Home » Poems » Best » Sylvia Lupien » Best Sylvia Lupien Poems

Best Poems Written by Sylvia Lupien

Below are the all-time best Sylvia Lupien poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

The Raven: A Date with Death

The Raven: A Date with Death

I danced a date
a date with Death. 
He sat me down for tea. 
In the darkness sat the swirl 
of infinity. 

The ringlets 'round his brow
did stain the spirits evermore. 
'Where do you hail?' he asked in disdain. 
'I come from nowhere, yet anywhere, and I'll
go there all again.'

Death looked displeased, forlorn. 
He longed to take another soul. 
But my muse is cloaked in folklore. 
Stories guide me home. 
I was bound to Earth, you see. 
Another just as old. 

Another soul as wise as mine. 
As clever, as bold. 
But sharp ones poison,
wither, 
drown. 
Another soul lost evermore. 

She's still broken, this soul of mine. 
Every hour, every tick and click. 
Cracked, split, broken. 
Never to be healed. 

My love does not belong
behind closed glass or hidden in song. 
But I fear I've lost, my muse is drowned. 

By waves of sea, so mote it be. 
Until home she stays. 
From stolen glances and parting gaze. 
Just beyond the violet haze.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

Midnight Dreary

Midnight Dreary

An endless sludge. Day to day. Pray to pray.
Pray that deep water goes away. 
Pray that exhaustion no longer
comes out to play. 

The spirits are dim here, 
they sit by as I shed a tear. 
Quiet natural, for if my tears were heard, 
the question would be if I were absurd. 

For no one cries when a fairy slowly dies. 
For no one sheds a tear-
it is only me, I fear- 
to go back to the blazing hallway lights, 
back to the dreams that keep me up all night. 

The clock strikes three-
and the spirits that be
come to dwindle in the light. 

The fairies and their feather
assure me they're not gone forever. 
But my pen, it grows weary,
and once upon a midnight dreary, they give me
the gift of sight. 

They follow me around, still to this day, 
and cry out 
callooh, callay, 
for I still believe 
in their magic and their power. 

Look around the circle and you shall find- 
the little folk who live their lives. 
Oh, how secret and devine.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

The Kiss of Death

The Kiss of Death

The Kiss is still ringing 
On in my head. 
To end up with darkness
Chained to my bed. 

The sunset flickers over
Closed curtains. 
The world reflected by green, tinted light. 
The darkness spreads its wings 
Over everything out there and in here. 
, it’s another poem about Death. 
Just as I thought I was catching my breath-
From when you crashed into me and took all of 
My sin. 
And now there’s nothing left inside. 
To come and take me now that I’m off in my dance and heart. 
Hoping with all my breath that she’ll be outstanding. 

, it’s another poem about Death. 
Another poem held close to my chest. 
As I leap from my bed and pull back my chains, 
Screaming, crying. 
My chains finally break and I feel their release. 
But deep down, the kiss still rings. 

Because you can’t have summer without the rain. 
And I am the rain but I am the sun.
Which will you get from me?
The bittersweet tea from Death lasts forever-
The kiss still rings. 
To end up with me, 

Escaping my bed.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

The Christmas Cafe

The Christmas Cafe

I scratch my nails
against my head
and 
ponder a while in thought,
but my soul turns bare

And Death twirls 
his curled hair. 
Taunting me 
as my breaths 
become caught. 

Caught between
the living and the dead. 
A cafe with dim lights, 
like some sort of spiritual 
dread. 
Snow blankets the ground, 
Raucous laughter is heard
As I see you cross the room
But don't say a single word. 

Instead I conduct
A choir in my mind
And wonder if you'll come 
To my own short demise. 
But here in this place, 
I swear to you it's safe
To whisper words of praise 
to the left-behind days

Where you and I betrothed 
We swore we'd never leave
And now that we're
Dying out in the cold
we can both pick
white lilies to grieve. 

