Long Wizards Poems
Long Wizards Poems. Below are the most popular long Wizards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wizards poems by poem length and keyword.
Whitestone Hoodoos
Near where I live,
just up the hill above the airport,
is a place of mystery and wonder,
a place wizards might once have dwelled,
or young warriors wandered in search of vision.
It’s a thicket of chalky hoodoos, sitting now
like a forest of plump petrified dwarfs made of meringue
sculpted by uncountable drops of rain
and whatever it is you might call a single unit of wind.
It’s enchanting for sure,
but largely ignored by the sensible folk.
It’s a place of unclimbable slippery slabs and
crumbly sliding slopes, of snakes with rattles
and succulents with thorns.
I’m sure to some eyes it’s just a barren hill,
and to others an inspiring view that’s always just out the window,
to some a marvelous result of random tectonic drifts
and to a few at least, a glimpse into the past
when wizards and warriors met
under the shadow of watchful dwarves
and ate the bitter root.
(from my third book, SUN MADE FLESH AND FIBER, 2019)
Mid-November skids into a white-boned sky
Frozen fish dream of warm tape water.
Every step is a cliff-top for the weakening.
Meanwhile, beautiful people wash-up on sandy beaches
create more buttery lobster commercials,
evening gowns drip like sequined icebergs.
The young are headlong as usual
and will not stop
until they pull us into their dreams,
they sew our jester hats
with a pitying love - just as we did theirs.
It’s impossible to regret anything
when the very ground under our feet
is begging for more banana skins,
more slip-ups - anything to keep us going
in a direction identified as forward
by the backward.
We who still dispense the sweet nothings
of glassy-eyes wizards,
must be seen as fully clothed and able,
ready to function still on the old fictions;
though daily, step by step
we are coming to resemble
the still-life taxidermy of moth-eaten owls.
Her parents use to read her Fairy Tales
she remember their voices…
their joy…
their laughter
which is why, she imagines, she grew up
believing in happily ever after.
She believes in bears that talk…
in trees that dance…
in wizards who can fly...
She believes a kiss can turn a frog into a prince
She believes in castles in the sky…
She believes in dragons who breathe fire…
She believes some mice may be blind
She believes witches can be beautiful
and ogres can be kind
And today, now that she is old
every night when she closes her eyes in bed
she still believe in magic lamps…
in beanstalks
and houses made of gingerbread.
And when she opens her eyes every morning
she smiles wondering how her parents knew…
how happily ever after her life would turn out
how Fairy Tales do come true.
Broken fingers clutch at the withered grass.
Crawling from the ooze, the future holds no value.
Leaving in the depths, laying forgotten, a dark past.
Wizards bow to the faithful moons that bring reason to their existence.
Expecting soft words to stir the planets
directly over the path less taken or trodden
Or beaten down from the cruel ages of the earth
That once existed in the memories of small imaginations.
Forever dance the rain, shaman, moon men,
Beating drum skins taught across magical tree stumps.
Monotonous tones carried on the back of far sighted locusts
Seeking shelter under bruised wrists,
Blue and purple flowers on thin scrawny stems.
Quiver in the night at the gentle shove of a jungle wind.
A wind that whispers curses of the snake.
Yet peace remains hidden under the rock of fear and doubt.
Run circles around licking, antigravity flames stoked by magic and the blood of horned beasts.
Overanalyze and criticize, demoralize and ostracize
Modern pundits legitimize their vicious exercise
Scrutinize and standardize, compartmentalize and cannibalize
Wizards of efficiency synchronize, initialize and circumcise
Demobilize and paralyze, stigmatize and de-humanize
Westernized pols, their constituents balkanize and polarize
Trivialize and miniaturize, standardize and sterilize
Thought-police priesthoods evangelize and moralize
Why can't they fraternize and socialize?
Why don't they harmonize and compromise?
Entry in Rhyme Battle: Xi Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Juli-Michelle
Nothin' should surprise the citizenry in the news reports anymore.
The latest puzzlin' saga occurred today off the California shore!
Look! Up in the sky! Is it Peter Pan, Superman or a UFO?
Strange that the generals with their fancy toys don't seem to know!
Some dude, somewhere seems to have fired a missile in the sky.
Now the blame game begins with fingers pointin' at the other guy!
Wizards at NORAD don't have a clue and are hunkered in their hole.
The Navy admirals are frantically countin' missiles on ships on patrol!
