Long Cauldrons Poems
Long Cauldrons Poems. Below are the most popular long Cauldrons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cauldrons poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Thursday
though you are a day yet hours away,
yet let me love you.
I write to you from inside a skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as you well know.
Though you are as yet untried
I am this man of great faith,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment, yet
always working towards one more day,
a transmutation to gold.
My heart is in an attic under a dome today
and I write this way so you will know
that love is not a stranger to me,
even though I work alone in the dark bone,
I look toward you with great love.
Dear Thursday, a bright window has appeared,
has materialized, formed I think
from these laden words.
It is full of light and delight dear Thursday,
this Wednesday has bloomed
as a lotus will from the dark mud, and while
I shall always be faithful to you
my dearest Thursday
I must go now for the sun is rising,
a bird in a golden tree sings for me this day,
dear Thursday,
and not you.
In a dark and shadowy forest, witches dwell,
Casting magic spells and brewing potions old,
Their cauldrons bubble with a ghostly hue,
Fiendish creatures roam the woods, bewitched,
By the power of these eerie enchantresses,
Who weave their sorcery through the night.
The moon shines bright upon this eerie night,
As the witches gather in their secret dell,
With cackling laughs, they work their witchy spells,
Creating brews with herbs and roots so old,
Their wicked chants leave all around bewitched,
As they conjure up a fog of ghostly blue.
Their sinister eyes gleam with a ghostly blue,
As they chant incantations into the night,
Their voices echoing, leaving all bewitched,
The trees themselves seem to sway and dance, under their spell,
Their ancient magic rooted in tales of old,
A power that is both fearsome and enchanting.
No mortal man can resist their enchanting,
Their allure as mesmerizing as the ghostly blue,
For centuries they've practiced their craft so old,
On moonlit nights they stir their cauldrons, casting spells,
Their power so strong, they hold the forest in their spell,
And all who tread within their realm are bewitched.
Beware all those who dare to enter, for they too may become bewitched,
By the witches' charms so beguiling and enchanting,
Their hearts and souls ensnared within a dark and twisted spell,
Their minds clouded by the witches' ethereal blue,
Their fates sealed by the magic of the night,
Bound forever in a world both new and old.
But should you find yourself within this eerie forest old,
Remember to be wary of the witches' spell,
For once bewitched, you'll never leave this night,
Enchanted by their magic, so hauntingly enchanting,
Lost in a realm of shadows and ghostly blue,
Forever trapped in their web of sorcery and magic spells.
In the dark and shadowy forest, witches cast their spells,
Brewing potions old, surrounded by a ghostly blue,
Their power bewitches all who enter, in a world so enchanting
With flashing eyes she did enthral
as to the beat of drums she danced
a wild flamingo with clacking castanets
her wide hooped skirt was all a-swirl
Golden earrings sparkling and flashing
heels looking impossibly high as she twirls
her eyes flashing enticing messages
as the men flock to her a mocking laugh
Siren of the senses as well she knows
she taunts and teases as she grabs hold
only to push her admirer head over heels
leaving him stunned and dazed in the dirt
In a puff of smoke she vanishes from view
long rolls of drums call to her to come back
the men look in vain for her return
a soft voice enticingly calls from the shadows
Singing of long journeys to far away exotic places
of caravan wheels swishing and of horses gavotting
of smokey camp fires bristling with full cauldrons
no clue to what lies within just enticing smells
She tells of lovers she has known in distant past
entreating the men, who try their luck to no avail
she sits brushing her long raven black hair of curls
and the sparks fly giving her an ethereal appearance
The fires die low and still she has not yet chosen
it seems she is waiting for someone not now here
flashes of lightening fork across the sullen skies
and the skies open in deluges of rain and thunder
As her admirers scatter seeking shelter she laughs
spinning round and round hair flying out scattering
droplets that glisten and sparkle in pale light
at last she crumbles done to the sodden ground
A mighty flash of lightening rends the sky in half
highlighting a jet black horse rearing up high
she runs forward laughing he is here, he has come
her gypsy king, he swings her up before him and turns
As the summer storm fades the last fork shows
the two lovers high-lit on the rolling hill
then gone, gone to their secret place of tryst
she leaves lingering memories in men's minds of what might have been
With its eyes like
cauldrons brimming
with molten lava,
It looks at me
searing holes
in my soul,
Its tongue like
a wild viper
lashes out at me
spewing poison,
Its claws grip
my frail heart
in a grim vise,
Its shadow
falls across my
life imbuing it
with melancholy
that I am not
quite able
to shrug off,
Pushing me into
an existential
realm of despair,
Triggering chaos,
Eroding trust;
My carnal cravings,
like relentless waves
lashing the shores,
tear asunder
my rocky resolve
into soft sand.
~10/29/15
Anacreontic verse I contest by Edward Ebbs
The curling waves approach the shore from sea
To meet their journeys end with crests of white
Their crashing sounds release a loud decree
And wash a foam on rocks with water's might
To cause a rainbow's mist along the shoal
To be seen above brown and jagged shores
In timeless colors that can free a soul
As the glistening waters fill contours
I'll watch each rolling wave begin to climb
Beyond shorelines where hardened rocks emerge
To free their building power over time
Then rush the rocky shores in final surge
To allow eyes to see and comprehend
Bubbling cauldrons at the ocean's end
Yes, I smell sulfur
Brimstone seepage smothers me
Earth’s crust pizza thin
Mud pools like cauldrons bubble
Dante’s infernal region.
