Long Incantation Poems
Long Incantation Poems. Below are the most popular long Incantation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Incantation poems by poem length and keyword.
The Possum of Possibilities was invited by Grandpa Troll to visit our brood,
The Possum heard Carol had a dry spell and a terrible writer’s block, so true.
With the troll’s adventures, penguin’s antics, and witches brew...
With Dragon’s mayhem in town, something had to be done, they knew.
Grandpa Troll brought Possum over, for Carol to peruse,
He looked her up, down, and sideways to everyone’s amuse,
Her mind’s wheels were not lined up right, he announced.
You have activity all about you, that's very pronounced.
It is all swirling around and not latching to the cogs.
Ideas and stories are coming in fast and plenty, but…
There are so many and they are acting like a stream of logs,
Her brain is overloaded and getting a little bit clogged.
Possum instructed Grandpa Troll on the best course of action,
But Dragon was nearby and overheard the conversation.
Our fiery friend was planning on how to clear the brain jam,
Then ski-daddle and go on the lam.
Like so many plans before, he knew Carol’s brain was crammed,
And his ideas always ended up like some explosive spam.
Grandpa Troll saw that look in Dragon’s eyes and knew there was a plot,
And said to Possum; “We'll need your help again, before we’re in a spot.”
Over to Dragon Possum went, then a once over, right, left, and top to bottom,
Grandpa Troll reached into a dusty drawer that hadn’t seen light since Suttom.
Out he pulled two pens, one larger than the other, filled with magic ink.
An incantation filled the air – “E pluribus divideous writeous inlink.”
(Basically saying; what stories were divided are now joined by two writers.)
Possum handed one to Carol and the larger one to Dragon.
“With the magic pens, you both will be able to see the stories about you.”
For Carol, he pointed out; now the cogs won't get dinked, as ideas get linked,
And Dragon, a source of the jams, once written down, became happy as a clam.
Both help each other, now, as Grandpa Troll had hoped with all the activities.
And with a little help from an old friend, called the Possum of Possibilities.
A writer’s block that was going on with his dear...
Is a tale that Hubby has now told, and made so clear.
And now another peaceful evening… was suddenly shot all to Heck...
Until Next time…. As Dragon and Carol are now racing all about!
Michael Eastman & Carol Written 7-21-2015
To be different is your superpower,
An incantation hidden in the heart of midnight,
A silver vein in the dark fabric of the world,
Where dreams whisper ancient secrets and reality slips through veils of mist.
In the flow of consciousness, I lose myself in the labyrinth of the mind,
Where your inner gardens bloom in unknown colors,
Each petal, a symbol of your distinctive magic,
Among the shadows of conformity, you are a shooting star often lighting up the sky.
In the depths of my being, where silence carries ancient echoes,
I find reflections of your presence, a dance of light and darkness,
In this rigid world, you are a flowing stream of gold,
An eternally burning flame, bursting with power and mystery,
Your brilliance flowing from every step on the cosmic sands.
To be different is like a dream from another dimension,
Turning time into an eternal rainbow,
With every gesture, you break the patterns of normality,
Leaving behind a trace of unknown magic and eros.
In this universe of straight lines and rigor,
You are a magician of unwritten truths,
A storm of words and emotions defying the gravity of the ordinary,
Each thought a bow of circles, each breath an incantation.
The world wears its masks of humble uniformity, but you are the multicolored stained glass,
Every hue, every shadow of your being,
Forming a mosaic that unfolds only in the moonlight,
A story seen only in the eyes of those who lose themselves in your depth.
You are a fountain of mysteries beneath the core of the earth,
Your invisible current felt beneath the common surface of existence,
Teaching the roots of an enchanted forest that blooms at your touch.
You are that wave that shatters the rocks of conventions,
An eternal call to authenticity.
Your different magic weaves lights and shadows into boundless landscapes,
A reality anchored in myths and profound dreams, fulfilling you in unison,
Showing us that in your singularity, lies the power to shape worlds.
In the flow of consciousness, I always return to your essence,
Where rigid lines unravel into endless spirals,
And I recognize that to be different is a sublime gift,
A mystical poem written on the edge of eternity, where desires become light,
Flowing through the veins of a world that never ceases to transform,
In a melancholic dance of the divine and the magic that embraces us.
