Long Bewitchment Poems
Long Bewitchment Poems. Below are the most popular long Bewitchment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bewitchment poems by poem length and keyword.
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Reflection, Image, Imagery, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Enchanment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.” Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Water, Boat, First Love, Crush, Desire, Fantasy, Reflection, Image, Imagery, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
Your tarnished grey paint on a rotting wood canvas.
This melancholy greeting from an entrance to exploitation.
Why I keep meeting you in that gloomy terrain,
Why I trudge through rain and grime to slave for you,
Is all but unintelligible jargon, for you are but a machine.
I arrive in the oily blackness at your unhealthy cavern,
Imprisoned till my heart runs out of beats,
Even though your piston will never.
No breathing soul or pitying heart surveys,
Only the hard steel, boasting well worn buttons in braille.
You burn with energy but you have no enthusiasm,
Just as you churn with rhythmic clatter but have no voice.
This leaching sling reveals workers through its jagged cracks.
Workers rid of emotion yet brimming with mechanical speed.
That is all the seething metal needs to pump,
It runs on sweat, not tears.
I have worshiped you many years.
Cowering before your powerful surges
That resonate through our skin.
You have us transfixed in a state of spasm.
Unable to grasp the air beyond those doors,
To feel its caress pour through our outspread arms.
A wave of tension suffocated by your demanding clutch.
Never easing, never ceasing, the bewitchment of a machine.
The Organic running the mechanic.
Yet seemingly visa versa.
Hollow light level-pegging artificially spun air.
No comfort behind those glistening bottles,
Only fatigued bodies and malnourished minds.
Orders to be processed, deadlines to obey.
The only way to put caviar on the boss' table.
The only way to exploit the hardworking uneducated.
Your globalized steel shimmers in unicin,
Yet its face shows pressured individuals
Withering behind masks of rhythmic production.
Will there be a resolution?
Only if the world stops turning.
you think I'm simple minded because I'm nice
when all I said was never fear knowledge
after assassinating my inner constable
to no on stage ill effect whatsoever
jury selection being finally recognized
as a ghost in the compulsory banquet gravy
tilting the scales of Hollywood justice
into a rumbling Holy Week effigy
whose juggernaut pilot petitioned the tribunal
shall we join cojoin and enjoin forces then
but the twerking stenographer's pet spider
had found a loose thread in her napkin
and unraveled all the sequestered plots
now showing at the Euphorium's Saturday matinA©e
a carpet of Maat's Feathers underfoot
making the guests' footfalls less bloody
as the rope barrier welcomes them to a premiere
of The Swivel Eye Boogieman from Turf Town
who ripped my jaw off and beat me with it
numerous times across the face of a full moon
me struggling against brainless bewitchment
defended only by the inadmissible fact
that Swivel Eye knew he was a fool
who manured where he slept and never wiped
all the while screeching in high definition
if you only knew me you'd love me
and other whispy amputee petulances
in my defense I attempted to mock the inevitable
a tack as inevitable as famine and a resultant
sausage plate at Aesop's Roadhouse
on Route 666 between perpetually dessicated
Languid Nervada and Blind Shoemaker Aridzona
where the air was still free to breathe
and discovery still ran in the taps
their oracle coughing and wheezing at midnight
reading between the phlem congested lines
all is signal he spasmed build an antenna
or get one shoved down your throat
a circus passing through town
tossed me a leaky canoe
and I rowed to safety up that creek
without a paddle
you think I'm simple minded because I'm nice
when all I said was never fear knowledge
after assassinating my inner constable
to no on stage ill effect whatsoever
jury selection being finally recognized
as a ghost in the compulsory banquet gravy
tilting the scales of Hollywood justice
into a rumbling Holy Week effigy
whose juggernaut pilot petitioned the tribunal
shall we join cojoin and enjoin forces then
but the twerking stenographer's pet spider
had found a loose thread in her napkin
and unraveled all the sequestered plots
now showing at the Euphorium's Saturday matinee
a carpet of Maat's Feathers underfoot
making the guests' footfalls less bloody
as the rope barrier welcomes them to a premiere
of The Swivel Eye Boogieman from Turf Town
who ripped my jaw off and beat me with it
numerous times across the face of a full moon
me struggling against brainless bewitchment
defended only by the inadmissible fact
that Swivel Eye knew he was a fool
who manured where he slept and never wiped
all the while screeching in high definition
if you only knew me you'd love me
and other wispy amputee petulances
in my defense I attempted to mock the inevitable
a tack as inevitable as famine and a resultant
sausage plate at Aesop's Roadhouse
on Route 666 between perpetually dessicated
Languid Nervada and Blind Shoemaker Aridzona
where the air was still free to breathe
and discovery still ran in the taps
their oracle coughing and wheezing at midnight
reading between the phlem congested lines
all is signal he spasmed build an antenna
or get one shoved down your throat
a circus passing through town
tossed me a leaky canoe
and I rowed to safety up that creek
without a paddle
It was wonderment.
The mesmerizing expression rolled off her tongue in waves.
To my puzzlement I was in a state of allurement.
Her vibes were sent to me in soothsaying proportions.
