Best Sorcerers Poems
Then comes the call of the witch named Kabbath,
That signals the start of All Hollow's Black Sabbath.
And, from the dark crypts and the blackest of holes;
Come the night creatures, as the Midnight Bell Tolls
Come Goblins and ghoulies, black creatures all hassled.
Come the fiends of the night that haunt the High Castle.
To the cemetery fields where the undead lay waiting
For the black orgy to begin their unholy mating.
Witches, black sorcerers, and warlocks all
Dance to the wind at this black magic ball.
Their music the cry of ten million lost souls;
All hither they come as the Midnight Bell Tolls.
All gathered at last, at this darkest of hours.
To wait for the sign of Satan's great power.
That'll send them in search all over the world,
To capture the souls of ye boys and ye girls.
So, let this be a warning this Halloween night
And pay heed to thy parents, they know what is right.
Though you search for sweet treats, wherever you stroll.
Be safe in your beds, when the Midnight Bell Tolls.
When the day is done
And you are at ease
Just recharge your mind
Do as you please
Just relax
Your heart is pounding
From a fast paced track
Slow the pace down
Just relax
From the helter skelter living
To the treadmill pounding
There is no sense at all
If you cannot rest for a while
Take some time out and discern
So vigour is reborn
Sit down, lie down, float around
But always try, to just relax
Just relax from the strains that rides us
From the tedium of life which irks us
From the sorcerers who torment us
From The Strawman who represent us
Don't worry at all
Things will change
Keep your countenance
Let it shine
Feel the joy, that's inside
Do good, so it may comfort your soul
Sing praises, let your blessings unfold
Your heart is pounding
Beating your chest
You are under constant scrutiny
You are under constant duress
Recharge your aura
Be blessed
Put aside your burden
And just relax
Live your life
With no regrets
Ignite your passions
Seek a redress
So what was hidden from your sight
Becomes the new dawning
Becomes the new Light
Look upon the clouds
Watch the trees
Watch their growth
Watch the animals as they frolic
Over the glens and down the crevice
Watch the trees planted tall
Watch the plants, clinging to the wall
And with purpose, they survive
When I think of the wonders
I then realize
Take some time out to be amazed
Take some time out to laze
For of all the things that keeps us on the track
Never forget your blessing
When you just relax
TO MY MOM DADA ZOUWAIRATOU M YAUKI
THE TRUEST HAUSA-FULANI
The iron core of the whole family
She stands with the long rooster
First crow which tears up, praying, and
Goes on laboring till the owl grave hoots
Herald the veiling darkness and darkness
Is life, and might.
But also death and weakness.
The hoots made me feel so small when
A child, and think of mother to soothe me,
For I had fears, and my people's fears were
Forced upon me too.
Sorcerers!
Magic!
Backwardness!
Moronity!
Death!
The twain Angels
Of life after Death!
Dream of stars, my eyes fully open
To start
Away from my tiny world full of fairy tales
With the spider as the hero as running
From the ghosts
Oh, Allah! Lost before standing on my feet!
I like my mom and she likes me too.
She prays Allah to grant me success
And I ask Him to forgive her, for
She’s always been my surest support
Of course she hadn’t been to school
But was a school herself. Proud
Greedy reader, my friend, be sure that
She’s as divine as your MOST perfect mother.
With her ragged breath.
She said she missed the sun.
As she knew they would come.
She heard the screams from far away.
Knowing the goblins had their way.
Straw-colored hair hung to her shoulders.
Her bright green eyes blended with the forest.
She had her trusty goblin sword on her side.
It was a matter of honor to carry a sword at one's hip.
Though Brannis was the only knight who truly had one.
An "Enchanted" blade on the side of his hip, I mean.
He received the sword from his father long ago.
Upon receiving his knighthood at age fifteen.
Though his father was glad to be rid of the thing.
An heirloom from a family of sorcerers.
Who said, they had no need of it anymore?
It had always made his father uneasy to wield it.
When he first received it, with the serrated blades.
And, imprinted with the word " MASSACRE".
Though, I always thought it was a handsome piece.
With its handle carved into a fire-breathing dragon.
