Long Sorcerer Poems
Long Sorcerer Poems. Below are the most popular long Sorcerer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sorcerer poems by poem length and keyword.
Fractured Light Fragments
Ghostly gloom, born of foreboding stillness,
Cut to smithereens - shattered shards of energy escape
From the whirlwinds in feral fragments with serrated cutting edges -
Wary night watch warned of sirocco’s spinning untamed spiral catastrophe -
Blinding firebolts erupt splitting open serenity
Nightfall dodges crackling outbursts of released electric voltage flying wild
Splintered slivers of eye piercing shards - ragged air’s racing volatility
Sorcerer of sonic thunder bumpers, releases all pent up booms
Rips wide the momentary abyss of suspended oblivion
Slamming closed jagged air’s fractured ozone.
Smashed bits of broken midnight solitude crumble in the drumfire
Rumble in rushing waves of tattered sound through towering thunderheads,
Torn edges of reverberation echo again -
Flashing shadows stalk tranquility with their slashing thunder.
7-21-21
Contest: Fragmented Spaces
Sponsor: Constance La France
She is someone that I don’t like at first,
Eyes are round big like those orange good thirsts.
She makes faces like I don’t understand?
Eyes fiery open like no one can’t stand.
She’s with two girls walking in the aisle,
Fiercer faces of braveness are walking in a mile.
They so hate her because they don’t about know her.
She is a likely villain like a one creep sorcerer.
Day after day, I get to know so much of her,
She is a lovely childish girl who can’t be so err.
Maybe no one would quite understand what she really is,
Sweetly to tell she’s an honest one who ever don’t want to be missed.
Better open their eyes and see hers,
She is a dazzling one like those notably airs.
I opened my eyes and see the real her,
She dazzles me fine like a white robe of fur.
The night of the living dead is coming…
Take heed and lock your doors
The witch trains blow the whistles
As they leave the devils jaws.
He strikes the boilers on this night
He lets the witches catch his prey.
They dress as zombie’s ghouls and ghosts
But they are here to take you away
The witch trains come to take your mind
The bokor controls your undead life.
The devil sends the zombie’s
For undead flesh to hand out strife.
The zombie has no thoughts to own
He is controlled by higher authority.
So lock your doors on the night of the dead
Or the zombie will come and take thee.
Use your mind, the one God gave you
Put thoughts of good into your head
Revile the zombie that eats your brain
You don’t want to end up a living dead.
© GG 15/10/2013
In south Africa the .witch trains. were believed to be staffed by Zombie workers controlled by witches that took the night time passengers and turned them into zombie slaves.
In Vodou Bokor is a sorcerer that revives the dead and controls the mind.
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.
In the still of the night
When the coldness bite
The northwinds the trees did rustle
As the fires flicker
With the harmonies of the nights bustle
There lies awake
Some instinctive mistake
The laws of the wild
Should bear in mind
As we listen to our elder
Our healer, sorcerer and befriender
He who speaks the word of wisdom
The history of many generations
All clarity in his explanations
There is a surprise and shock to be
For those who do not hear, or fail to see
We must use our senses
As a standard for our defense
With careless deeds and hasty wishes
Casting whims to tasteless dishes
With carefree vigour and youthful pride
Venture in the unknown
Not noting the story you listen
Rebuking wisdom with a frown
In the abruptness of a storm
You are missing!
The uncertainties of the wild
The only possession you own
Gone,gone, gone, never to return.
What sorcery is afoot in the woods on this October night?
I stir a few embers, and relight myself
The humans asleep or dead, I don’t care which
I am alive, a fire phoenix, replenishing my absoluteness
An owl hoots a warning, trying to wake them up
I begin to dance, as warmth spreads throughout my timbers
Sure, you thought I was dead, but surprise.
I am replenishing myself, understanding no one else will
Sparks! A joy overtakes me as hope and optimism arrive
A flash of yellow, on her way to becoming full out red.
A flame. I scream with happy pops and smacks.
Bam! I am once again a full blown blaze.
Why do these campers never put me out completely?
Do I care? I am leaping, lunging, laughing, loving myself.
My yellows and oranges are dazzling the entire forest.
My flame shadows light up the tents of the sleeping.
I am mystical, magical, ethereal, an alchemist, a sorcerer.
How will they react when they realize I have again
Forsaken them, and burned up another forest thanks to them?
I am impassioned, alive, a full blown pyromaniac of a fire!
I have spilled all of it out, it seems
Shushed it away
Now I stare at it like you would some black-and-white photo
I’m soldiering on
I can’t find the field
I don’t want this weapon
I’ve lost myself
But holding onto me wasn’t in the plans
I’ve blanched my dreams
When I speak marshmallows fall out of my mouth
I’m dimmed, muted
Placed in a different world again
I’m okay, though
I’m in-through a wondering sky
I’ll find you again
As my feet drift by
And tap you on the forehead
You snap my strings
And I may tackle you to the ground
Good for the both of us
I am the black falling light rushing out of tomorrow’s dream
I am your favorite sorcerer who forced the mirror upon you
Revealing you as the great one
With what wounds we are
Cascading, cascading
I know you, my love
My heart runs wild at the thought of your return
Tongues stall kind words to say -
planes with wheels on a waterway-
A relentless chase of light bulbs above wondering
minds and breaking the switch everytime
it's caught. In something.
