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Lawn Tennis Games. Each serve I become exasperated, Each floating ball my foe. Yet I struggle on, Vainly „gainst match-point And ignore the crescendo of guffaws behind me. Like a pack of Hyena they laugh, Like stupid men on laughing gas. As I swing at the luminous sphere And miss again. Were it not so silly, Iâ€&#x;d claim bias, They balls word against my own. A drink of water upon the bench. A drop to reinvigorate, A gulp to drown. The lights now going, Lawn court etiquette is leaving, As the sorry splutters of mirth surround me, I know what I must do, To play to win.
Sunflower Looking around nothing to be seen but the dark cold soil surrounding, Suddenly a shaft of light shines through, Illuminating all the soil, The whole world for this little seed. With great force the minute seed pushes up through the black thick layers of soil, Itâ€&#x;s desperate to reach brightness, Frantically struggling against everything, The seed pushes with pure determination to the glimmer of light The seed cannot reach it after giving everything, It then slowly falls backwards, Down into the thick deep soil, And once again its world is in darkness and despair, With the light source gone there is little hope left.
The Frog at the Window Rain beating on the window sill As I glanced in the mirror at myself. Owls hooting echoed from the deep forest, A painful memory of being alone. Here in this tower, Where spiders were my only companions, I waited for my “Prince Charming”. He took his time, A total of 5 years. A knock came from the window, Awoken from my deep slumber, I glanced out of the window to find a lonely frog. Hoping in he told his tale of finding me. I was finally awoken from this fairy tale dream, With a “Mam what‟s for tea?”
ONE LONG DAY Getting up like trying to fight the waves, A uniform black and white Like a zebras. From class to class, From dusk to dawn. Work hard to Work for the rest of your life
But maybe the chance of lots Of money but maybe the chance Of none at all. Free to Leave but Stuck here as well either here Or to the weir but this is the place,
It takes the cake. Hours pass, time To go. Buses here cars to come Busy and fast places to be .no time To think easy to rush, past a pier. But maybe weâ€&#x;ll be better for it
The Routine I reach the entrance, looming before me With bleary eyes and butterfly stomach. Marching, one step at a time Forced by the sameness, The Routine. Going because I have gone before. Another day begins. The bell tolls. „Get to class!‟ Mind swarming with new information. I wonder whether it will ever end. The bell knells. A light at the end of the tunnel. Everyone fleeing in an orderly manner. „Escape‟ home But the work follows. Finally, some rest. Then another day begins.
Natureâ€&#x;s Call The never green leaves Sit as if they are waiting to fall Or break under uncanny conditions. For the best part some still hold tight But canâ€&#x;t hold for long. As the time begins to change The weak leaves wither and keel. Their weak grasp betrays them as They dream of what it used to be. They make their way towards the ground. The time shifts to the final stage In which the previously strong Become the currently weak. They break from their seats As they meet their inevitable destination. Their homes now sit naked and bare With no one around to help Or repair this state. Only in time will the youth sprout Up and fill this home once again.
THE HUNTER'S CAGE In this hunters cage Longing for freedom I remember back in my bunny burrow And the comfort it gave me And now I've been taken away Sitting scared and lonely With nothing to rely on, In this dreary cage, In this damp eerie place And I wonder how I got here I was innocent, Caught off-guard, And now I'm left trapped away With only my hope that someday I'll see light again
SYLVIA PLATH INSPIRED POEM
Whistles chirp and steam does blow Station empties neither fast nor slow All aboard and then weâ€&#x;ll go. Six carriages from top to tail Makes up the train departing the Stanford rail Six black boxes with peaked roofs. Mothers and children hand in hand First class people forced to stand Seats are taken by the men. Ticket collectors go up and down One of them his hat is brown On a train going fast.
On An Evening in Roma The beginning should begin when the sun goes down, In Rome one should do as the Romans do, Glittering sotto il cielo di Roma, While the opulence of past glories, visible history, Now, stumble, without direction among the hoards. All roads once led to Rome, Confident in her longevity and furtherance. She was, in her time, great, Now, her image dwells on the memory of men, Overwhelmed by their own greatness. Rome is Rome, but where will she lead me?