Short Cauldrons Poems
Short Cauldrons Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Cauldrons by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Cauldrons by length and keyword.
Wicked women cast spells
Wearing black pointy hats
With warts and green faces
Warming bubbling cauldrons
Waiting for their potion
While luring bats and frogs
Whisking away on brooms
Wicked hexing creatures
Wagging their evil tongues
while casting ancient spells
Wart faced old hags. Women
who recite sorcery,
with newt eyes in cauldrons
Wretches grouped in covens
The witch’s words begin to cackle,
her jargon hard to understand.
With grace adding in the taste,
style matters most of all.
Don’t believe a thing.
Parlor effects,
that’s magick
cauldrons
bake.
Witches in dark shadows,
Waving spells with their wands,
Whisper mystical chants,
With Broomsticks fly in nights,
With Secrets held in hoods,
Woods echo their laughter.
would you eat Cauldrons brew?
The witches cackle
Werewolves howling at the moon
Cauldrons full of spells
Rubber masks invade
Skeletons dancing from limbs
The graves are empty
Terrifying truths
Halloween curses exist
Mother-in-law lives
A smirk ghosts
by torn lips
razored puce
and throbbing wild
to fire a fusillade
of mortar murmurs
armed with fangs
honed in cauldrons
belching molten words
to palsy the gainsay
of jesters
who scarify and behead
bliss.
Witch Joyce had a contest with Wormwood, the warlock of choice.
He had stated his cauldron made better brew than that of Joyce.
Their cauldrons created conniving concoctions that tempted and dared.
The rest of the villagers, gnomes and faeries ran away, for they were all scared.
Wicked winds and wandering mists,
Moonlit hours and secret trysts,
Spells and charms; unhallowed loam,
Stealthy do the witches roam.
Boiling cauldrons, smoke and fire,
Fallowed fields, dearth and dire,
Ungodly grants that demons give—
O’ thou must suffer not a witch to live.
crows conjuring curious witches
cauldrons containing concoctions I concur with
elegance in ebony, elusive and alluring
sensuous in satin, sassy and scintillating
chosen for every painting I do
to offset the hot pinks and neons
to outline and exude and uplift
refined, respectable and reassuring
Thrice about the cauldron go
and answer me, if it be known.
Untie the words and give them form,
dissect the ingredients of murder’s charm.
A new tradition has traction gained,
a tradition of alienated masculine pain.
Where insults demand their due in blood
in schools, in stores, and quiet neighborhoods.
Horses galloping
in the barren country
long scorched
by conflagrations.
Carbonised bracken
and naked trees cry
gnarled in bewitchment
of incantations concocted
around smoky cauldrons
broiling with the fury
of serpent fangs
and necrotic poisons
that consume
the golden hour
Heaven's artistry in motion.
In potted hills Finnish
Cauldrons run quips losing custard!
Vanquished serpents necking
Lounging cretons lavish
Tasking tisks
Mirroled bounce
Hinde bounding exiles
Worrisome kneels condensing bonnet?
Will and either knawlings
Coffered
Loave of Samson
Reason less below her faults
French horror?
Recalcitrant!
barter for the bellmaker
fire the forge, fill the flue
cast cast-iron chimes
chime for time's renew
fire the forge, fend the flash
fan the flames, feed the fire
cast cast-iron cauldrons
cast a spell, catch desire
bitter for the bellmaker
fires the forge, fans the same
casts cast-iron tears
cannot catch desire's flame
gather wares for market day
and cauldrons of the land
baneful stock for the boiling pot
before the evening’s end
tankards spill and taverns heave
upon these Beltane days
see magic folk and sorcerers
on an otherwise malaise
then pack the carts and disappear
before the robin sees
and woe betide the straddlers
caught there on Gallows’ Eve
Envelope in the Pigeonhole
This evening
when I return to the hotel
I see in my pigeonhole
Angela’s writing
on a yellow envelope.
What excuse
will she have for not writing?
Too busy, perhaps,
stirring cauldrons of soup
while the cats dash about
licking her calves.
Or don’t the cats know enough
to lick at her calves?
Would that I were the cats
and the cats were taller.
Donal Mahoney
Blue-green eyes, the color of the sea
Pools of the ocean, their waves so free
Tears of saltwater, shed behind doors
Cauldrons of water, the rain that they pour
Enchanted daggers they stare into enemies
Or looking into distant moonlight reveries
No one sees what truly lies behind
To the turmoil within, most remain blind
Blue-green eyes, how mystical in nature
To treasure them forever, I will always be sure
It was a howling good night for a pumpkin fight.
The cats were ready, their witches soon would alight.
The woods were aglow with lit cauldrons so bright.
Halloween Eve was prancing about, a marvelous sight.
How many pumpkins will we need for the fright?
Asked Merlonia, the head cat of Old Witch McBright.
She was the most sage and wise familiar here tonight.
They began stockpiling their ammunition, a horrific sight!
COPLA TREINTA Y NUEVE: This Bad Guy World
In cauldrons of faith gods fester
Legions of bigots follow blind:
Some sane more mad
In between shades of good better
And the best taint all of a kind:
Motley mass mud
Between the gods and the mad mass
Lodge those bound by rituals rites:
Usurp gods’ edicts
Priests who love to massage the mass
Arrogating heavenly rights:
God’s politics
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2014
Soft and complacent
our youth in denial
What evil disguises
the past has on file
Wishing and hoping
a smokescreen at best
Masking our fear
while fouling our nest
The seeds of our history
whose names have been damned
And mocked until cancelled
our heritage banned
In near distant cauldrons
a pot stirs and boils
Awaiting our downfall
—and all we’ve despoiled
(The New Room: November, 2023)
Industry stole those splendid hills
By taking fields and building mills.
Down in each vale man's cauldrons brew
Spewing out soot and see-o-two.
But even worse was vile venom.
The days of acid rain had come
As brimstone coal made sulphur fume
That in the raincloud formed a plume.
And back-to-back by chimney stack
Defined the world in shades of black.
The jet, the soot, the anthracite.
From all black bright there shone midnight.
this looks like an interesting place the vampire said
don’t even think about going in there, said her friend, the undead.
it’s a spooky bookshop, haunted by ghosts and such.
the vampire laughed, wanting to see it now, very much
they peeked in the window and saw a cat who hissed blue
vampire said, there are spell books potions, and cauldrons too
you can go in there but I won’t said the undead
my cousin went in and never came out, his name was Fred
There's no denying
We hear too much lying
In the World today
Too much cheating
And repeating
Everything we say
Too much backchat
And idle chit chat
Going all around.
Too much talk
And not much action
Abounds
Too much taking.
Too little giving
It seems a rule of thumb.
Too much heartache
And Destruction
Making all feel numb
Too much trouble
Cauldrons bubble
Making another spell
Trouble brewing
While we are spewing
Do we now live in HELL?
Toxic notions, mixing up potions
Bubble and boil, cauldrons toil.
The words evade me,
They could've made me - by now - but somehow,
I forget what the words were
I forgot I could speak, I became so weak, inside
I was dying, I couldn't stop from crying,
I wanted to run and hide.
Perfection is just a reflection,
An image people perceive to be portraying
A mask to deceive or a mask to achieve?
Striving for success,
Trying your best is the best you can do.