"broomstick" poems
The gusts of wind rustle through his dark hair as he rides his broomstick
In the search of the golden snitch – In the search of the ferrety golden snitch.
And in his mind whizzes past an image – at lightning speed, very swiftly,
As his expert eyes go after the small shiny metallic ball.
The Nimbus 2000 he once owned has now been replaced with another
In the attempt to make him quicker – In the attempt to make him quicker.
His eyes look like his mother Lily’s – His father James was a Seeker,
This is an analogy of a natural case of heredity in Harry.
The old broomstick Nimbus 2000 he owned was broken into pieces
In his third year at the school of magic – In his third year at Hogwarts.
Dementors attacked him – in the Quidditch pitch during a match,
And he fell several feet below from air before Dumbledore saved him.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it
In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better
In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates
In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate
In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other
In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend
Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Sweeping past the lineroom yards
With a long hand held broomstick
Malayandi was a daily sight,
A hard and indelible insight
His quiet mouth a taco
Betel leaf and tobacco
The sweet red rose scent
Animate his hands to accent
Rhythms in the dirt puddle
strokes of savage broom
Frolic along sewage groom
Gargle alongside marbles
Rake up ripple giggles
Babbling bubbles fling
Driving mild stink flakes
To spread morning
Knit into a dead neat serenity.
On festival seasons vacations
Instead of grooming the vassal
comes blooming with big vessels
Collects cooked food in measures
From each and every homestead
People pour in quiet leisure
Rice in a *** of metal
Curry in another kettle
Filled with reverence and pleasure
His heart is brimming sure
All different kitchen meals
In a single container appeals
All children of the same ranch
With many a range
of community
A bonehomie of unity
The children heard
from their friend his daughter
They'd preserved
All those food in cold water
And all the while
They'd eat from it too
This collected meal
for a week or two
This made the children to
look up at them
With same respect due to
a national anthem
Are they more advanced?
With knowledge enhanced
In matters of life and cleanliness?
Malayandi was unaware
That his humble duty covered
Sweeping as well grooming
The children's hearts
With arts of rare sensibility.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
once there was a witch with a big black hat with a magic broomstick and big black cat
with her magic broomstick she could fly up in to the air one day she went to get it but the broomstick wasnt there
she looked in to her cauldren that was boiling near by for without her stick the witch she couldnt fly.
then she stirred and stirred hoping she might see if the cauldren could tell her where the broom might be
there she saw her broomstick flying on its own the broomstick had decided to fly off all alone
now it was getting dark and started to turn black then suddenly the broom decided to go back
it went back to the witch while it still had light now the witch was happy and so full off delight
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:42 AM UTC
you were flying around the Moon
when I first saw you
with your cat sat on the end of your broomstick
I thought witches belonged in fairytales
until you turned me into a frog
and yes it was love at first sight
just to hop around your cavern
keeping the flies at bay is a privilege
you are my fairytale princess
As heartless a witch one could wish for
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
You are a wonderful sister
Proud am I, to be your brother
And glad to know you're doing quite well
Working in London is so cool
Especially given the present economic situation
To the winds, were you willing to throw caution
And worked it has, like a charm
Always big, do you dream!
You are a wonderful sister
And though I haven't exactly been the best brother
For you, do I greatly care
Also, though blood need not always be thicker than water
To me, are you and always will you be dear
Supportive are you, to the core
And willing to see the good in everyone
Never, will you be alone!!
You are a wonderful sister
And take after our mother
Very shrewd and level-headed
Many a difficult situation, have you handled
With a surprising ease
Which seems to come to you as naturally
As flying a broomstick does, to Harry Potter
For anyone and everyone, do you care
Because, are you just and fair
Not to mention, was it you and Tamil
Who rescued me from my disaster of a marriage
For that, forever will I be grateful
Certainly, is your heart large!!
You are a wonderful sister
And a **** smart lawyer
We've been through good and bad times
But I remember mainly the good times
If you're happy, I am happy
Unfortunately though, often have I been snappy
However, deep down, do I always love you
And want only the best for you
Please take good care of yourself
Also, surely will I work on myself
Hopefully, will we visit you next year
And may the Lord bless you, now and forever!!
