Long Witchery Poems
Long Witchery Poems. Below are the most popular long Witchery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Witchery poems by poem length and keyword.
Is the wind alive? That’s what the Choctaw believed.
The Apache called it, apocryphally, “the breath of the world.”
To them, the wind is the trickster you never see,
a joker on the plain of life.
What’s always arriving and always leaving?
What’s as old as the world, yet forever current?
Ever present and tireless, it seldom sleeps,
holding up jets, herding clouds like sheep,
filling sails, stirring leaves, causing rough seas.
What’s always passing, but already everywhere?
The Cherokee named ‘air’ the ‘keeper of spirits,”
because it sighs, cries, whispers and moans.
They credited it with great power and influence.
Today, we watch the skies with doppler witchery,
we forecast its path, with the gambler's odds - see,
the wind has turned on us, many times - like a tornado.
.
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Songs for this;
Colors Of the Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams
They Call the Wind Maria by Harve Presnell
Windy by The Association
Whispering leaves, cherry blossoms
pigeons grumbling, winds howling in the dark.
On land, on water
like a cup of gold
sun rises to the occasion, yet
Winter's witchery
Keeps Spring daffodil at bay.
All power all motive
center on the unwelcome intruder
hitching a ride with every
wailing ambulance.
No fairy princess
bringing back the crown,
only a vagabond with
no compassion, no resolve
to reveal its mysterious origin.
It is its own, imperial, alone.
No use looking for accomplices,
waiting for the Godot of vaccine.
In disenchantment deep and dry
sharp fear and thinning patience
re-open an old debate
on virtues of long sleep, and the depth of recession.
There’s a lizard in our house,
At the last there was a mouse.
And we called the mouse Klaus,
Now there’s a lizard in our house.
Soon there will be a roo,
Koala, Possum, Emu too.
Swear it’s really true-
There’s a lizard in my shoe
A lizard in my shoe
In our house.
There’s an emu in our car,
He’s playing his guitar,
He thinks he’s a big star
The emu in our car
In our car
There’s a wombat in our school,
King parrot makes a rule
‘No wombat in our school;
This is birdy school
Birdy Birdy school
Bird.Dee.School
There’s a dingo on a boat,
A possum on a float.
Koala writes a note-
I’m in a life…coat
Please dingo stop your boat
Ding stop your boat
Stop your boat
Above goes flying fox,
In his orange jocks
With stripey coloured socks
Coloured socks
There’s an echidna in the pub,
Hugging witchery grub
Platypus guards the door
Croc is on the dance… floor
Doing a little dance
Dancey Dancey Dance
Dancey. Dance
Preying Mantis serves up drinks,
Southern Cross looks down and thinks…
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
Written: April 21, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
Quote: "We chase the light, but darkness stays, memories twist in mysterious ways." By Poet
*****************
A wispy witchery in my spirit
broad, towering lanes,
this leads to dust-draped merit,
Cobwebbed corners are hidden
In nooks without candles
of a precious memory.
Portraits of the past
perfectly polished.
Glistening and lavishly framed,
winding whimsically
against the staircase wall,
exquisite expressions
of family elders,
glistening girls
and dazzling smiles.
Effulgent daylight,
memories from childhood
are enveloped in the
petrichor of rain.
Peripheral souvenirs,
framed by foreign beams,
perched at a level,
beyond human vision,
above the floor
of urbanites,
a breathtaking perch
where everyone is?
fascinated and ubiquitous,
a place our planet wishes to be.
A memory smog
has purloined my secrets
metaverse of memory,
a brilliant dual meaning
feigned an inkling,
diffuse and interlaced
estranged from the truth
a benign propensity,
whispered from the sky.
Content has been shaken
from the future
aligned for amplification.
Each phase of life is intrinsic
feelings vibrate loudly
memories of bitter passions
once typical of daily life
linking sight and sound
We all leave daily marks
wrapped in time web
Will I ever be free?
dust covers my mind
ghosts of love whisper
Artwork veils my secrets
Time brutally faded hues
as lost streams, memories flow,
Each drop contains memories.
Your silent laughter engulfs me.
as a spooky dawn embrace,
I wake up alone in this world
wandering dark stories for fun,
nervous memories inspire hope
Raw paint goes on the dusty art.
In poetry, love and wisdom intertwine—a heartfelt love poem can carry profound wisdom, and wise reflections often touch upon matters of the heart. ????
Psalm 90:6
in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it fades and withers.
When my heart returns in seclusion,
I uttered these words to myself,
Give it time, be wise, embrace self-compassion
I must put myself first, I must, I must,
This time around, I don't want to walk away,
Taste only me, make love to only me
Reflected only in my space.
enchantment leads to my dearest delight
enter my soul before the break of dawn
A dream within a dream according to Edgar Allan Poe
For our morning blessing/
Happy or sad, our morning salutations/
There is nothing more appealing
Then seeing white undershirts and white teeth
as it captures the youth of innocent,
falling in love, with a cub, half my age,
A trickery of unfocused emotions bearing down.
I can see no flaws,
I see only what my heart allows,
Trembling lips, both top and bottom
gazing into those eyes of witchery illusions
Just this once, just feed me, just enter my soul
This frigid northern cold, the Africa heat rises:
Who will bless this union?
When it all fades like leaf
All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.
