Conjure Up Poems | Examples

Yen Til

You ain't got nowhere to be
Since it's your day off
Except here with me
My day off too

I'm kinda liking being here
I really. really enjoy
Being here with you

Don't conjure up no clever
Conversations
Evasives acts ain't what your
Displaying

Keep it true tween me and you
Gotta love I wanna share with you

Quiet times when we're together
Disco dancing and reggae 
They see us together
Rock and roll me alnight long
Happy people
Baby that's what we are
If I got a sneak around to be with you
Damn it- that's what I am gonna do
Ain't no fussing gonna keep us apart
I swear it's true it comes
Straight from my heart

Do you feel like loving me
I wanna have you loving me
I don't wanna look elsewhere
I want you here loving me

It aint that complicated
Ah compromise on what
We debated

Get ah trill outta loving you
Smiles and cheers to your
Best friend
So glad I am with you

How does one fill Silence, if not with awkward lines

How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines 
I conjure up an emotion or sing a song 

How does one  fill silence, if not with awkward lines..
Should I drop a meme , a gif or stickers

How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines …
Do I send a picture or a  trending video or reel

How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines…
Tell you a story or ring in a favourite memory 

How does one fill the silence if not with awkward lines??
Silence is scary like some unknown is calling
Silence can be enlightening but not when I am craving  
Wanting to know your thoughts and wonders 
So forgive me …Oh and  just let me be seen ..
if I do end up filling silence with awkward lines!!

Between the Rivers

The Hudson River stretches wide
From Jersey to the far west side.
The east, though, is where I reside
So I don’t see it much.

It’s quite majestic, driving past
And on the highway, going fast,
I try to conjure up the past
When locals spoke in Dutch.

‘Cross town, another river flows,
Much narrower and, I suppose,
Some Germans came because that shows 
In restaurants and such.

Between the rivers, New York grew
And other cultures added to
The melting pot, which no one knew
Would suffer Ice’s clutch.

Too Lazy to Think

There once was a brain too lazy to think
As into obscurity destined to sink.
     While we dance to metre
     And conjure up theatre
That some love though into history slink.

Wild Dreamer

Wild Dreamer

Son Of Life...
 Tree Of Choice.
  Every Dream Can
   Have A Voice.

Sovereign Instincts
 Call For Breath,
  Passions' Pleasure:
   Instant Death.

You'll Be Fine!
 Cross The Line...
  You Want What?
   That One's Mine.

Share The Banquet
 Spread About...
  Sweeter, Hotter
   Swollen Doubt.

Orange Blossoms 
 Conjure Up the
  Warmest Radiance!
   Cup To Cup.

***

Where All Decisions
 Will Be Made.
  Take A Bite!
     
   Be Afraid.

-Gray Squirrel

05-29-2025

Life is a Kaleidoscope

             
                 ~ Life Is a Kaleidoscope ~
                           5/25/2026


Life is a game, so, which role do you choose to play?
In lifes’s cacophony of human hearts on display?
What is your role in this drama of millions of metrical, truth-sayers?

I ask myself this, whenver a poem, in moonlight mist, I conjure up to post.
Not expecting a comment from anyone, or to be lauded, 
at a literati roast!

I’d much prefer to write poet songs, home alone about 
the glory, or angst of relationships.
These are the songs, that dreams are made of, in the moonglowing-sapphiric experience.

Forever dreaming of soft, magical, deep verbiage and longing to hear love’s tender, calls.
The ecstasy, the dreaming, of kissing his expectant 
 lips, beneath rainbow-misted,of lit gentle, waterfalls.

Do we shape the poem,verily,or..does the magic of a
poem shape us?
Are we here to impress, or dare we try to really connect with another’s spititus?

Each Star Has A Pattern All Its Own

Each star has a pattern all its own;
so far away, this cannot be shown.
Stars are envisioned like our Sun;
brilliant and fiery till they are done.  

And so we imagine each as a sphere
circling the outer space atmosphere.
With patterns unknown, we use our minds
to conjure up what musing unwinds.

Perhaps, as lovey snowflake designs,
each star is etched with celestial signs;
or like Ursinia- flower's name-
shaped like stars with gold petals aflame.

Stars twinkle on with planned Cosmic goals
letting their magic sky fill our souls-
begging wishes come true in their glow;
searching for patterns we'll never know.

December Rain

December rain once in a while falls
In a heart so warm longing to throw snowballs
Job asks "Have you considered the wonder of the snow?"
Each snow flake is different as the people you know
Stories of folklore and rapture's pretense
Conjure up scenery inside our heads
Tears of joy cascade down a dreamer's face, and
Sparkle by the light of the fireplace
Through the window outside look to the sky
Gaze at the wonder of God's Christmas night
The wind waltzes dreams 'round in the air
The moonshine a beacon on the flight of a prayer
All y'all find solace in home from a wayworn trip
Find no wrapping, ribbons or a bow on a gift
A gift unwrapped that only God can snip

Truth? Really?