Mercy, grief, fires within
choke on smoke forsaking
hallucinations that geraniums are my favorite
blooming within the weeds of a diary
where trust breeds like bacteria and scales
on fish skin are just as beautiful and preservable
as any composition.
Where humiliation and pride collide over whom
I should assist by comparing whose bones are
grayer and graver underneath their hole of self
destruction labeled with misfits. Figuring out thoughts
more fragmented than a stained glass puzzle paralyzed
in the pencil shavings of a rough draft by drunken angels
who usually sculpt the outcome of nightmares.
So many rags my body has constructed to soak up
the outpuring of suffering that they dug up with years of
cemented, pulled back, brittle fingernails and forearms
covered in filthy apologies that don't even hug me,
but accuse me of self absorption.
And misdirection, lying naked, like a dehydrated compass,
wanting nothing more than guidance by an optional savior
whose footprints are undefined to conceal the number
of followers he refines through choice of circumstance.
Still, I pray. For them. Perception has me demented.
Angrily unmovable. Impenetrable in the range of sanity.
A brown-nosed sorcerer, picked to pieces for parts needed
for an insecurity blanket to shield a reflection of madness
or jealousy or a seamstress to help them put it back together.
Although my darkest reasons for anything are just as genuine
as the shadow of a dying leaf barely gripping for it's life
on the limb of an oak tree.
The scars upon my soul have yet to develop a conscious
communication of their own.
I apologize when I do not speak.
Sometimes I believe solitude is more forgiving.
You hope that university will answer all of life’s questions, but nope.
I don’t know, 1.
There was a guy who’d been hanging around outside our residence lately. Too consistently. At first, I thought he was someone’s friend but he’s always alone. He wasn’t doing anything or bothering my roommates but that asymmetry set off my alarms.
He looked at me once (which I suppose isn’t a crime), I think, it was quick - a blink of sharp curiosity. I mentioned it to Charles who took his picture. The next morning he said the guy’s a legit student who has no criminal record, so maybe I’m all wrong.
Every girl’s encountered a creep or two before. They’re seemingly everywhere, as if mandated by law, like auto insurance. Most girls develop a sixth-sense, a creep-dar. Nowadays, creeps have a new name, “incel” ("involuntary celibate") and they’re a recognised, online subculture. Next, they’ll have a coat of arms proclaiming, “We Would if We Could.” It’s as if awkwardness, a normal human foible, has been distilled into something dangerous.
Although the campus looks like a garden or a perfectly manicured ‘stepford’ park, we joke that it’s really a locked-down, patrolled, surveilled compound, with guards, cameras and card-key access to everything. Which, I suppose, is all to the good.
Our creeper wasn’t there Friday, and he wasn’t there today, so maybe he was nothing.
I don’t know, 2.
I was in Sunny’s room. We were going shopping in a few. There was a little pink book on her bed - a diary!! I’d never seen it before and it was open, about three-quarters of the way. She too-casually moved to scoop it up, like the neglected book of a sorcerer.
My *GOSSIP-dar* Alerted like a class bell. “Hmm” I humed, head-tilted, then I laughingly lunged for the book.
Sunny’s eyes went wide for 3-billionths of a second and she snapped it up with the speed of a striking cobra, “That’s MINE” she said, rigid with seriousness.
“What’s going ON?!” I asked, but she shoved it into her night table.
Another mystery!
‘Sleeping dogs,’ I thought to myself.
The Majestic Banyan
Standing alone in the village outskirts
With branches protruding to the other end
Always makes me feel from two discrete lenses
The exhausted cattle rest under it ruminating and shooing
The shouts of merry boys while playing with marbles,
Climbing, swinging and running around
How nice the day is!
But nothing finds close at hand when dark diffuses gradually
The mighty banyan appears as a dilapidated fort
And frightens me on a full moon night
Its silhouette comes off as
A strutting demon with hair torn off on a no moon night
The hanging roots like serpents swinging upside down
The sprawling and intertwined roots like matted hair of a yogi
When there is a gale, it sways forward
And it resembles a python with stretched jaws to swallow the village
Scary silence pervades around at times
A busy den for the nocturnal world!
The spying owl with its locked eyes
The thrumming camp of flying foxes
Pecks of a distressed bird
Chirps of crickets and beetles
Croaks and hoarse voices as macabre music
Unsettling leaves as elephant’s ears producing susurration sounds
The swarming fireflies around like lights of spirits
The hiss of a snake
And the crackling when it crawls on the dried leaves
Some mysterious chants
And the glowing blood red fire in its enclosed space
Perhaps, the diabolic acts of a sorcerer
For evoking spirits and ghosts hidden in the tree
The raising smoke out from it as a subtle body
Registered as a gruesome tree in my childhood cognitive domain