The Brass at Fort Fumble (more commonly known as the Pentagon),
Are scratchin' their skulls tryin' to figure out what is goin' on!
The Air Force, the likely culprit, ain't sayin' much about the matter.
Since the Marines ain't in the rocket business, they're enjoyin' all the chatter!
The Army is concerned about tanks and guns and are outside the loop.
News reporters keep babblin' away and speculatin' on the latest poop!
I suspect when the dust settles, it won't be a general who takes the flap,
But will probably be some lowly PFC somewhere who'll take the rap!
No one knows what they were shootin' at or from whence it came.
The numerous stories we've heard to date are pretty doggone lame.
If jug-butt generals and admirals who are paid to figure these things out
Can't do it, then my confidence in our nation's security is in serious doubt!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Magical muggle, one of my dreams, delight me with your fanciness.
Magical muggle, come closer, and give me a taste of your pranciness.
“What are you doing in there?” My father roars at me.
Nothing, I lie.
“It better be nothing!” my mother says.
They have nothing to do with Muggles, lumping them together as worthless
beings, who generalize witches and wizards, and pick on us,
tormenting us because we are magical and have precognition.
But my gift of foresight has shown that the love of my life
is going to be an enthusiastic, un-biased, faithful magical muggle, and I am
much more powerful than my parents anyway. Grandma taught me that.
Hiding it well, biding my time. My true wizard love should be here in six
years and three days. That is how exact my gift of precognition is.
I smile, roll over and go to sleep, imagining our three
gorgeous half-breed children who will call me Mommy.
Dreams in bottles
and maps on walls,
fairy tales told
of knights so tall.
Dragons and maidens
battle in flaming towers,
as unicorns jump
over plants and flowers.
Elves and dwarves
dwell in a hole,
a witch who steals
your heart and soul.
Griffins soaring
high on the clouds,
wraths who scream
ever so loud.
Shadows whose form
shifts in the night,
screams that shiver
to bring on fright.
Angels that sing
as pure as the sun,
a ring that possesses
your mind and runs.
Ghouls rip out
your stomach and guts,
evil cars that crawl
over bodies and ruts.
Zombies who want
to feast on your flesh,
wizards with wand
slowing the thresh.
The fantasy world
can be what you will,
your mind is unlimited
if you hold it quite still.
I haven't been well and I wrote this one for a little bit of fun in the down times...thanks for reading as always...Jayne
Ex pat Pom loving aplomb & many a flickering F bomb of the OG.. GC at the G
No spin larking bickering barking larrikins clearly hear the din of fans chagrin
The culprits the ex players pundits in their pampered and champered pulpits
I want baggie green spleen to be vent outside the oh so privileged pro tent
Your spectacular curvy vernacular is the quip fillip in times so topsy turvy
Cricket’s pervy badgers nervy starved of nuanced narratives..like Test scurvy
The game increasingly nihilistic your ballistic bants & rants..holistic chants
Sycophantic semantic antic relishing & cherishing your loquacity, audacity..
Bodacity & sagacity…got them by the gizzards with your verbal blizzards..
Rapacity of skits & gambits..tenacity of wits...our own proverbial Oz Wizards..
Coz boys your ploys are the everyman not fancy dan talisman of fan elan….
Joy envoys of odd bod sod the cricketing Gods run roughshod pod masterplan..
Your reffing gift wrapped in effing & jeffing.. a bucolic vitriolic frolic & tonic!
No fibs his nibs is loving the cut of your jibs….this old timer rhymer pondered
Wondered does cricket's ultimate bastard..The GC.. like Lord Kitchener.. need me..
Saluting a highfalutin cultural calling card.. your own Bard as two become three?
The white lies of late December are upon us.
Frozen fish dream of warm tape water.
Every step is a cliff-top until April
then we surrender again to the telltale myths,
the cheerful fraudulence.
Only the old survive all this;
beautiful people wash-up on sandy beaches
create more buttery lobster commercials,
evening gowns drip like sequined icebergs.
The young are headlong as usual
and will not stop
until they mend us into their dreams,
they sew our jester hats
with a pitying love just as we did.
It’s impossible to regret anything
when the very ground under our feet
is begging for more fables, more of anything
to keep us going in a direction identified as forward.
We who still dispense the sweet nothings
of glassy-eyes wizards,
must be seen as fully clothed,
able to function on the old fictions
steady, and not sinking into our frozen boots.