Short Wormwood Poems

Shamir infection,

    wormwood,worm eaten human,

           the Souls destroyer......

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Black licorice stick tastes very good.
Each day for three weeks ate all she could.
     How dumb could she be?
     Very dumb was she —
with its toxicity like wormwood.

4/29/2021...

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Passions Flower
Edward Clay
March 2008

Hibiscus
no wall-flower you.
Nor Nosegay laurel.
Not wormwood at virgin’s-bower.
So sweet William 
seeing Venus’s looking-glass
discovers a Passion-flower....

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Only mince words for society’s detriment.
Mollycoddle youth for the future’s corruption.
Beware of using political correction,
society’s wormwood; overdose for descent. 
Today’s apocalypse is due to discontent....

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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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I warn thee, chylde, of hemlock's wayes,
Such Berys ende thy tender Dayes.
If thou would'st eat Forbidden fruit,
Trie the Pulp and drawe the Root-
Its Wormwood and its Poyson'd sap
Woulde take thee to thy Maker's lap.
Thus Forbidden fruit woulde draw
Thee to Eden's Joye once more....

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when dark loneliness wrapped around my soul
and held tight to the chill of my desire
leaving me a draught wormwood
that lay rotting in the murky ground...of time passing




9/14/19
contest Arbitrium Divisa 4 Poetry Contest
sponsor Gregory R Barden
from the poem There Came a Season
posted 9/13/19...

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The island is the green house
Where Wormwood rises above the daybreak
And yeah, he's pretty lonely,
With the world's tears bubbling over
On the counter, in a rhombus-shaped kia tub
Made from kia rocks found and bound
Along the shoals of the island,
Which is the ocean, which is the clouds, 
Which is the green house of Mr. Wormwood....

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honoring Rimbaud's birthday

... for some,

the wormwood of unholiness is the only sacrament known,

the ecstasy of wickedness their hymn, their

prayer, their psalm,

and the thunder-crashes aren't from hell alone

but a realm of madness known as god

thrashing about in gleeful drunkenness and

sudden epiphany of birth,

virgin in shimmering, ravishing darkness,

forever - ever, and amen......

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He dreams of thin chickens pecking at a dirt floor.
A big brown teapot is stuffed with scraps of poetry;
words waiting to be led out like bawling cattle
into the haze and dust.

As he does every day, he seeks some less worked earth
to plant words into, hopes they will mature into
filler, grout, and spackle to patch up his wormwood.
Mostly they scatter on a dry wind
until night reclaims them....

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Again, the Green hour
my love,
like the blossoming
of unfelt desires.

Again, the beauty
my love,
earnest in such
keen undertakings.

Again, the miseries
of romances
lost, murderous. . .
liars.

Again, the glee
of the wretched
and their vile
foresakings.

Absinthe,
of Wormwood,
your poisons,
intoxicating. . .
My mind,
my body,
of souls' lost. . .

Again, the Green hour
my love....

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Of what use is a joyless muse?
What purpose could she serve?
Fit for naught but sardonic comedy,
too gruesome to harvest laughs,
or the chèvre’s ancient tragedy-
but what good is that?
Is life not acrid and dank enough
for muses to bitter be?
Is wormwood manuscript a balm
for exhausted humanity?
Oh where, Olympian maiden,
did all your mirth depart?
Is mortal life not pained enough
we must suffer too in art?...

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Timed delicacies was baked and ready,
Hela was called to bless before they merry.
Earth of disruption; he continues praying.

Pecking the wormwood with request laying.
Raining praises cajoled by nature's product,
Appraising God for their footwears and the ducks.
Yawning still and making reference to his car,
End of his prayer was after seven hours.
Respecting sleep; Sam,Joe,Lisa are drowned.
        17:13:08:17:00...

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We’ve got all the whys and wherefores: 

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

HUMBLE PIE

SOUR GRAPES

HIGH JINKS

DEMON RUM

GALL and WORMWOOD

BATHTUB GIN

FOOD for THOUGHT

Tickle her fancy! 
Petite and plus sizes available.

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Or go to www.denofsin.com

Distinguish first from foremost at 
MAGDALENA’S DEN OF SIN!
238 Exchange Alley, NOLA 70116

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La Fée Verte, Mistress of Wormwood, 
High Consort of la Belle Époque,
Shimmering with joie de vivre.
She’s holding court with bohemian charm,
All haute couture with feathers and furs,
Promising what fools believe.

One spends the night with mademoiselle
In bondage to her whims and mercies,
Content to be softly chained,
Then wakes up nude in the Paris Commune,
A subject of interest in the Dreyfus Affair,
Wishing one had just abstained....

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To drink from the chalice of loneliness
filled with my passion's pain
taken from the crooked hand of age
clenched by the years of love's soul
its wormwood draught is less bile that stains
to let spill and wash the earthen floor of time
where my heart now lives
in its dim-lit realm of shades
where shadows cloak the darkness
and tomorrows fade away
I'll gouge out the grieving globes
that is my eyes...so I may only hear
my rambling rumblings of rumination
of why you died 


3/2/18...

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