No one ever asks for what everything is, a cosmic cycle of shadows and lost light,
You will be buried in the clothes of unfulfilled dreams, mantles of light and throbbing illusions,
Or, like all of us, modest souls who cannot pay for grand transitions, we will spin
On the eternal winds, freed from our earthly forms, an ethereal thought in the dance of the stars,
The crematorium opens like a star gate, a dragon of fire and change,
Refining us, our skin melts into the sacred steam of purification, we burn like stars
In a starry night, transforming into the magic dust of eternity, ash
Scattered in the mysterious landscapes of forgetfulness, as if sprinkling an ashtray
In a millennial breeze with a forgotten name.
Every dream, a spark in the infinite universe, silver butterflies
Losing their wings in the dance of eternity. We hide in the rainbow of days gone by,
Too poor for marble altars, silence is our silent witness,
An ethereal echo in the vastness of the universe, we get lost among the enchanted leaves of trees,
Our ashes nourish the earth, returning to the cosmic beginnings,
In the blessed arms of mother Gaia, nameless, formless,
A luminous dust rising in a beam of light, dancing in the cosmic silence.
No one remembers us anymore, enchanted stories lost in the untouched magic books,
Buried in white pages and incantation verses, ethereal spirits
Wandering the infinite corridors of the universe. Better to burn in the strong winds of desire,
Than to wither under the weight of earthly years, prisoners of stellar oblivion.
The fires dance in the eternal night, a mysterious and extraordinary spectacle,
Burning our desires, purifying our dreams, leaving behind the dust of dreams,
A luminous trace that is lost in the galactic depths of time.
Memories, our falling comets, scattered in the cold wind of infinity,
Embracing the earth like a wave of magic and nostalgia,
Better to be ethereal voices echoing in the cosmic silence,
To be ghosts singing their own rebirth,
In a universe that does not ask, does not seek, only eternally transforms.
Our ashes, enchanted dust, scattered in the forests
Of eternal forgetfulness, where trees embrace the sky and rivers always flow towards the stellar seas,
Without regrets, without complaints, just a magical equation revealed by eternity.
Women, secret priestesses of the soul and undying dream,
Whispering ancestral secrets woven in the threads of destiny,
Knowing men like parchments deciphered under the full moon’s glow,
Understanding every hidden longing, each impenetrable dream, and every unspoken whisper.
They weave knowledge from the deep, dark, and luminous recesses of their hearts,
Sensing all that men can become, like storms rising from deep waters or gentle hills,
All they desire, their wishes sculpted in the shadows of unspoken dreams,
All they are, faces shaped from rock and waves, willows swayed by the wind.
Women are architects of destinies shrouded in mystery,
Creating worlds from the butterflies of the soul, laying out landscapes from the beats of our hearts,
Reading us like unwritten verses in ancient psalms,
Dancing their magic around us, crafting cloaks of pure love.
They are those undeciphered enigmas, where each smile is a spell,
Every gesture, a stanza from an archaic poetry, every touch, a sacred incantation,
They know when to lift us up and when to bring us back to earthly realms,
With a love that carries depth and gentleness untold through eternities.
Women are falling stars weaving their light into the horizon,
Reading our dreams and fears like silent constellations,
Nothing escapes them, neither wind, nor storm, nor hidden desire,
They are the poets of life, whose verse is the secret of the universe itself.
In their eyes reflects the entire cosmos, like in azure crystal mirrors,
They extend their soul like a bridge between the temporal and the eternal,
Always knowing what we can become, as they feel our destiny in the silence of infinity,
Becoming our muses and guides, showing us the path beneath starry skies.
Women are those eternal stories, flowing through time like sacred rivers,
Enchanting us with their songs, embracing us with warm thoughts,
Knowing that, in their absence,
We would be wanderers in the night without a beacon, lost in a boundless dream.
Women, wise in silences and dreams, know everything about us,
Like an aurora discovered in a night of secrets,
They read our hearts in the pulse of the universe and the whispers of stellar tranquility,
And thus, through them, we become endless travelers in the eternal light of destiny.