Underworld torment
Geysers vent their hot rage
I am thunderstruck
Extreme caution is needed
The inferno is waiting.
A trip many years ago to Rotorua reminded me of Dante's Inferno. The smell of sulfur (Brimstone) and bubbling mud pools all made me think of the Divine Comedy. I wrote this poem while the experience was fresh in my mind but it has been tweaked again to fit syllable count. These days I try to be accurate regarding haiku and tanka.
Come we're gonna have a party wear a costume bring your cat
The cauldrons ready so don't tardy bring your Hocus Pocus hat
Grab some munchies at the door moaning sounds all that gore
It is Aldo playing Rambo, with scary spiders, hiders , ..more
Watch my red horns battery start they are bought in WallyMart
Go ahead scream or screech but for heaven sakes don't fart !
Moon is grinning ear to ear but don't fear, its eyeball leer
Zombie stomps and gettish romps, Halloween is here to peer
Riser ghosts in scary training with their chit-chit chitty fangs
Bow to Satan and his laughs, he's a bad ass dude with bangs
Come on join the party, we got so much willies and dillies
we're gonna get drunk on red koolaid and smoke ciggies
Grab the coffin shaped candy from the grab bag join the clomp
gonna take it to the limit and do a Michael Jackson swamp ....
Come were gonna gave a party and we're gonna scare a ton
Be the door nails and the hinges, of this Halloween of fun.
October 25, 2018
The evil nocturnal creature called Lilith
silently slithers into the realm of man at night
seeking the sycophantic pleasure of pain
as she drinks from a wormwood draught
of hate-filled spew
that pulsates into her veins to fill a vacuous space
where a heart should be
her maniacal demented darkness of psychotic black
colors the embroidery of her flesh of sensual illusion
where her web is woven to invite the innocent heart
into her demonic lair of witchcraft and cauldrons
of poisonous death
to be devoured and then spit out into a slimy glutinous
hellish world of abomination
where Lilith lays naked, covered in blood-soaked skin
of revulsion
laced with bitterness from her cup of loathing
from her sense of not being equal
when the one who gave life to dust gave her breath
and she felt indignant when finding she would lay
beneath the first man giving birth to her hate
In the depths of the soul's shadows, the artist is a living flame, a spark of magic,
Seeking eternal themes that shine beneath the ancient vaults of the sky,
To reveal them under the mantle of night, on canvases woven with starlight,
For in the heart of the human psyche, we pulse under the spell of ancestral roots.
In every secret gesture hides the murmur of the chimpanzee within us,
Wild impulses, covered with cloaks of false light, masks that deceive our gaze.
We pretend that social structures have purified our essence,
But the truth remains, like an underground current, an unceasing river of fire.
Artists, who unveil the unifying themes, capture the magical brilliance,
In lights and shadows, in abysses of fleeting desires and hopes,
For beyond the delicate veil of civilization, we are all,
Motivated by the same primordial Will, wild and restless.
We carry within us the same desires and tremors, like stars beneath the infinite sky,
Inner battles, in fields of unseen chaos, where the past meets the future.
In front of mirrors of shattered stained glass, artists reveal secrets,
Drawing worlds where truth and illusion dance in a mystical play.
Our souls are alchemical cauldrons, full of archetypal essences,
Veiled in the mantles of civilization, we are still prisoners of an ancient will.
And thus, in every secret painting, a bit of our chaos melts away,
Into a world of symbols, of dreams sculpted under the melancholic light of destiny.
Digging into the depths of the human psyche, we find untamed desires,
Sources of battles and passions, confronting ephemeral social norms,
We are driven by the same ancestral forces that govern all that is alive,
The same eternal Will, struggling within us, without end.
In the artist’s enchanted mirrors, we find the themes that bind us,
They shine under the magical and sad light of unspoken truths,
For in the end, we are all bearers of the same sacred spark,
Dressed in illusory mantles of civilization, but with hearts of chimpanzees.
Under the vast and enigmatic sky of existence, the artist digs deep,
Towards the lost roots, hidden under layers of time and desires,
And in every corner of the soul, in every fragment of humanity,
We find echoes of that primordial Will, wrapped in sacred dreams and shadows.
They polish their broomsticks
and sharpen their hats
Catch black little spiders
that turn into sacs
Howl just like the kittens
that turn into cats
And Spit at the moonlight
that Halloween's spat
While crying for supper
of your little kids
And stirring their cauldrons
for flavor and dids
I wrote this poem based on one I found
on the internet by Lillian Moore.
Here is her version of the poem from
the book Spooky Rhymes and Riddles
Poem about THEM
THEY
polish their broomsticks,
sharpen their hats,
catch some spiders,
feed the bats,
try out some yowls
with all the cats.
THEN
witches are ready for
YOU
KNOW
WHEN!
-by Lillian Moore