Short Congealing Poems
Short Congealing Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Congealing by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Congealing by length and keyword.
Congealing his anger
clotting his will
Attacking your weakness
— to hemorrhage until
(Dreamsleep: October, 2025)
Summer
intense, fiery
burning, scorching, blistering
heat, wildfires, ice, snow
freezing, chilling, congealing
frosty, arctic
Winter
Ó November 17, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Mud
The Mud
Is the earth's black congealing blood
Rising above from the flood
Nature's pottery clay
The worm's die cursing
Into the Seagulls beak
As the tide retreats
Under sodden sock's and granny feet
KILLING JAR
you promised to kill…
this morning a
dark head pacing
sidewinding
slimy sublime
narcissi
the blood read:
trespassers will be
persecuted
strangled
pungent veins
entangled
crammed pulp
congealing
filling
killing jar
© Kim van Breda—10 November 2015
Form:
Bessie the cow
a prizewinning specimen,
has sadly relinquished
her gold rosette
Ruby red ribbons
of congealing blood
coat the floor
of the abattoir
The silly cow
ignored the bull,
farmer Fred’s freezer
will be full!
Ribbon Contest
Sponsored By Line Gauthier
3/25/19
A heart
Never used now
Shall die
Dying
A congealing
Dead beat
Beaten
Down to silence
Some where
Where pure
passions exist
Then flee
Fleeing
Soulless to hide
Now lone
Lonesome
Turns to fury
At heart
Heartless
Cold and hollow
Always
Rick Lamoureux's contest
"Mussetle Train"
Her bloodstained wedding dress clings to her shaking body
On the floor his corpse lies in a pool of congealing blood
He’d revealed his secret, he was in love with the best man
It was meant to be the happiest day of their lives…
Jan Allison
Contest – four lines
Sponsor - Broken Wings
09~20~15
Crippling anxiety
Tearing away from sobriety
How else do you get through?
Attempting not to give in
Struggling to grin
And bare the macabre
Heart racing
Stomach pacing
It’s like a marathon run
That never ends
Suffocating feeling
Sounds congealing
The scars grow deeper
Running far away
To the sunny rays
Of a paradise free of torture
O the eternal bliss of peace!
Like a traitor to the cause of humanity,
you did not receive the impression of my dream
in peace, congealing into flesh, the enumeration of
my nightmare, giving evidence against your soul.
But, notwithstanding, have no delay;
you may yet effectuate this business of peace every day.
You may have slumbered here,
but the vision did not disappear.
I crave the quiet not the dark,
filled with such a heavy feeling;
The silence so overwhelming
always obliterates that spark;
This ship you can’t disembark,
even as your mind’s left reeling;
I crave the quiet not the dark,
filled with such a heavy feeling;
On my psyche it’s left it’s mark,
vital blood begins congealing;
As I stare up at the ceiling,
I crave the quiet not the dark.
Might I'm wielding,
Coping dealing...
Blight unyielding,
Prying, peeling.
Writhing turning,
Twisting churning...
Mindless yearning,
Lauding, purring.
Stomach keeling,
Curdling, reeling...
Now repealing,
Good sense of being.
Thoughts reverting,
Sleepless, spurning...
Legs-a-stirring,
Nae adjourning.
Whipping wheeling,
Grip congealing...
Hope that healing,
Smites these feelings.
I am a man searching for a place.
I turn about staring into a vista, just hence –
just erased.
The temperature nosedives
while eyes wince.
The congealing air grows muscles, a brawny blanketing.
It is a young ghost needing to be revealed
in the cold-sweat of existence,
a fledgling elemental seeking form.
I can’t help but feel that I am just coincidental,
not any part of what’s happening here.
Eleventh month when the Sun parched the toppled trees
Winds of South rallying on bended knees
Birds and beasts plunge on tarns and soft mountains
Running waters congealing like sedentary fountains...
Only one tree will stand tall
On Christmas Day as dusts and spalls begin to fall
Two days of live still pictures
On painted strokes and prilled erasures
One spark will clear the brume and waves of the unknown...
the hygge!
Listen to poem:
An herbaceous arbor
flanks the harbor
where he labors
fitting words to spaces --
blanks he fills, erases.
He savors bits of meaning,
sculpting sound to logic's shape,
annealing word and image,
polishing a verbal mound
congealing on his pad.
A bird chirps.
Song distracts.
A moment's lapse.
He compares the bird's
with his own work,
considers form and content,
sees the gaps,
tosses his dead page
into the water's murk.