Written: August 16, 2025, for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"conjoined with the whole - we play our life role
exuding a scent - granting love consent"
************
Conjoined with the Whole
Not as sovereigns,
but as sylphlike strands,
woven into a ductile tapestry—
Each act of kindness forges
a bond within the communal consciousness.
Love is not a shadowy incantation,
nor a glamour to inveigle us into isolation.
It is hortatory, beckoning forth...
a rosy summons to convene,
amid the clangor of squalor and sojourn
to supplant the slipshod ache
with a warm intention.
We are not mere wanderers
adrift in nebulous vacuum—
We are emulous embers,
thirsting for the amaranthine,
avid to imbue our days,
with seraphic resonance.
Community is not a chimera,
It is pavonine in its iridescent truth,
multivocal in its sweet sorrow,
edacious for connection
but never laden with avarice.
We do not dismiss the burden—
We collocate it, we share it
withdraw from silence,
and cast aside the Icarus myth,
a tale of solitary flight,
Even the untamed child.
crumbles for the quest of kinship—
Even the weary elder winnows,
the soothing balm of a neighbor’s touch.
Love sanctions its courtliness—
not merely a whispered sigh,
but as a philanthropic deed,
a calyx protruding,
amid the clamor of desire.
To love is to be an iconoclast
to find solace in a gentle embrace—
to forbear the yearning
to anathematize others
to witness the evocative elysian—
in the eyes of the distraught.
We are not aphonic.
We are harmonious,
even in our disconsolate times.
We are evocative, full of meaning,
even when our souls feel drained.
And when we reflect,
We accomplish this together—
in the emollient of shared grief,
in the soothing touch of shared joy.
So let us frolic with abandon,
Let us explore the hidden meadows of our lives.
Let us gather in our joy,
transcendent in our understanding,
Our sense of self is transient.
Let us be love—
not as an elusive dream,
but a tangible act.
Let us be united with the whole.
And play our life roles.
with eloquence
vibrancy,
and grace.
Still smarting from stupid scamming fraudsters...
five months ago to the day
Twas the cusp of tooth thousand
twenty three summer solstice,
when yours truly (a fool
and his money went separate ways)
mine cherished nest egg,
I would immediately miss
lesson immediately learned courtesy takeaways
linkedin with looted
checking and savings accounts
analogously yanked, unmoored and unbridged
at Citizen Bank quays
me subsequently exhibiting,
maddening, and snorting
re: imagine how figurative
unbridled horse's ass neighs;
a fate engendering
mental anguish on par with
voluntarily unrolling Scottish welcome mat
readying yours truly
being lynched courtesy kkk
(I apologize for any
incantation, incrimination, incubation,
indiscretion, insinuation, intimation, invitation...),
cuz metook poetic license
attempting to accentuate brazen crafty deception,
how con artist invoked tender loving care
while (all the while) stealthily employing
stealing gambit, which hack
by the way incorporated his suppressed hurray
for him positively coaching me
invisibly eliciting, interposing, manifesting,
questing, and ushering entranceway
into sought after vaunted money
synonymously enlisting sprinkled pet accolade
such as "good job"
never disclosing discerning ulterior motive
exacting a risky (business) mission
unlike dramatizing the WWII story
of the Thailand-Burma Railway
regarding those soldiers who built
Bridge over the River Kwai
in the former scenario exhibiting
how yours truly (me) did betray
requisite necessity to protect
fungible assets of mine
by voluntarily cooperating
with the enterprising villainous prankster,
who applying one alias
called himself "Harvey Specter"
guiding blindsided yours truly
(who received nincompoop of the year award)
obliging scoundrel to withdraw cash willingly
and convert sain moolah into bitcoin
(a type of digital currency
in which a record of transactions maintained
and new units of currency are generated
by the computational solution
of mathematical problems,
and which operates independently
of a central bank) courtesy digital wallet,
which nefarious experience found me
posting a gofundme page to no avail!
In a dismal old fashioned cell at our ancestral home,
Wherein coconuts, new and old, heaped like a hillock dome;
Kid-butterflies, we're often asked to pick some for curry,
Finding phantom-forms we ran as scared as rabbit bury...
