Long Witching Poems
Long Witching Poems. Below are the most popular long Witching by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Witching poems by poem length and keyword.
weird sounds were coming through the wall
they were faint and often disturbing
once in the night
i heard what sounded like large strong talons
scratching at the wall
" scratch, scratch, scratch:scratch!"
lord what must I do
these talons sound like
"the devil himself was coming through the wall
to cause me devish-will.
pray ye god
to cause this satan ill
that he might suffer from
your awesome power my God, My God
the devil is coming through the wall"
she yelled!
bump, bump:bump:bump!
"they banging she heard
they sound like wolves stalking sheep,
this is the lucifer of Salem,
the devil himself!"
ye my God, might you
spare us: ye my God, might you spare us!"
one day the lady got enough nerve to ask the gentlemen next
door,
"Sir, if you will can I have a moment of your
time?" Yes, he said kindly, es you may have a moment of my time!
smiling the lady asked, at night do you hear loud bumping and scratching sounds?
He look startled, saying know, their's a ghost or something in the wall of our apartment,, a witching woman who cry's
out to god, often, my wife and i have to stop making love to calm the voice of this devish woman!
It happens every year
Filled with cheer
A holiday when we get together
But it was the weather
Which made us stay in
Bar stocked with vodka and gin
As for the Champaigne
Drinking to success, glitter, and fame
We will open that around the witching hour
Giving the calendar stage and power
Screaming “you do notice me”
“You did pick me up for a dollar fee
When you ran into the department store
Looking for something on the sales floor”
“I was with hanging pictures that were great
Announcing the month and date”
Stating how many more days do we have to wait
To do this all again
Hoping not having to defend
Why we are not traveling in the snow
Not really wanting to go
To that lavish festive bash
Irritating like a rash
Instead, we cozy up by the wintry fire
Quiet not listening to any resolution liars
Instead enjoying the crackling and burn
What was that concern?
About
Going out
And saying “season greeting”
For the final time during this traditional meeting
Deciding to replace it with a whispering message in each other's ear
Already loving the new year
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
Paradise In A Dream
There is so much weighing me down
The daily toils of doing what others want
Screaming kids fighting all day long
Another four hours of Dora The Explorer
Trying to cook dinner with nothing in the cupboards
Every member of the family wanting something different
Hot dogs for the youngest
Mac and cheese for the little girl who won’t eat anything
Cheese steak sandwiches for the adults
There is a fashion show on the TV for my wife
The basketball playoffs can wait for another day
I haven’t seen a Celtics game in more than ten years
A fuse blows in the middle on the evening
Those basement stairs were not meant for a man my size
Finally the time has come for a peaceful sleep
Until my daughter finds a monster under her bad
Screaming and crying while I scare the monster away
I close my eyes as the moon rises
The witching hour when the dead rises
My dreams take me away to a paradise
The tropical sun tans my half naked body
Naked women chase each other on empty beaches
No kids, no wife and no fashion shows
Too bad morning and another day has to come
Too bad that I love my wife and kids
Otherwise I just might stay asleep
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.
Faint barks, evening, wind, and rain
I'm standing outside these gates again
staring at her long twisted cobbled grey
She'll be pleading and crying for me to stay
Teary-eyed,.. as I start to shake
You see, it's my witching mother
Changing eyes, I remember
Each day a day in mid-November
The whiskey called "screams," and her flaking skin
Unrepentant and filled to the neck with gin
she just sat there laughing at my nervous grin
Those vile remarks and the things she'd say
Throughout the evening of every day
"you must stay with me forever, petals
or I will bloody you with this iron kettle."
I cannot push myself through these damn gates
The fear of the,.. known I suppose
those wretched toenails all overgrown
feet that stink of death
Old graveyard graves crooked amber teeth
My dear mother, it's quite clear I resent you so
Why do I still love you, you wicked old crow?
In a dark and shadowy forest, witches dwell,
Casting magic spells and brewing potions old,
Their cauldrons bubble with a ghostly hue,
Fiendish creatures roam the woods, bewitched,
By the power of these eerie enchantresses,
Who weave their sorcery through the night.
The moon shines bright upon this eerie night,
As the witches gather in their secret dell,
With cackling laughs, they work their witchy spells,
Creating brews with herbs and roots so old,
Their wicked chants leave all around bewitched,
As they conjure up a fog of ghostly blue.