The Wizard of Oz has embraced you within his curtains
Safe inside, YES!  Truth comes in flavours with versions

Scoop yourself a high mounded float of fanciful demeanour 
Perouse the fifty shades of "God, That Sounds Much Better"

Now spin, hold your finger to your head and again spin
Only hold your nose while you conjure up what will be sin 

Each turn twists so fine to obstruct what was once a Singularity
You didn't know?  Really?  Truth for real became a plural Entity

Done With the Muse

Poetry is a messy business. It reveals itself in phases,
Flowing, growing, dancing upon the starkly untouched pages.
Happily, the stream of thought won’t stop for days upon days
Then, BAM!  It burns out in raging, steely blade, cold stages.

Where’s the muse?  Her inspiration tepid and haunting, 
Never there when you truly need her the most,
Only when she feels like playing up to you again.
Otherwise, she’s dodging side-eyed, hiding like a ghost.

Well, I’m done with the muse, no longer feel I need her.
Finding inspiration in everyday experiences, people, places
And things; thoughts I conjure up all by myself at 3 AM.
While the rest of world sleeps in dreams and guarded spaces.

She’s no longer welcome. I’m keeping her at arm’s length.
She let me down one too many times and dropped me in the brink.
From now on, all you get is the swells from the depths of me
I don’t care what the muse may say, no longer care what she thinks.

Chula Fleming © August 15, 2024

Euphony

As well sounding as that word may seem
It may with a different sharper  inflection
Conjure up a  whole brand new meme
Craftily  constructed in its production
To totally eclipse the Republican dream.
Slate Trump as "You phoney" in Walz's prediction

Do Not Waste Your Time with that Antiquated Tunnel

The antiquated train tunnel had not been working for years.
Paranormal researchers asked about it, but we did not encourage them.
No one I knew had seen anything strange or weird there.
I have clairaudient tendencies, and I had not heard anything.

But they insisted on trying go conjure up something.
I was amazed when I saw their completed documentary.
Because in the recesses of the tunnel there were four men
Wearing derbies, in dress coats, who came out of that tunnel.

Weirdly enough, no one else saw them including the investigators.
They are right there! I said, pointing them out to my husband.
He said, “of course they are dear.”
There is a disadvantage some days of being para-sensitive.

What’s a man to do

What’s a man to do
Can’t shoo, can’t woo
Without fingers pointed at you 
Damned for either or the two

What’s a man to do
Be false or be true
The difference is the same too
Whichever foot, it’s the same shoe

What’s a man to do
Faults and blame are due
If not already, then in a few
No matter your tongue or hue

What’s a man to do
When spent through and through 
Bearing a weight he ought to subdue 
Filtering his witness of the blatant view

What’s a man to do
Born to endlessly pursue 
Always running from and running to
Only stopping to queue 

What’s a man to do
To bite or to chew
To swallow or to spew
Oblivious of what could brew

What’s a man to do
As hard for Gentile as is for Jew 
To conjure up reason or find clue
Until we yield at the pew

What a man is to do
Is to be born anew
To Christ who died in lieu
That His life may in us accrue 

K. Muitherero

Odyssey

I love to take an odyssey, that's rare-
with years that have so quickly flown away;
enjoy the scenes that flow from captive care
where on a magic screen, old times convey.

They slide right by, these visions of my past.
With thankful eyes, I conjure up the views;
installed, old photos uploaded will last
recalling life whenever I so choose.

Each odyssey- my gift beyond compare;
real magic all its own, it holds for me,
to journey through with magical software
fond memories, my past holds me to see.

My photo frame- this gift I hold so dear-
each odyssey relives a past frontier.

The Memory Room

Dim light
  sun rays reflecting 
 through the window glass
  casting shadowy images dancing along the walls,
early morning residue of the night
  where hopes and dreams survive
 immovable from mind and heart
  eluding the memories of the soul;
kindred spirits reawakened
  cluttering up the memory
 held snug, safe within each memento
  those I gave you, the ones you gave to me;
angels chanting
  of Christmases, birthdays out of time
 cascading flowers fallen petals, dried
  pressed within a card, a book, a bible;
secured in this sanctuary
  of silenced hymns and unanswered prayers
 grateful for what was, what is
  between two friends, companions, lovers in the night;
Extrapolate what you may imagine
  conjure up 
 your pseudo images
  to all that was and could have been,
here
  kept safe, protected,
 sheltered forever
  in the memory room.

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