Ghosts of the dead, cloud-looking, appear before the living,
Like quirky grey fogs, smokes, or polar creatures, fear-filling!
Great buffets - Necromancy holds - of hosting for the ghosts;
Thirst of restlessness of souls could be quenched- animism boasts...
My logician friend, at the name of ghosts, like thunder, laughs,
Scared, like a mouse, at celluloid ghosts; impulsively coughs!
My alienist neighbor mocks at the poor ghost-affected;
He, in anger, shouts and yells, like a spirit-infected...!
Returning home from Saint Jude Shrine, my grandpa narrated,
Ghost - a monstrous muddy vulture - flew after me, dread spread!
Helpless, like a lost, at that odd hour of snoring slumbers,
I genuflected; made signs of the cross, countless in numbers...
Ghosts got into human beings, like, termites in the wood,
Jesus, chasing them away, their cruel power, withstood;
He worked, as on war-time haste, erasing, greatest evils,
Did the traditions allow him to nail down true devils?
Merchants and money-makers bake ghosts- cakes and sell gently,
Spreading tales on ghost-havocs, they hoax humans kindly;
Holocausts, burnt offerings, and slaughters they delight in,
Cannibalism, for ghosts-sake, in their eyes is not a sin...
Fire-walking, hooking the flesh, live animal wedding,
Cow-trampling, hanging in the air on hooks, hand-hair plucking...
Goety, Bruja, Lamia, incantation, witchcraft...
Aren't all such mountainous magic and myths great ghosts-updraft?
Phasmophobia, like death-knell, is a fright alarm,
Like illness of body, it hurts the spiritual realm;
An equilibrium of body, mind, spirit, and soul,
Could free us from false fears, molding us integrally whole...
Humans are ghost-angel amalgamation in nature!
Loving and hating themselves and every common creature!
Each thought, word, and action can turn into a ghost in life!
When morals derail from the tracks of existential strife!
17 October 2021
(Missed the Contest)
‘ Monsters, Among Us … ’
Scatter The Creeping Vapor-Stench, Away
Expose The Wake of Eerie, Fog and Shadows
And Nightshade and Fiends, and Vile-Beasts That Bay
Begone, to Taboo, Grounds, Unhallowed …
… for there Are Monsters, Among Us …
Yea, Also An Ancient Curse
We Don’t have To Make This Up …
… to Make It Any Worse …
Yea, There Are Blood Suckers, Self-Styled, Vampires ( Vlad, The Impaler )
Who’ll Drink Your Blood by Starless, Night
Creatures, Who’ll Make You Suffer Their Desires
and Ghouls, Who’ll Dine On Your Flesh, in Daylight ( Jeffrey Dahmer )
Yea, There Are Creatures of The Dark
Who’ll Catch You, If You Do Not Know … ( Rapists )
They Want To Get Inside Of Your Heart
And Make You Do Acts, Foul, Fraught with Woes
Yea, There Are Monsters, Among Us …
Merciless, Malevolent, Maniacal Monstrosities … ( Hitler )
They Do, Indeed, Want To Own Your Soul, Because ( Jim Jones )
They Want To Make You Commit, Their Atrocities ! … ( Charles Manson )
And If You Walk Around Unwary
Doesn’t Matter, If Its Not, Stroke Of Midnight
… Anytime, Is Their Time, To Do Scary
Spine-Chilling Screams of Your Unending, Pitch-Black Fright …
Rituals To Silver and Golden Idols ( Slaving For Riches)
Making A Virgin Sacrifice - ( Child Molestation )
Hexes and Voodoo Dolls
and All Such Abominations To The Christ …
… Now, by a Long Shot, I’m Not Pious
(‘Cause I Too, Like A Good Thrill !)
Just, Don’t Make The Mistake-Serious
By Thinking Wickedness, Isn’t Real !
And Humans, Please Be Aware
Evil Incarnate, Isn’t Just A Movie Theme …
It’s More Than Just A Joking Scare
… There ‘ Is’ A Wicked Scheme
(and there ‘Is’ A Wicked Being)
So, If You Find, You’re Chased or Caught
By Some Monster In A Living-Nightmare
Remember, No Potion, Amulet, Nor Incantation Taught
Brings Almighty Help, Better Than Holy Prayer
Yea, There Are Monsters, Among Us …
Yea … Also, An Ancient Curse
(and We Couldn’t Even Invent The Stuff
to Make It Any Worse ! ) …
On my first day of kindergarten, Mrs. Miller takes roll.