But you couldn't handle
the words and the ink. 
And now that we're 
a second out of synch,
Our very last winter, 
for us, it crafts this; 
A cafe caught in the middle
Of a wonderland bliss. 

Where we can still meet our eyes 
crossing over down the hall. 
Where we can 
Still
Pretend that once, we had it all. 

But as I reach my gaze to you, 
I seldom pass out of the blue. 
You reach into your heart and pull
it from your chest to mix 
with mine and the falling snow
And then, too late, you rise to go. 

I pull you under blankets
Of death and grief and hell
And just before you go, 
The door twinkles its last bell. 
The shop is closing up, you see, 
Except for its last ghost with me. 

The pub empties 
out into the street
The people socialize and scream
For they can still
ignite their dream
with our once burning heat
at the level of our true decree. 

But none of that's found 
in the cafe today.
And the door slowly closes 
as you find your own way. 

And the night starts to fall, 
Gentle leaves flowing from trees 
standing tall. 
The branches are bare, and inside
there's decay. 
But our souls still rot on
to live another day. 

Just like our hearts, 
As the beating won't start
But perhaps we can find some 
Comfort 
In knowing

That as we look out
at the cold winter snowing
That Christmas lights dim
And the faint choir hymn
twinkles gently on 
underneath the same moon. 
And perhaps the soul will at last
alight 
As in different worlds, we 
count the starlight. 
Finally
Accepting 
That we'll both be dead soon.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

Duel

Duel 

A soldier sits, sleeps, breaths. 
She wonders why she fought. 
When people go about their day
without so little a thought. 

Why did I face Death, she thinks-
and the monsters and the war-
to join the princes who have lived
without so little a chore. 

Death has many faces.
Ravens, foxes, sparrows too. 
The blackness of the Thames rises up 
swallows them beneath its dew. 
Drowning, drowning, into your own head.

That's what Death is
a sleep of infinite dread. 
Where do you go? When do you go? 
No time, no space. 
Nothing remains. 
Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Death stopped for me, lifted his head-
left me to my refrains. 
People searching, looking, thinking. 
But never seeking, feeling, breathing. 
Why? To them it's simply nature. 
And nature has faces, and nature has places. 

And those that prey among the beast
will soon be swallowed by the gale. 
With nothing to think about 
and nothing to feel. 

When you have danced and dined with Death
your skin and veins bleed ink. 
And in your life he leaves behind
his foul scent and stink.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

Glass Dolls

Glass Dolls

Glass dolls in glass houses. 
Glass dolls with glass douses
Of reality, don’t they know?
That the girl who lives in fantasy 
Still sees a rainbow?
And all the poems seem so hollow now-
Because the light inside her is almost out. 

Because of the existence of
Glass dolls in glass houses
Dosed with reality, but they are so
Hollow now. 
I will NOT be like them. 
No, not twisted and molded, not me. 
Not my hope slipping through
The cracks of reality. 
But my brain is so hollow 
And Death is like a swallow
Fluttering around in its little nest that is me. 
Through my brain, through *my*
Reality. 

Does anyone care? I ponder with these thoughts.
No, surely not. 
Because if anyone knew that me and Death are still friends, 
That I’d play cards at his table 
Until the bitter end, surely *that*
Would disturb them. And so I am quiet, 
Day after day. Because at night my brain shatters
Deep 
Against the duvet.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

Same Old Hell

Same Old Hell

Back in the same old hell-
Back with the same old dwell.
A palace stuck in time, 
A house without a rhyme.
The devil creeps ever close-
and he stabs me, so he knows-
how close I am to Death indeed, 
and no matter how my poems plead- 
he likes to sit and watch me bleed.
Bleed ink and dust and my old spirit;
growing lesser by the minute. 
I escaped this house and dwell-
the stories I could ever tell
do haunt my head and chest and heart-
bleeding through the stain of art. 
Where once was tears and fears and 
sears- into my soul and stories told-
now is barren and empty and hollow
filled with nothing but the sorrow. 
And now even I must be bold, 
because the stories must be told. 
Of fear and pain and haunting Death-
do cometh now and seeks his rest.
Inside my brain and mind and soul,
I play my part and sign my role
away to Death and his old tricks 
and watch the hours slowly tick.

