Short Congealed Poems
Short Congealed Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Congealed by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Congealed by length and keyword.
He climbed atop
an oak on fire
Its sap transformed
by flames concealed
Each branch he passed
a year he traded
For what’s unseen
— by heat congealed
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
It’s the things
we love
that destroy us
Taken inside
beyond
cover and shield
Killing us
softly
killing us sure
Lambs to the
slaughter
—heartache congealed
(Dreamsleep: August, 2023)
Covered thinly, by a bloody clot.
Unhealed.
Congealed.
Unwelcome obligations to eat, sleep, dress
fulfilled.
That your body is still here
is the best that can be said
of this,
the first year.
Pity poor cheap old Adolfo Santiago Minestrone
Gagged on week-old baloney and congealed macaroni
April 22, 2019
Entry in 'An Epitaph to Make us Laugh 2' contest
Sponsor: Jesse Rowe
Our backyard is a doggie toilet, how free that must feel
Asked Annie, she barked, “woof woof my hooha's congealed”
Youse guys don't know
When pooping in the snow
Freezes half way down, a mocha popsicle appeal
time stops to slip in ebony night,
emotive clock freezes
eternal pathos in congealed instants,
silhouetted in the shadow of past,
smears the strata of darkness,
designed to disguise perception lattice
It bites it claws away
Remembering yesterday
As it tears your gut unhealed
The wound festers and the blood congealed
For you know every one
The sadness can’t be undone
And the peace you crave
Will be lost as your resolve will cave.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Time turns on wrinkled canvas,
winter spider in twilight hour
weaves senility web,
empty eyes wander in wasteland.
Hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss.
Face morphs into metaphor
for the past panorama dislodged,
captured in the snapshot
of narcissist impulse congealed.
Reason: It saves austere
and transparent phrases
from the filthy discord
of tortured words—opens
congealed fists of the past.
All is new—the bright sun
*Mathematics&Poetry—based on a mathematical square: the number of syllables in a line equals the number of lines.
Adapted from poetry by Czeslaw Milosz
Someday we will be.
Two will be congealed into one.
Two lives amalgamated together
to lead our lives as we are.
Our future lies in front of us,
an open road.
Our paths converge in unison.
Our lives unveiled
upon the earth's stage.
Concealment needed no longer.
Someday, we will lead
the life that is in our hearts.
Two hearts drumming together
uniting us forever.
O'er valley and dale
flashed lightning and hail
Brass buttons, glimpses of steel
Soon bullets whizzed by
cringing lads' shell-shocked eyes
Severed heads seen to spin and reel
Peach-fuzzed cheeks without beard
a frantic youth's cry seared
skies the color of blood congealed
Sharp pains split his chest
as he sobbed up the rest
of a life lost to fortune's wheel
Contest : Oxymoron
Sponsored by : Nette Onclaud
Date : September 3, 2025
Your congealed charm sprays spring colors,
folded buds of my heart unfurl.
You drift far transfixed in my sky
that falls floating with my life’s shards,
pain rhythm sutures broken heart whole.
I hear silent scream of flower
cry for old sunrise in new dawn,
see you turn dew pearls on petals.
I pushed at the open door,there was no sound,no noise,just darkness all around.Dust filtered my nostrils,a mustiness of lost years inhabited my senses.A loose floorboard creaked as I headed for the stairwell,the aroma of her Chanel provoked memories of my living hell.A tear of self-pity congealed in the dirt as I switched on the light."Hello son,...I knew you'd be back...He's gone..."
I pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered my
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of my
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet
I switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
He pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered his
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited his senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of his
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at his feet
He switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
I pushed at the open door,there was no sound,no noise,just darkness all around.Dust filtered my nostrils,a mustiness of lost years inhabited my senses.A loose floorboard creaked as I headed for the stairwell,the aroma of her Chanel provoked memories of my living hell.A tear of self-pity congealed in the dirt as I switched on the light."Hello son,...I knew you'd be back...He's gone..."
...and then...
What are we but relics
of time gone by
Where painful encounters
stay undenied
The wounds may scar over
but never heal
As memory is martyred
its blood congealed
New skin tries to cover
what sutures can’t hide
Each moment recovered
a falsehood decried
With strength built on pillars
of fortunes disdain
From deep in the shadows
—our essence remains
(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)
The Visitor
He pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered his
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited his senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of his
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at his feet
He switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
in winter of congealed land
the poignant stream froze
in the desolate valley of chilled flowers
unseen in the hills of blues
the spring of revived longing
melted glacier of innate hearty content
in lacustrine luster of sapphire embrace
where the blocks of essence ice
perched on actuality stones of yearned shore
formed the obelisk icon
the eternal connection
between the heavenly sky
and endless life force
re-post inspired by Constance form D contest
THICKER THAN WATER
I pushed at the open door, no sound
just darkness inside. Dust filtered my
nostrils, a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses. A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell, the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories of my
living hell. A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet.I switched on the light,
"Hello son I knew you'd be back;He's gone..."
The sunrise was like a fertilized egg
golden of yolk and flecked with blood,
it crowed to the mist filled morn.
It ran over the hillside frying the vegetation.
The brilliant white albumen flowed
into the vague gray day.
The egg itself blushed at the flattery
extending pseudo pods of white
like rays outward against
the steel gray of the frying pan
it's yolk congealed a burgeoning
like the celestial eye of Ra.
Lightning's her giggle
Thunder's her belly laugh
Rainbow's Nature's smile
Rivulets run down
Like tears from a weeping hill
Quenching valley's thirst
Stars have no power
There's no magic in moonlight
Rain's not angels' tears
With time and nature
Diamonds from coal and pearls
Congealed oyster spit
You can't fool Nature
She demands variety
All part of the Plan
From Nature's viewpoint
Each season in its own turn
Is the loveliest
dreams
conjures
fantasy ~
A gilded cage
or Icarus' wings?
the amethyst sky sings
serenading us, who sleeps
ephemeral though we may be
through this effervescent escapade
we who dream drifts along eternity
Eternity abides in those who dream
unwinding hopes too often congealed
painting the night with faith yet found
who can see illusions speak?
This unfeeling façade
beguiling the eyes
wipes our essence
redressing
them with
haze
abstract endings pacified
pedestrian beginnings,
save yourself before
you're slap-happy,
choking on interloping bourgeois
mind-control subterfuge
under a darkly cast spell of
plebeian sugarcoated reality,
waxing tween whitewashed rainbow
hues and unicorn attitudes,
beyond uncompromising comeuppances
from behind unglued glossed over walls'
congealed mid exoneration's excuses
“OYE” (“HARMATTAN”)
[BY OHWOJEVWE ESE GANIYU]
When
On harmattan wings
Flapped iced
Into my oblongata cold
Into moneyless sadness
Of our Saussure’s paper
Locked in
Folic signified signifier
In language
Too much mystique in
Folic signifier signified
Till tides come
When
On glorious dawns day
We acknowledge
That those potholes
We
Wobbled our way through
In
Thorns trumpeted
Into our ears
Too congealed
To hear Bata drums
Hypnotizing us
Into spag queens hall.