

And magazines and mand-

Olins and time passing slow

And fast again as a grain of sand

Slipping through the fingers

Of a withered hand.

And

Louise

Was

A young girl of eighteen

Whose hair changed colour often

And was most lately green

Having tried most hard

To her impulses appease.

Asymmetrical

Yet

Untidy;

Her personality fit her hair

Whilst she wrote her novel

In a darkened room with flair

And her only chronic addiction

Was to the internet.

Read

On

My friend!

For you may find

Here a few things

That may bind

Yourself to Louise

Stay if you please –

She’ll be sad if you’re gone! 

l.s.