It was almost trickery, but I knew where I was going.
To the festivity that arose through great apprehension.
Thoughts intertwined with her perplexity.
Her magnetism pulled me into an eternal trance.
We floated into elation of bewilderment.
Bygone indifference; we are one.
You are my goddess; ravishing, statuesque radiance.
Purely beautiful with a beautiful mind, heart and soul to match.
To my amazement I found her within.
She was snuggled in my organism.
Wrapped up in all of my thoughts.
She was warm.
I was connected with my wizardry.
She brought out the magic in me.
It was a prophecy.
To be told; never old.
We are undead together and full of life.
We are everything and nothing and everything in between.
And we are an incantation of youth.
We are; limitless.
Nonesuch bewitchment nor black art or ill will.
This was love as we hither to the schism of bliss.
Away with all devilry; we roam galaxies of heavens.
I hold you in my hands like a dragonfly who lets me.
My dragon with fire that doesn't burn me.
My butterfly who can hold my weight.
My snow in the sea; my light in the haze.
My flowers in the dirt; my green in the concrete.
Sail through my eyes, past the smoke.
Bring me closer to another zenith.
Give me your endless sensual voodooism.
My muse I adore; forever more.
She has taken me to that statuesque radiance.
I’m thankful that I’m a woman
With the power to beguile
With charm at my fingertips
And bewitchment in my smile
I’m proud to be a woman
Of genders the fairer one
With a silken soft beauty
And aura to match the sun
I’m glad to be a woman
Of creation the very best
The epitome of all the finest
By whom mankind was blessed
I revel in being a woman
Full of such delicate grace
The one to woo and dazzle
With passion etched on my face
I relish being a woman
For I’m able to dominate
To conquer and subdue
With one motion to subjugate
I celebrate being a woman
To have voluptuous curves
Not angular and muscled
But supple, with gentle swerves
I jubilate, for I’m a woman
Made as a help meet for man
To console and nurture him
Add my wisdom to his plan
Yes…oh yes, I am a woman
I know what I’m capable of
At times I am a tigress
At others a gentle dove
A woman is the essence
Of beauty and all that’s good
Men, I advise you to be careful
And treat them as you should
For women are little girls
Made of sugar and of spice
Now do be good little boys
If you want them to be nice!
YES, I’m thankful I’m a woman
I embody pleasure sweet
To be found in my presence
Is a never ending treat!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
OK men...take this with a grain of salt...C'mon! It is the International Women's Day. Show that woman in your life a little bit more love today, for where would you be without her! ;)
Oh, I have this inescapable preoccupation,
since a child wrapped in pleasing delusions and intense words;
I am haunted- possessed with a single-minded fixation,
writing in solitude while listening to morning birds.
Since a child wrapped in pleasing delusions and intense words,
tormented and restless and sometimes a bit excessive;
writing in solitude while listening to morning birds,
penning even into the night- my need to write obsessive.
Tormented and restless and sometimes a bit excessive,
fanatical- I get immersed and submerged in my thoughts;
penning even into the night- my need to write obsessive,
this addictive mania has my heart and soul in knots.
Fanatical- I get immersed and submerged in my thoughts,
my need a bewitchment and a beautiful melancholy;
this addictive mania has my heart and soul in knots,
It is for the story- this depth of deep frantic folly.
My need a bewitchment and a beautiful melancholy,
I am haunted- possessed with a single-minded fixation;
It is for the story, this depth of deep frantic folly,
Oh, I have this inescapable preoccupation.
______________________________
July 22, 2017
Pantoum/Writing: My All-Consuming Obsession
Copyright Protected, ID 922376
Written for the contest, Obsession
sponsor, Silent One
First Place
Is this beautiful summerbird what it seems Or utter bewitchment just to steal my cream This delicate thing emerges from its golden sheath Elegantly unfurling wings vulnerably hanging beneath Like Psyche awakening from Cupid's first kiss Lost in a moment between desire and bliss Must awake from this dream for the day is unfolding For if this is a colorful temptress fairy I must be withholding But maybe just a butterfly lifted gently upon the wind It is has been taken away help me Lord I have sinned
i am still at times, in shadows
watching you in the world
stealing glances
when the world has drawn you away
there is a beauty i can clearly see
when the picture is devoid of me
meeting for lunch
i step back from the canvas
pause in the servers' din
shelter behind the flora
drink in your essence
holding that moment
my life with you has been as such
like a glass of fine wine
the aging intensifies the allure
oh i know well why
you never let the magic perish
one of my greatest joys
i never had a clue
so i sit back and watch
as her magic unfolds before me
and for all of my sleuthing amidst shadows
i have been bested by a master
that silly smirk she wears so well
adore fails to grasp the fullness
my eyes behold a path
the bewitchment therein
where dwells the beautiful soul she is
poets know these things
OKC 5/22
The phrases “the eyes are the window to the soul” and “I can see it in your eyes” certainly sound poetic. Many singers, songwriters and writers have capitalized on it. But it turns out that the eyes really might be the windows to the soul.
Google the above and you will discover the Science poets knew millennials ago.