Their sinister eyes gleam with a ghostly blue,
As they chant incantations into the night,
Their voices echoing, leaving all bewitched,
The trees themselves seem to sway and dance, under their spell,
Their ancient magic rooted in tales of old,
A power that is both fearsome and enchanting.
No mortal man can resist their enchanting,
Their allure as mesmerizing as the ghostly blue,
For centuries they've practiced their craft so old,
On moonlit nights they stir their cauldrons, casting spells,
Their power so strong, they hold the forest in their spell,
And all who tread within their realm are bewitched.
Beware all those who dare to enter, for they too may become bewitched,
By the witches' charms so beguiling and enchanting,
Their hearts and souls ensnared within a dark and twisted spell,
Their minds clouded by the witches' ethereal blue,
Their fates sealed by the magic of the night,
Bound forever in a world both new and old.
But should you find yourself within this eerie forest old,
Remember to be wary of the witches' spell,
For once bewitched, you'll never leave this night,
Enchanted by their magic, so hauntingly enchanting,
Lost in a realm of shadows and ghostly blue,
Forever trapped in their web of sorcery and magic spells.
In the dark and shadowy forest, witches cast their spells,
Brewing potions old, surrounded by a ghostly blue,
Their power bewitches all who enter, in a world so enchanting
Written: October 20, 2023,
If an opera cannot be played by an organ grinder, it's not going to achieve immortality. By Thomas Beecham
_________________________________________
Only a rival who never yields may alter reality,
From birth to death, beats thrive—no mortality.
Crashing core causes a cosmic climax of chaos,
Fierce floods float the forlorn fable of pathos.
Dwellings were buried by a conundrum.
The slope has swallowed the humdrum.
Dusk of the mind is gingerly complete.
Gazing at crimson flies worn rilling feet
An ancient quiet trail—for waves and wind.
Ragged timbre limbs—cracks are left behind.
Tombstones had been raised from the quayside
The last organ grinder and another army replied.
Over lyrical, his weary fingers can play guerrillas,
The last organ grinder is a throwback to bygone eras.
Camarilla would gather heralds, full of delight,
While fiercely turning—crank with all his might.
Forum from which fantasies fly and faith flourish
The sounds that the organ grinder may nourish.
He sang songs of suffering, whimsy, and anguish,
Sopping a range of feelings across—till languish.
Rumors raced to spread slander in solid deceit,
Selfish ghost-face snitch won a vexed word beat.
Lief spins fearfully. Cover up, ladies and youngsters,
Slaying in session, straddling on wings of musters.
A Walkyrie-lanced loop loom is a lethal lethe lie,
Blood dough whispers emerged and could decry.
Tarnished thrash tittles—timorous tonic ties taught,
A fabric-picked spying plot caught by a grim sought.
Saltwater swindler screams sought signs of a spider
Gloomy guile grins gushes on ghastly organ grinder.
It's the witching hour, and a trigger finger is itching,
I heard awful news and saw empathy fuel snitching.
Tic tock, tock tic
These are the strange unorthodox sounds
Coming from my mantle clock
As the witching hour comes to a near
I start to anticipate in fear
A truly cold evil presence begins to appear
It hovers next to me and whispers in my ear
"Give your soul to me my dear"
The hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise
I keep telling myself not to act surprised
Keep calm, relax, and it will go away
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
I run so fast out of the room
To hide from that scary terrifying gloom
A dark growling voice begins to speak from outside my home
"I am here to stay"
"Your soul is my prey"
"I will find you soon my stray"
Shaking like a leaf and in disbelief
I quickly gather my thoughts
But it is too late
The ghostly evil entity is now in front of me
It quickly removes my ability to see
While laughing uncontrollably
As it slowly takes away my soul from my body
I am feeling groggy
Departing, leaving, now dying
Believing this is it
As I accept my fate
The last thing I hear, it says
"Checkmate"
DISTURBING
Last night at the witching hour,
I was woken from a dream
By the sound of ghostly howling
And a shrill primaeval scream.
I opened one eye cautiously
And there above my bed,
A saw an apparition
That filled me full of dread.
It hovered for a moment,
Then flew around the room,
Muttering incantations,
A harbinger of gloom.
The wardrobe door was slamming,
The light flashed off and on.
The curtains billowed in the wind.
I cried out, “Please be gone.
“Oh, all right,” said the spectre,
With a disappointed sigh.
Then it flew out of the window
And up into the sky.
I nearly used an expletive,
But I never use that word.
So I used initials only
To query what had occurred