Long Sigils Poems
Long Sigils Poems. Below are the most popular long Sigils by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sigils poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a potential so pure in your nature
that it be nexus between diviner and rapture
where freedom finds the fire of Prime Creator
deep in the brain's interior, a glandular mind expander
crossfertilizer of electrochemical ego and soul sorcerer,
the pineal pinnacle, receptor of solar miracle, regulator of the nocturnal wanderer
it is the tip of your spinal staff, the lituus which levies the chakra current into hypermatter,
33 skeletal sigils bridge the neural signals from root to bloom in the theta theater
as an inner vision of ajna becomes an outter creation of prajna in an unfailing future
with liberty being the law of wherewithal in a world wanting war with the philosopher,
passion becomes the parchment that your rights are riddled upon in cosmic character
unalienable imagination, undeniable in purification of reason unleashing the lotus tiger
into landscapes of raw physics where starry scriptures are alive in the instincts of an originator -
J.A.B.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He wears Bluetooth like a crown,
taps *sigils into glowing glass~
his spells are updates,
his *familiars pixelated.
The old grimoires gather dust
beside a stack of dead chargers,
while he murmurs incantations
to routers gone rogue.
His tower isn’t stone,
but a studio apartment
where the microwave hums
in harmonic resonance
with his coffee machine’s demonic gurgle.
He doesn’t turn men into newts~
just cancels their subscriptions,
hexes their algorithms,
and once, drunk on mead
(ordered via same-day delivery),
he made every printer in his building
spit out nothing but
YOU HAVE BEEN CURSED.
PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.
The neighbors don’t complain.
They just assume
it’s another outage.
*A sigil is a type of symbol used in magic. The term usually refers to a pictorial signature of a spirit. In modern usage, especially in the context of chaos magic, a sigil refers to a symbolic representation of the practitioner's desired outcome.
Familiars are supernatural entities or spirits in European folklore, often depicted as small animals, that assist witches and cunning folk in their magical practices. They were believed to provide protection and guidance, and could be seen as either benevolent or malevolent depending on their association.(Source: Wikipedia.com
Oh, how sad, oh how very glum,
Goodness gracious me prater comes.
Still writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Wallowing in morbid abode.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Feeling your life’s left no dower
Envy those not thus engaged.
Envy the prattle on the page.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Envy the prattle on the page.
At least the words are given stage.
Each one stroked, petted, tilled and hoed;
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Pondering heaven on life’s gallows.
Goodness gracious me, prater comes,
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Leave the box, flee the asylum!
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
joyfull tragic, quite disheveled
Wading through the endless nights;
Waiting, waiting for the light.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
Waiting, waiting for the light,
Never living your gifted life.
Writing, writing, writing on,
Until the coming of the dawn.
Oh God be, merciful to me.
From riven ways and lent-for heaven’s vault
we clime on breath enwrit with slender ink,
each word a sworn avouchment ’gainst the dark,
each line a stout denial unto Lethe.
Hands erst in thrall do now the aether shape
with sigils forged of cinder, ash, and balm;
the orphan’s moan, the widow’s fervent cry,
lie twinn’d upon one consecrated leaf.
No tongue herein is beggared or despised—
the hush’d confession, clamant plea alike;
the scripture born of weal and wounded flesh
doth pace as peers in kingly even-stead.
We sing of marches loos’d from iron will,
of Right relearning how to quicken fair;
for Peace is not engender’d out of hush,
but sired by heedful ear to elder griefs.
This labour is no idle courtly sport,
nor dalliance of metre, wit, and breath—
it is a synod call’d by mortal hope,
where Mercy mounts the throne of trembling Fear.
Here, in these staves, the world recalls itself:
that Freedom waketh when all tales are weigh’d,
and Concord draweth first untroubled breath
when every soul long mute is bid to sing.
Brooding in the Ocean's Ominous Depths
Enthralled by the hum of Unfathomable Enchantment
Humming A Lingering Verse of Her Song,
Gliding Along the Current
Searching for the Turquoise Pearl She Lost
On the Ocean Floor's Crystalline Sediments
Siren's Cry, Forlorn, Misplaced Siren's Song
Her Flow, Effervescent Tail Glow, Hypnotic Allure
Captivating, Oblivious to the Stares of Aquatic Residents
Swimming In The Coral Forest, Seeking The Pearl She lost
Hidden in the Pearl, Her Mystical Song
Pondering Myths of Isles Where Beings Walk Upright
Sanctioned her Current Predicament
Siren's Shrilling Cry, For Her lost Serendipitous Song
Swimming In An Ocean of Thoughts
Crowned with Ambiguous Bubbles
Rising from the Depths of Luminous Scales
Light Dancing with Many Hues
9 Worlds Infused with a Single Splash
A Beauty, A Brilliant Diadem
Siren's Cry, Siren's Song
The Ocean-verse is Neither Light Side Up
Nor Abysmal Depths Down
With a Single Tear, The Ocean will Drown
Navigating Effortlessly, Wistfully, Hoping
Through A Maze of Aquatic Trenches
Walls Etched With Sigils of Ancient Neptunian Era
Ancient Songs, Melodic Notes Carved on Glassy Stone
Her Ancestor's Hypnotic Cry, Echoes of Their Songs
Siren's Lost Song Hidden in a Turquoise Pearl
Lost in the Watery Volcanic Abyssal Plane
Returned to The Ocean-verse as an Offering for Gain
Diving past Petrified Once Sunken Remains
To The Mystical Ocean Portals of the 9 Worlds
Diligently Guarded by Knighted Anglerfish
Into The Familiar Safety of the Coral Forest
Secured In a Giant Clam's Shell, Reconnected with Kin
Offerings Of Nostalgic Tears, The Siren Cried
Rippling a New Verse, Rhythmic Watery Memorial
Billowing Along, Mysterious, Hypnotic Siren Song.