Let me love you for now,
Let me smile, while you smile,
aloud me, to accept you,
as you enter my soul
Summary: This poem weaves love, wisdom, and introspection. It invites readers to embrace self-love, navigate illusions, and seek blessings amid life’s impermanence. ????
The inspiration behind this poem lies in the interplay of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of existence, and the search for meaning. The poet grapples with love, self-compassion, and the complexities of relationships. The references to biblical verses and contrasting elements (such as northern cold and African heat) evoke deeper contemplation. Ultimately, the poem invites readers to explore their own hearts, desires, and vulnerabilities. ????
In blackness,
I hear forked tongues
whisper wicked witchery,
hope within arthritic
ink slowly f a d e s
as darkness descends
upon snow-speckled heart,
and a murder of
crows can be heard~
cawing amidst flamingo fogs
carrying thoughtless art,
over the rolling hills
enveloped with
murky memories…
there I stretch these
breathless fingers~
gingerly reaching
for cashmere curtains,
reflecting
on jaded surfaces
adorned with lost
dreary dreams drenched
in scentless deceit.
But as liquified light of the
milky quartz moon stream,
I ponder, could I be
the one you think of
when stars shimmer
above lunar-kissed lakes~
while cauliflower clouds
drift amidst musical mists?
For I hear my name
in your plum poetry,
serenading love
in magnetic marigold metaphors…
Perhaps, there is no
right rhyme to reminisce~
when every forsaken rhythm,
and broken ballad
is spoken
through unbending
sangria silence.
Yet, tonight I gaze
beyond trembling skies,
hoping that maybe one day,
waning constellations
can see the
crystalline colors
of my tainted truth,
how the glow within
me has been f r o z e n~
left hanging in
swollen syllables of sorrow,
while I await
glorious gifts
of glistening rain to pour…
whimsical wind and
pulverizing waves can feel,
how my soul
thinks in ironic idioms
mourning misplaced musings~
with fickle verses
that phased
this eclipsed canvas
with restless phrases,
fragranced with
forgiving refrains.
I wonder is this
another
dreadful beginning,
or might this be
a blissful ending,
of a thunderstruck
tale that strikes,
from the honey-glazed abyss
of unknown gloaming…
Tomorrow, when twilight twinkles~
orchestrating
ethereal anthems,
in charismatic cadence,
find the silken silhouette of
tear-stained tulips
from my garden of grief~
there they sprout in
cerulean seclusion,
between fleeting feathered lines
of daisy dusk and
daffodil dawn.
Salem Village, Massachusetts
May 11, 1692
Of evil works in league with the devil, I am accused.
Spit upon, bolts tethered in chains, I have been abused.
People mardle I cast spells of palsie to make them twitch.
Blinded by fear, they labeled me a sorceress, a witch.
Superstition is to blame for blinding their eyes.
I claim innocence when affronted by boisterous cries.
"Burn the witch!" they shout in frenzied outrage.
Until tomorrow's trial, I am to be kept inside a cage.
These Puritans are wrong to think they do God's will.
Christians should not have such an urgency to kill.
There is no talk of banishment. That would be a blessing,
but the crimes they say I committed, I am not confessing.
Other women in the village are facing this tragic fate.
Pity that our lives will be in the hands of the magistrate.
Sorrow fills me knowing I will meet death on the gallows
and tossed in a grave, not worthy of ground that is hallow.
I am already convicted in the minds of those who leer.
My pleas of having done nothing wrong, they do not hear.
All of a dudder, I hear them say, "She is a witch possessed!"
"Forsooth," I will cry in court, "to witchery I have not confessed!"
Somewhere from outside, I faintly hear a church bell clanging.
Then, a hoard of voices screaming, "It is time for hanging!"
I write these words before the mob comes to take me away.
God, please keep me in your heart. I will not live another day.
Bridget Bishop,
Falsely accused of being a witch
GIT THEE BEHIND ME SATAN-
All my soul within me pitching
Git thee behind me Satan
All my soul within me ditching
Only this and a shepherdess
Much I not marveled the mystic exorcist
Git thee behind me Satan
My mind always strays to enchanters
Much I not marveled this splendid priestess
I discovered the alchemists
And its eyes have all the witching
Git thee behind me Satan
The whipsaw witchery whipsawing
And so I screamed, 'Is that a theologian?'
Enchantress - enchantress - enchantress!
Suddenly, I heard some magicking
God forbid
The occult smiled
God and I proclaim...Git thee behind me Satan
Demons cries and flees
Gods children and angels singing
Git thee behind me Satan
8/9/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
When I was a child witches were the demonic devils in faerie tales.
I was terrified of the old lady up the block who looked like Margaret Hamilton.
Witches, witchcraft and witchery were to be feared, and I was frightened.
Harvey Comics changed it up when they introduced us to Wendy Witch.
Wendy was kind and compassionate, she wanted to make friends.
She was a soft-hearted upstander who stood up for other people.
This was a new witch, a witch I wanted to know better.
She changed things up in my head, and I looked up witchcraft.
Witchcraft is not Satan’s workshop, it is gardening, it is herbs, it is awareness.
“To no one do harm” is the witch’s creed.
Who were these men who wanted us to fear witches?
Possibly jealous men who did not know how to garden.
I thank Harvey Comics for my mind shift regarding witches.
And Wendy Witch of course!