Short Wormwood Poems
Short Wormwood Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Wormwood by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Wormwood by length and keyword.
Wormwoods
Sometimes I have a
large number of
pinkie nail-sized wormwood nodding off in
my arms. I don’t mind. They sometimes rid the
condensation in
my warm bedroom.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
I glide, a heavy, odd glide,
Through a moody weekend,
Its gasps choked, and;
Taste like bitter wormwood.
Fragile hearted, I,
Tears soaked my eye,
A subtle soul rose high,
And still, ended a heavy cry.
I exhaled noxious smog,
My very aura got tainting,
Whatever virtue, I cling,
It's a long glid; I'm strong.
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.
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, the way putrefies
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood spells of bitter taste
Kind ways stagnate weakness and bitterness
Phoenix Sixain excerpt from The Pathless Path 5/20/26
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...
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.
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.
Form:
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?
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
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.
For an appointment, call Miss Goody Tooshoos at (504) 933-5280,
Or go to www.denofsin.com
Distinguish first from foremost at
MAGDALENA’S DEN OF SIN!
238 Exchange Alley, NOLA 70116
ADVERTISEMENT
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.
they listen.
they are not of life.
there are the names in this hollow circle
years of injustice
they shall eat the fruit thereof
wormwood shall fill you
eat less than you desire
and more than you deserve
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