Short Cauldrons Poems

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...

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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?...

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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...

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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....

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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....

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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...

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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....

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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


...

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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...

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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...

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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!...

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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...

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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)

 








...

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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....

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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...

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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?...

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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....

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