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

Violet Haze

Violet Haze (Sequel to The Raven)

You twirl your hair like Death indeed, 
And like to sit back and watch my poems bleed. 
My love and sorrow, all for you, 
You know I never slink out of the blue. 

But now I wonder all along,
If Death is actually you, my dear. 
And who am I to shed a tear?
But I still bury you in song. 

Between the lines of a poem, my dear. 
For until we see it crystal clear, 
I cannot tell what’s right and wrong. 

My world falls into the void, my dear. 
I wonder if we’ll ever become 
Friends or lovers or family, it’s all a mystery 
My love. 
But ultimately, I think we’d be 
All of the above. 

So sail to sea in a ship, my dear. 
Sail away from my greatest fear.
That you will lose *yourself* in the tide, 
My love,
Forced to drown with a sudden shove. 

It comes out of the blue, my dear. 
And I cannot save you, this I fear. 
You have to leave this ship, my dear, 
You have to leave ‘your love.’ 

Behind to drown in your place, my dear. 
I see your heart above 
As your ‘love’ steers away from 
The open bay. 

And as I fly o’er the sky above, 
I cannot save you again, my love, 
You’re sunk beneath the sea. 
And your ‘love’ sails away, my dear, 
With a boisterous, monstrous glee. 

But he cannot begin to see, my dove, 
Your flight with me and stars. 
As we escape this world.
It’s always you and me. 
So which do you think will it be, my dear? 
On Jupiter or on Mars?

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

We Never Even Got to the Alter

We Never Even Got to the Alter

I hug your ghost as we fall asleep 
Something blue and something to keep 
But your ghost soon fades
in invisible shades 
And the lilac daisy ring
Hides somewhere forgotten 
On the twined made up daisy string.

The memory goes away 
and all the pained ones too. 
As I hear you wonder
If I will ever stay. 
You never got to hear 'I do.' 

Something borrowed; 
that's our old time. 
With infinite cracks
lying in-between rhyme. 
Our olde dreams are 
our forever home.
Which cracked when we were 
Done. 
Could we have had
Our hearts made as one?

A silver rattles round my shoe. 
The smell of flowers, freshly new. 
As the organ plays
Upon this jubilant day. 
And as the sun shined on the morning dew
The pastor waits for us to say 'I do.'

But we never made it to the alter, dear. 
And I never got to see your tears. 
As I pledged myself to you forever here
And you dropped your mask at the door. 
I wonder if it's still waiting there, dear. 
Because we were both so sure, before. 

Now the veil lies in wait 
in some old department store.  
Just like our diamond rings
I wonder if you ever found mine 
Against the music box tings. 

For that is all we are, dear. 
Of rust and ink and old spirit bones. 
I take your hollow heart and mine
to mix with solemn tones. 

And now, I fear, I must leave us here. 
In the cracks of in-between. 
As we forever wonder 
What could have been forever fonder
Than memories of 'could have beens.'

I never got to hear 'I do.'

Details | Sylvia Lupien Poem

The Devil's House

The Devil's House

The house has lived for centuries, 
on grim and dismal ground. 
And when you've reached inside, 
the dust and demons come around. 

The lock is still unbroken
though has tried for years still
to knock itself to the ground
and bury brass and key. 

For there are secrets
hidden inside
it doesn't want souls to see. 

The house deceives, plays tricks-
the staircases twist and change. 
It brings an air, warm from the fireplace. 

Artworks, stone and living bone
still haunt the house today.

There are dolls and a haunted dog, 
still playing in the room. 
A sad man keeps to himself
because he knows
what harm he will come to.

What will happen, I ponder to myself, 
when the Devil goes back to hell? 

The house will still remain. 
Upon the Demon's well.