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.
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.
I try to drift into the dust of sleep
but my weary mind starts to play tricks on me
aware that as gloomy shadows wrap around me
glimmers of nightmarish dreams will taunt me.
Dusk looms ahead like an endless tune
I feel the darkness smothering me
a sorcerer casting a flimsy net upon me
holding me fascinated like an evil spell.
Anguish clutches at me in a mental free fall
sucking refuse into a well of black
my breath dissipates into a hazy fog
tugging with it the broken chords of my life.
I crave for the moon on a starless night
to wake up fresh, unsullied with the flush of dawn.
@jjote 072521
The quintessence of womanhood, Mimi Sue makes me drool.
Exquisite, an angel, a champion of femininity, my jewel.
A peach, a beauty, a gem, my ideal mate.
I smiled at my brother, he had at last met his fate.
I expected to see Rita Hayworth get out of his car.
My husband was thinking Jennifer Anniston, his favorite star.
Well at least he has gotten more mature my mother said.
As Mimi Sue extracted herself from his VW Bug, her hair flaming red.
For she was built like an oak, would fit in right away.
We greeted her warmly, that warm Sunday day.
At least he recognized real beauty this time stated Dad.
She was the most down-home, regular date he had ever had.
Mimi Sue was gentle, and kind, and natural empath.
She was accepting and loving, and had a great laugh.
She was a sorcerer, she had dazzled him, this regular dame.
He was ready to settle down, get married, stop playing all games.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
He steps into moonlight, strings ablaze,
A spell-bound master in a midnight haze.
Notes crack like lightning, dark flames rise,
Echoes twisting through spectral skies.
From covens deep and forests old,
He forged a sound both fierce and bold.
A serpent’s hiss, a banshee’s wail,
His fingers dance—an eerie tale.
The runes he carved upon the fret,
Summon storms not soon forget.
A single chord—a whispered curse,
Reality bends, the heavens burst.
Shadows coil around his hands,
Summoned forth from haunted lands.
Specters hum, the witches chant,
A melody none dare recant.
Blackened sparks upon the strings,
Woven spells in trembling things.
A tremolo dark, a sorcery wild,
A lullaby sung by the moon’s lost child.
Thunder answers every shred,
Winds obey the notes he bled.
A final wail—a spectral end,
And silence bows to music’s bend.
In Marked Territory 10-28-24 - Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Marked Territory
Midnight tightly clasps the darkness,
Like a wounded heart,
In between topaz edges of twilight
And pastels of first light.
Jealous of its cosmos
Shoos away the master of the day
Turning the face of the daystar
To other skies
To claim small hours.
Guardian of vanishing infinities
Speaks
Indigo borders
For moonlight
Moonbows
And wishes on the first brave star
Where waves of the galaxy
Break
Over unseen edges of stellar sands.
Lit only by celestial lanterns
Enchanter
Conjures sovereign spells
Declaring jurisdiction over platinum roses
And
Lover’s sighs
That wax then wane under polar stars.
Night rules this welkin magic,
A sorcerer hiding a book of spells,
This realm under the starry arch
The moonrise
The nebulae decorating the firmament,
Where gravity hems in epiphanies.
Where do you begin with Ravichandran Ashwin...intellectual impresario
Red ball romeo... conceptual maestro..the Kingpin of spin..leather lothario
Perpetual taunting...teasing..bubbling cerebral cauldron formenting..haunting
Troubling.. flaunting...tormenting..vaunting..fermenting..pleasing
Luminosity...but another one of the band of badger brothers
Reeks of unique chic tweak at its peak
Bare faced cheek of genius geek cavorting
Discerning pastor preaching while yearning for learning
More about turning…..curiosity pique...sleek sporting freak
Mythical master of disaster..have many if any been reaching 500 wickets faster
Viral spirals about this sage despite his age still taking centre stage
Batters like budgies trapped in a gilded cage
As though he had planned to grandstand the Ravinchand bandstand brand...stealing the back page
Revolution masquerading as evolution...cogitating...searching for a solution
Ruminating..problems to fix with his swag bag of tricks..spinning absolution
Precision physician with constant revision...each edition
A new rendition.. high jinks with winks.. and nods to tradition
Wondering...that furrowed brow..pondering how
Career of seams caressed with finger finesse ... architect..engineer without peer…
Can't debunk the magic funk…just respect from a Test tragic monk
Scientist enthrall..sorcerer gall...still one of us...the best of us all.
So hold your head high Ravichandran..still don't know why you were so often the fall guy
Fans vicarious view..our meme..you part of our team...daring to dream..your art of derring do
Iconic booty of noble probes…lush lullabies...strobes lapping global lobes
Sagacious..loquacious oratory...the tonic...fruity frolic
Fresh from laboratory duty..bodacious bucolic beauty
Even naysayers can't deny they relish that conjuring charm from your cherished right arm.
Let's zoom to the elephant in the room...is Ashwin the don of Indian spin
With the skill and will to top the bill and still pip Anil?
Kumble also a defiant giant on whom they were so reliant
Hot to trot just not as savvy as Ravi
The Don's got the lot..takes number one spot
Wealth of stealth...doyen among men..but never ever about himself
He loves cricket just for the cricket itself..zen then..
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
It’s late and dark,
In a place where the hands have lost sight of existence
It’s a pause of panic. Butterflies are erupting elevating with frustration
I can see the thoughts float by as my heart is ticking
My body is gaining momentum but it’s anchored in my deep illusion of thought
I’ve now penetrated the inner layer of my mentality
A vivid production featuring a spectrum of genres
Act 1 scene 1: starring Anger, Jealousy and hatred
Anger is provoked by the jealousy
It has been cracked by the venom of jealousy and leaked the fragrant liquid of hatred
Venom of no antidote
They’re long lived rivals always keeping alert from their conspiracies.
And now its infected, but then comes the Sorcerer.
Act 1 Scene 2:
Here Sorcerer begun the old rituals, started the fires of its wisdom in the thin air of
A twinkling full moon,
The wolves’ howl and the crickets’ chirp
Melodies of love and harmony.
They soothe, motivate and make us dream,
A Dreamy mischievous night.
Your addictive body scent doesn’t abandon my nostrils.
I can smell it of my garments and feel it in my memories.
Reminisces nights of joy and love.
Where our lips have crossed the boundaries and united.
Rosy, soft lips that I can’t get enough of
The smile that can’t leave my mind,
Thinking of you drags from hell
Don’t know if it’s the touch of your lips,
The feel of your skin,
Or satisfaction of lust
But its keeps me hanging waiting for the better tomorrow
It’s my antidote for my inner demon,
My angel that creates my halo
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!