Oh, how sad, oh how very glum,
Goodness gracious me prater comes.
Still writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Oh Lord, let not our life pass by
Let us do more than weep and cry.
Wallowing in morbid abode.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, claws cower.
Envy those not caught in limbo
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Envy the prattle on the page.
At least the words are given stage.
Fields upon fields, rows upon row.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Feeling your life’s left no dower.
Enjoying the pain not power.
Pondering heaven on life’s gallows.
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Goodness gracious me, prater comes,
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Each word stroked, petted, tilled and hoed,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
And, all of it just, so, ho-hum.
Leave the box, flee the asylum!
Writing, writing, writing on,
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
Live above your massive ego
Endlessly stopped, never to go.
Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged.
parents watch
through the window:
paper cup pills
He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”
First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014
two points of a straight line
birth and death needing a kiss
after plunging depths
dissolved scars, rock burns
drawings in mud or deserts
falling through dream arcs
crossing grids
ferocious or mundane —
the line between life’s breath
and cremated dust mutates
neutered circle wise
a revolution, all of life’s charms
arose then passed
pop goes weasel !
how to metamorphose is choice
as cave shadowed is lit
d e t a c h e d
Heart glorious rest ——
b l i s s ed
cares not that holy scripts are opaqued
misinterpreted or
pencil coloured rewrit
knew caterpillars are programmed to fly
babes destined to crawl, toddle, skip
somersault into tigers or
ascend as eagles from eggs
cracked, purified
ignorance limped before experience
patterns faded, disintegrated
or turned pages no more
sigils torn
as Spirit whispering lacy touched
quivering strings
thunder throating
our slumber shakes summoned
leaps of faith sweetly om om Oommm —-
lightning peeled
every covering
quilts discarded
wounds or weeping curled
feathers float luminous
settle at a nest
wide Love for all and ONE
undressed forever
w a r m e d
——————————-
sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
PREMIER CONTEST
placed 8th 2025
Another nightly ascent up the stairs towards my solitary bedroom.
Slightly tainted with opiate night perfumes, glistening green totems await;
O souls beyond the time before time was time,
Is there a bright future ahead?
Only the note of B flat spills out of nocturnal batrachian depths.
Strange birds are howling and the black river is almost comatose across the road.
There is a mauve, antediluvian horror clinging to my window pane.
Green tree frogs, watch my sleep as I turn into a star;
I rest in the abode of Orion and my body melts into sweet smelling lilies,
Keep your sorceries around me like green jade amulets,
Trace your rainwater sigils around my bed,
Leap into my dreams and teach me your purple magics.
O pleasures of the nightside borderland,
O silly little green things.
I am Sphinx Stone, Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic, not marble or
granite nor black tourmaline or crystal
timelines cutting cross my magnetic
magenta miracle to dissipate in dry
desert winds, my gaze unmoved
as quizzing quantum queens swirl
around a Blue Planet ascending
Sphinx Stone gathering goddess’ goodness
whilst slippery Sophi-el sprinkle sparkle
Nile evaporations down Sumerian
phantom phœnix photons
here I stare broken-nosed across vast
expansions exiting or entering dual
portal claws hot rooted into Violet Flames
of Mother Earth belying my etheric origins
Did Leo descend from helium heavens
painstakingly perfect from His tumultuous
gut with goblets of gold, goblins gyrating ?
ask you may North African secrets slither
no soiled sounds to simmer in sandy
storms or scarlet sunsets spreading
spells, silence my singular speech to
skulls of pharaohs or peasant alike
I am Sphinx Stone, my silhouette
signposted in simple or significant sigils
Saturn’s starlit sighs bypass not my
knowing aloof yet vacant stare which
agelessly gather stories of aeons
imprinting dreams of God into manifest
luminosity becoming your words on lion
bones or this ephemeral page
Sphinx Stone I see sabian riddled profiles
making prolific progress patterns filled
with steely grit, come now release
agitated ages of bygone bitters to
prick or paddle dimensions where
appled anemones sing my stare into song to
swallow swiftly sweetly slivers of sanctities
I remain Sphinx Stone stable
unsullied forevermore