True, it was not often a female joined the ranks.
I felt the silent need to revenge my father's death.
That was the whole point of being out here in the goblin forest.
Alongside the other new recruits, I had to prove my worth.
I was told this was my test, a test of strength, as the king put it.
I had to prove myself, I always kept my father's shield next to my heart!
I was tired, though I knew I had to keep going to get out of this forest.
As I surely don't want to come home as a mangled warrior.
Or even worse, become dinner for the goblin king!
Fri. 6/07 / 2013 12:30 noon
Her passion
She fashions her passion
Strangeways
This flashing
She flashes MAD traces
Strange days
With secrets and magic
And all things fantastic
Soooo-
Delight me
Excite me
Tonight we
Just might be
Together- It's never
Forever- The same
I thought it was you
When I knew it was me
At first we were two
And then maybe three
Dancing with magic
And dancing so free
I thought it was you
Even Sorcerers bleed
Her passion
She fashions MAD PASSION
Strangeways
Doll- like exotic Erotic we play
The faces
She makes no mistake
When they're fake
And who would have thought
With these feelings I fought
That this time would so pass
In the hourglass so fast~
Alchemy
What process need there be to make
of broken things – the real? Great
sorcerers have failed, formed molten
monuments to greed’s glory. I, poor
peasant that I be, had neither flame
nor Patron, nor desire to be purified.
Priests had tried to rid me of the evils
they perceived; prayed and chanted
waving wands and crosses to summon
the fire of hell or open the gates of heaven.
To their chagrin, I remained unchanged.
Alone in a world of twisted wreckage
I formed alliances with the aspects of
my being that had resisted the sorcery.
Realizing that I was an individual and
need not be party to the organized
incarceration of my mind and spirit.
I honed the edges of my intellect on
tools hand fashioned by experience.
Culled the detritus of past lunacy
and sorted carefully aspects that
might still be of use.
Fear, that mighty bastard, fought
to stay on the throne surrounded
by its henchmen – hate, rage, and
an ever present anger. My choice?
Flee the kingdom or take the crown.
I could no longer remain in exile from
my self but had my self-alchemy the
strength to approach the pseudo
King and challenge his hold on the
empire?
Thus did I, we, the many aspects of
my being, conspire to outwit and
outmaneuver a slow, entrenched,
inflexible imposter. Slowly the seeds
of truth took root, gave blossom to
integrity, trust, and a self-reliance
not based on self. Wisdom followed,
slowly, as is wisdom’s want. So did
the alchemy of youth give way to the
alchemy of growth, the alchemy of
ego to the alchemy of spirit. So was
my darkness brought into the light
my weakness into strength, my being
restored.
John G. Lawless
Sun hindered sultry earth, wet mound of mossy growth,
Cast to my grave way too early, untold secrets held by oath.
My cross bearing name, years untold, vines they wind,
Loved ones, lost souls crying, constrained, I’ve left behind.
Placed six feet under, to reside, by wronged eternal shame,
Respect shallowly given, bare tombstone, initialed name.
Unkempt, desolate, outskirts, socially banished bed I lay,
Once disclosed, a man’s untold secret, during night times fallen day.
Provoking sudden panic, with “vulgar lies” by fortunes truth,
“Prove it” flame torches burned, sovereign citizens, absent ruth.
Those ideas came and went, a mistake, to share such knowledge,
A frightened small town life, unjust powers screamed abolish.
Unleashed a fears throne devil, tied up “witch”, my smoke stack burned,
Inherited genes my sisters gathered, a unions threat, conversed they learned.
A gift of genuine beauty, I’ve stood behind these sorcerers lives,
Through times suspicious husbands, to life’s ‘all knowing’ cautious wives.
For my sisters they kept quiet, by sustained years, their families grew,
Long lived our families secret, a blood lined “witch”, for all she knew.
Overgrown vines for years have passed, Salem nights as they have changed,
Life’s seasons, predicted secrets, no longer provoked by fears deranged.
For these vines is all that’s held me, natures embrace casted shadow,
Death speaks, my lingered voice, unspoken truth will not forego.
Not ruled by judgements nature, for in me their roots have grown.
