Short Witchy Poems
Short Witchy Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Witchy by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Witchy by length and keyword.
I'm a witchy poet
witch and poet in one shot
shaping and healing
America's thought of soul
poetess rots not-- lives on!
Form:
World wide wonder webs, watch thread
She spins in the dead of the night.
Fright in the bite of the witchy head
Woman black widow on the couch. Ouch!
Three rather out-of-date witches
Faced small unexpected glitches
Cursed the night they were burned
Eternally they yearned
For youthful beauty and riches
Andrea Marcovicci was never witchy
Even though she would get pretty itchy
To finish her breakfast fast
So she could coach all the cast
Then nobody would get too twitchy
Wild wily witchy cat sat on a spell book, looking phat.
We gave him a wide berth for he is a professional pitter pat.
And you don’t want to rile up a Halloween cat like that!
Yes, blame the chick,
Rocker or hick,
Burning here,
Hands appear!
Witchy fire,
Doomed desire,
Blasted, didn't care,
She's a don't care bear,
Guess she felt good,
Blasted the whole 'hood!
Written: October 22, 2023,
______________________________
Slight-shaped stygian sign swung in fiendish award
Witchy mage threw itchy gunpowder and abhorred
Are witches real, I mean those that cast spells
Only referring to those that in dark castles dwell
Not talking silly witchcraft
About those in movies cast
But real witchy-poos that remind us of hell
Witch in Salem, you see,
Needs spelling, tee hee,
Wizard held another,
Toad was his mother,
Witchy cast charms,
Warts on his arms,
Bald was his head,
Maidens did dread,
Pustules appeared,
Grinning, witch feared!
There are bottles of honor
In my hands
Making me withstand
This foreign land!
I am a witchy brand
So this is what
The world must understand!
There is fire in my mind
Which keeps on
Rewinding on and on
Taking me off course!
Witchy Longstockings has three wildly competitive cats
They like playing on her ginger braids which extend to the flats
She knocks them off gently, and they always land on their feet
Then she mentions their kibble and they trot off to eat.
'Tis the season of the spooks!
Don't look into dark corners or nooks.
Laughing pumpkins and witchy hats,
Dancing brooms and flying bats.
Evening teas with Casper and Frankenstein,
Don't look under the bed once the clock strikes nine!
Hey Witchy
You want hair of the dog
Tongue of frog
Eye of newt
Or an old army boot
Hey Witchy
Toil and trouble
Boil and bubble
Throw all you got
In your black pot
Hey Witchy
What's your notion
In your potion
Can I see
Is it magic or just laundry
Written by Gail DeBole
on March 12, 2020
The witch loved to fly on her broom.
It fit like a cozy old shoe.
Magic led her the way
As she flew in the day
And zoomed on her broom to the moon.
No electric transport for her.
Her broom hid her in a blur.
So fast did she fly
In the blink of an eye
All you heard was a magical whrrrr.
She thought
her idea
wonderfully brilliant,
he could only defenestrate
any
thought not
his own, and so, bag and baggage
she became the homeless
slightly loco
witchy
woman
of forest glen,
legendary tender
of fair magical mystical
critters,
secret
Elven friend and full moon dancer,
silly mushroom picker~
but I just call
her Mom.
Witchy Gives Birth
The following Halloween Witchy gave
birth to a handsome Magic Picture Frame. She
was so so angry she missed the Grave
Halloween Party in Hiss; she
spent the whole night locked in (no one
came!) the Elmwood Hospital room One
where she had to choose a name
that the Jovian doctor, the father, the Knave,
didn’t think was lame.
Stinking, gassy
Lady of the night
Flinging your hate
Sharing your plight
Succubus of want
Soft and perfumed
Angel from the depths
How close you have loomed
Syrupy kiss
Dripping with pleasure
A pleasant subpoena
To a fertile treasure
Black double helix
Dressed for the ball
Come on, Witchy!
Give me a call!
Yoked and complete
Drowning in my shame
Dark and lonely son
He knows who to blame
I know I am being witchy
My glare is strong angry even
But do I stop?
No.
I am not ready
To get over this bad mood
Holding on to it
For silly reasons
My husband asks if I want anything in the store
Just to be able to stay in the car I reply
The second he gets in I ask "Did you get any potatoes?"
He looks at me for about half a second
Before we both start laughing
End of bad mood
The frost on the pumpkin has yet to appear
In the forecast no 'partly witchy' tonight
Though goblins and ghosts decorate lawns
Thoughts of Halloween (still) seem to be yawns
Yet today a jet-black cat crossed my path
And a crack in the sidewalk caused me to stumble
But it's just too darn hot for this stuff... Do the math
At 85 degrees angry bees can still bumble
That blackie cat sat fattened 'neath the ol' pumpkin moon,
While the yummies in his tummy sang a hummy little tune,
No more twitchy, glitchy, witchy tails or mousey little feets,
For he'd gobbled all those goblins up as trick-or-treat eats!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Good Luck Halloween" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
( I used photograph number two )
You cannot miss it, she said.
I gave a bit of a scoff.
I have missed a lot.
She gave me a cough.
Seriously, she said,
Just come on by.
You’ll know it right away.
I wondered how and why?
But when I got to the lane
I knew right then.
She lived in that house.
My witchy pooh friend.
It was a witch’s boot.
High and pretty, not plain.
I recognized your hand I told her
as I turned up this lane.
Eerie
Witches
Ugly
Creepy
Freaky
Sneaky
Floating
Chanting
Cackling
Laughing
Broom sticks
Flying
Moonlight
Passing
Shadows
Waving
Witchcraft
Praying
Evil
Lethal
Hexing
People
Wilful
Wanton
Values
Rotten
Cats and
Magic
Crazy
Manic
Fear and
Panic
Wicked
Antic
Spell cast
Spoken
Lotion
Potion
Hocus
Pocus
Witchy
Slogan
17.10.23
Creepy
Oozing
Pimply
Witchy
Ominously lit by bonfire
Grabs me to throw on hot coal pyre
I run
I jump
I yell
I scream
They drag me back kicking and hitting
I refuse to stop, never quitting
Drug her
Mug her
Smack her
Crack her
Alert, I refuse to go easy
They let me go, my stomach queasy
Owlish
Foul-ish
Smelly
Bad stuff
I feel quite grateful, big and rough
Glad Mommy taught when to be tough.
The bleak sky
begins its heavenly cry
as loose leaves burrow
in the marsh.
Pour another cup,
fill it with my lust for
choosing rain.
Sunken branches sway,
the wind breaks their trust.
The longing for despair,
the longing for disdain.
Promise me, a fool,
a tool in your game,
that your falling ivy
won’t bury me with dust.
Cradle me with fear,
cradle me with touch.
The chore of keeping
our core together through the pain
Witchy, with a big fat wart
so horrid not a man would court.
She could have shed it with a spell,
so handsome men would ring her bell.
But Witchy's not the sharpest tool.
In conjuring, she was the fool.
A spell to be craved and adored.
She giggled as her magic poured.
Now she sits upon a log.
Just a big old slimy frog.
Toads adore her big fat wart.
Droves of them hop by to court.
Handsome men, her legs do crave;
fried in a pan or microwaved!