She begins some sort of symphony, a rapid chorus,
Emma, Jake, and Katie sing, Here, Here, Here!
Then, I hear a cacophony that doesn’t match
The melody before, something that sounds so unlike my name,
I don’t even realize Mrs. Miller is calling on me.
Soon, I learn to wait for the telltale pause
And stop the music before it goes out of tune.
“The one you can’t pronounce is probably me.”
I come home to my mother drinking tea with her friends.
I try to greet them in my broken Hindi, but I don’t get much farther than hello.
An auntie murmurs something to her neighbor, and the women laugh.
“What? What did she say?”
Mom tells me, “You wouldn’t understand, you’re so American now.”
She laughs, and it sounds like cymbals falling from
The roof, clanging, clattering on the ground.
I hear a faint song as I walk into the high school cafeteria,
It’s the other senior girls bragging about their summer breaks,
Trips to New York skyscrapers and European art museums.
I try to bring up my trip to India, and the girls stop me—
“You go there every year, it’s nothing we haven’t heard already.”
The sound is a violin, played with a knife, and
All the strings break.
I almost marry a man, someone I think is my forever,
And it’s great — until I say that I want our wedding
To have Indian elements too, and I want to wear a lehenga,
Red, the Indian bridal color, bold and bright.
He tells me his mother won’t approve, that a pristine bride wears white,
He laughs as he tells me that we can’t have Indian food,
Because who could stand the smell?
The music thunders in my ears,
I stretch across continents
Like the skin of a drum,
And the mallets pound with
Each invalidation,
Each isolation,
I turn it in my desperation
Into a powerful incantation,
I’ve had enough,
I am enough,
Enough,
Enough,
Enough!
I have decided to stop listening to the music,
The cymbals and broken violins.
Instead, I will compose a symphony of my own.
I will take these two places I call home,
These two beautiful refrains,
And I will weave them into a harmony
That makes you see how miraculous it is
To be me.
Found To Be A Favorite Theme
What we found to be a favorite theme,
Was wonderful content of each dream;
Saw your eyes,
And did realize,
Our love that exists bright as a beam.
Jim Horn
When we saw many sins in a room,
We swept them all up with a broom;
Crystal clear;
Did disappear;
Now there love always likes to loom.
Jim Horn
A Brave Slave Name Did Engrave
There had been someone bold and brave,
Who would come to America as a slave;
Trees were there;
Shaded with care,
And on a trunk his name he did engrave.
Jim Horn
Off of a ledge would never like to leap,
Or been buried alive in an ocean deep;
May be brief;
Cause grief;
Do want to die peacefully in my sleep.
Jim Horn
We were over saturated with old St. Nick;
Where he sled did always seem so slick;
Much motion,
With devotion;
Went around in circles and ended up sick.
Jim Horn
With myself I am getting carried away,
And there is one thing left I should say;
Even got caught,
Giving great thought;
Snow may not be likely in month of May.
Jim Horn
Mirror Must Be A Mere Reflection
Mirror must have been a mere reflection,
Did see coming in from every direction;
There and here;
Close and near;
Always needed another control correction.
Jim Horn
Guess you could call this a political drama,
That now exists because no more Obama;
Political ploy,
To annoy,
And has truly resulted in a Trump trauma.
Jim Horn
As I continue with my poetry rhyming,
Total number is climbing and climbing;
And together,
Enjoy weather,
When mind and poem I am combining.
Jim Horn
We have experienced latest scoop; In existence you are greatest group;
And they claim,
Rose to fame;
Even when being nice nincompoop
Jim Horn
You must enjoy writing poems just like I do.
Each poem will be new creation;
Could be sung in an incantation;
To music applied,
And people cried,
With much elegance and elation.
Jim Horn
If you would not want
To be treated that way,
Then why would you want
To treat others same way?
This should be philosophy
of every politician.
Jim Horn