Unseen, my weathered head stone, dressed in vines, I’m not alone,
A child’s future, my leaves unraveled, jaded visions to them I give,
My torture speaks, a hidden tombstone, the Salem witch in you, I live.
Over grown with Vines- Poetry Contest
Dated 10-04-2016
Twinkle, twinkle little star
The Star of Bethlehem--that's what you are!
Shepherds watching their sheep in the field
Saw angels on high announcing Christ's birth
The Messiah, Our Saviour--God's Only Begotten Son
So they followed The Star to worship The Son
Not only the shepherds--but The Three Wise Men--The Magi--from lands near and far
From Asia, from Europe and from Africa said--"Let's find the long-awaited for Messiah!"
And gifts of gold, frankincense and mhyrrh did they bring
To The Christ Child, Our Saviour, The Baby King
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
I wonder where You are?!
Said Herod--the evil king--to his sorcerers
Where is The One--The Jewish people call their deliver?!
The evil magicians replied--"We don't know but we know who does--The Three Wise Men--
and the sheperds in the field!"
So just to be on the safe side--King Herod had all the male babies under two killed!
When this didn't work--Herod called on The Three Wise Men
For he wanted to commit another greivous sin!
"Tell me--my dear men--where is The Deliverer?!
Me and my sorcerers want to bring gifts to God's Son--lied king Herod--with an evil grin!"
The Three Wise Men--knowing the king's evil intent
Sent the king on a wild goose chase
Meanwhile--Joseph--being warned in a dream--took his royal family to Egypt--on the run
To protect The Messiah, Our Saviour--God's Only Begotten Son!
So you see--my children--Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star--is not just a childhood story
and children's rhyme
It is the story of The Christ Child--The Greatest Story of all time!
"Surely the day is coming; it will burn like a furnace. All the arrogant
and every evil doer will be stubble, and that day that is coming will set
them on fire,' says the Lord Almighty. Not a root or branch will be left
to them ... and they will be ashes under the soles of your feet."
Malachi 4:1-3, Old Testament Prophet
dr stephen strange, was a egotistical doctor
till he hurt his hands
and seeking a cure he found the ancient one
to become sorcerer supreme
dr victor von doom, monarch
he wears an iron mask to hide his evil scarred face
arrogant, superior, he has no mercy
he is very powerful
doom's mother was killed
in a bargain gone wrong with the mephisto
aged genghis, a powerful wizard calls a meeting
for all sorcerers
there is
a wild battle that leaves only strange and doom
strange in the end is winner
but the runner up doom is granted a gift
he wants to free is mother
with dr strange's help
but, doom plans
to exchange strange's soul for his mothers soul
entering hell they battle the hellfire demons
satan is angry
he sets black ravens and sandstorms to stop them
and they get separated
they wander in hell searching
till doom meets up with satan and makes a deal
to free his mother's soul he will exchange strange's soul
his mother is disgusted
in a battle with satan the doctors win
cynthia is then freed and goes to heaven
strange and doom return to earth
was it a triumph
dr doom had an evil plan
in the name of love
well, he got what he wanted
and that was to at last free his mother's soul
____________________
March 09, 2023
Poetry/Suzette Prime/Doctor Strange and Doctor Doom Go To Hell
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1530-378-09
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Suzette Prime is a form created by Suzette Richards of PS
Written for the Premiere contest, Hell
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged 03/10/2023
First Place
Crafty, conniving, sly and stately,
I am associated with dead and lost souls,
An ominous bird of yore spawning myths and legends,
A messenger of deities in the mortal world,
I am a wily mediator between life and death--
Dreaded but revered nonetheless!
I showed Cain how to bury his murdered brother, Abel,
Perched on the shoulder of the god, Odin,
A royal resident of the Tower of London,
I hobnob with sorcerers and saints
with monarchs and mendicants;
With beady eyes and lustrous ebony plumage
I am mantled in a grave aura of foreboding.
Take heed when I fly across your path,
Perched just above his chamber door
I made Poe fella famous evermore!
Raven=magic, shape-shifting, creation.
"Picture yourself as a Bird" contest by Andrea Dietrich
Poetic Halloween Scare
The bowls of damnation, when shall we poets meet again?
In delightful darkness, enchanted evil or pain
Of witches cackling, caldrons boiling and labyrinths
Enter with a scream the haunted hell inhabitants
With scurrying spiders, slithering snakes and shadows
The condemned corpses come out to play in their repose
Horrifying howling wolves, crows and jaded jackals
Lifeless souls unleashed from their timeless serpent shackles
Medieval knights, sorcerers and the guillotine
Demons in disguise undercover of Halloween
Warlocks warring, bitter battles bled within the night
Wording Wizards left in a state of feverous fright
Come morn we devour sweet words to feed our appetite.
13X13
13 lines...13 syllables per line
Happy Poe-tic Halloween...caw caw caw
Oct.20.2017
Halloween Scare
Sponsored by: Russell Sivey
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
Hell is a place of eternal torture
With restlessness’ angst and despair-puncture
Sealing the faithless in their doomed future
Midst cruel hatred’s defiant gesture.
Hell is a prison of endless darkness
Where misery’s gloom prevails in blackness
Due to sufferings, despair, hopelessness
Leaving the convicts in their guilt’s fierceness.
Hell* is a cell of everlasting torment
Expressing death's wailing every moment
As sorrows, anguish, woe wildly lament
With constant gnashing of teeth engagement.
Hell is a dungeon where there’s no exit
And each one slides toward bottomless pit
Struggling to reach foot stool summit
Yet never to taste freedom’s air a bit.
Hell is lake of fire** where God’s wrath abides
Unreached by His mercy, while His grace hides
There, worms die not, with pleas’ screams at all sides
Along unheard prayers … deserving chides.
Hell awaits everyone who’s a sinner
Bearing “You’re forever condemned” banner
No one can flee from punishment runner
While Satan and cohorts serve cursed dinner.
Hell can be missed by trusting the great Lord
In placing faith in God upon His Word
He vanquished hell’s might with His divine sword
For those who are in Christ in sweet accord.
Hell is indeed closed to the redeemed soul
Assured by the Almighty's loving goal
Granting eternal life**, forever whole
Through Jesus Christ in His great Saviour's role.
*Luke16:23And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments...
**Revelation 20:14 - And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. Revelation 21:8 - But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.
***Romans 6:23 For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
October 5, 2018
Edited on March 5, 2023
2nd place, "Hell" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Robert James Liguori; judged on 3/10/2023.
On the Disappearance of Friends in Exile
The land is haunted
By unburied corpses and foetuses.
None have names,
Or tribe with kinsmen,
Or identity with place-of-birth,
Or wounds with scars.
None of them are known,
But they are gone to early death
History, even, does not know who they are.
No voice of mourning save the speeches--
The hollow, laboured speeches of poisoned lips;
And sorcerers calling for them from hidden shrines.
It's an old story - the oldest we have in the land -
The story of ebforced disappearance.
This is not a battle for gold
Nor it is a battle for the belly of any might.
This is a crusade to restore a hope, a pasture, a future for our scion.
Farther east in the matebele, beyond the ribbon of mountains
The sorcerers' eye sees a feather of an eagle stooping down backs of nimbus .
The odds loll in the palms of our gods.
And today, was coloured by whom holds the brushes of creation.
We will plunge our feet into the loam of soils of war
And wage our lives for a price.
Legendry will be carried by the winds that comb our lands.
The veil is unfold, our five fathers await.
Countrymen, warriors, farmers and hunters;
Armour up your buffalo skins
Beat the leather of your chest; summon your guts
Draw your bows; and feel the womb of redemption along their arch.
Dance your spears high;
And see the blades split freights of gleam with every turn.
Raise the bulk of your axes;
Watch their heads dent the tan of the sun.
The clattering of weapons; will swing open the blood gates
The lands will flood, ashes will be washed
Smoke, dust and their woollen clouds will simmer down
But honour with sip into the earth.
A grainful of us will fall into a slumber
From which our children's children will awake.
But for that handful, very well, I beg of you to live on
Clinge not to logs of sorrow painted with tears.
Live on; I beg of you to live on.