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 7:19 AM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Burn the witch,
set fire to the skin of this foul *****
allow smoke and flames to consume her,
take her in as a whole,
then spit her out in ashes.
Burn the witch,
and we'll dance around the bonfire,
see her hair catch alight,
as we sway to the rhythm of her screams.
Burn the witch,
broomstick for kindling,
cauldron on the boil.
Burn the witch,
selfish creature.
Burn the witch,
Burn the witch,
Burn the witch.
And when we're done,
we'll pray that she's gone this time
for good.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Doris bought herself a bike when she were 93.
Thought a trip to John 'O'Groats, would keep her flying free.
Started off at Lands End, from there on she did wobble.
Rode past the tanker.
****** driver,what a ******
He nearly knocked her off.
She noted down his registration number.
Took it to the cop shop.
Wasn't feeling very happy, poor old darling needs a *****
Got back on her bike, to resume her hike.
The raindrops poured and granny snored.
Had a kip while on her bike, maybe Granny needed a trike.
Got as far as the corner shop.
She fancied a little nibble.
Noticed it was getting dark.
She checked out the sky.
Decided cycling was too hard work.
So off she went.
Decided to fly.
Grabbed her broomstick from the hallway.
Off she flew, up, up and away.
Wahey Doris.
Witch granny on an away-day.
(C)LIVVI 2014
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few
Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address
All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry
From fanciful flights to greater heights
Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation
Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor
From Dumbledore, yet taking shape
Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot
A forest to roam, a philosophical stone
Such creative flair of which to share
Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind
Transporting train, journeyed acclaim
Of whom to impede, the will to succeed
The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach
An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority
Of which to seek with tenacity
Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined
Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply
To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst
Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage
A realised dream, challenge overcome
A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library
Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become
Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right
A rebuilt life, a legacy made
From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity
The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait
A shining star that would liberate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
In flashes,
her face dances
on top of a
broomstick body.
She refills
coffee cups and
her stomach with
butter pecan ice cream
and lovers' saliva.
But her lovers are
strangers
and her mouth is a
place
where secrets are locked
behind smoke stained teeth.
In flashes,
her ambitions escape
into the jet black night.
Cigarettes dropping like
sputtering fruit flies.
A size seven New Balance
buries a Marlboro corpse,
burning out like the light
in her kiwi eyes.
She returns to the diner.
What echoes reign free.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
The letter "B" doesn't Buzz; only Bees buzz... "You reap what you sow" is the only reason I wanna reap your ******* OFF.
Coz **** girl!! You got a bright future behind you. And I can promise you that it doesn't have to get dark for you to turn me ON...
#And since your body is a Temple, I will sweep it with my Broomstick...
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
The calm wind,
strokes the ****
The world drives,
the primes and hives,
of mad and trance.
The numb toes,
mounted moles.
The world drives,
the time and halves,
of mad and trance.
The chaos one,
does not know.
The world drives,
the wars and tyranny,
of mad and trance.
The feel of alive,
a touch of humanity.
The world drives,
justice of the immortals,
of mad and trance.
Peasants and pennies,
the drop of dime.
The world drives,
waters and commotions,
of mad and trance.
The fire in the alleyway,
burns the broomstick.
The world drives,
the dead and sad witches,
of mad and trance.
The bohemian ode,
nympomanics and satyriasis,
The world drives,
the desires and passions,
of mad and trance.
The sainted troops,
stalks, mocks, traps.
The world drives,
the obedience of lies,
in the mad and trance.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Forgive me for my lack of articulation
I don’t speak as retardedly prophetic as I used to
Or welcome death because no one knows it
When the fear of leaving
Is hell enough to stay
And the finish line is miles away
We will all meet it
At exactly the right time
We’ll both come in first
I promise
And
You
Well mouthed
Keeper of my darkness
Forgive me if I war trench your back at night
I’ve just never really known safety
Surprised at the size a man can be
When pressed to someone’s back
As the night covers all fronts
I know
I got love’s lashings scarring up my liver
When I drink myself to sleep at night
This morning
I awoke shortly after midnight from a text message
That took me an hour to respond to
Forgive me
I was thinking in dreams again
You were there
Watching me steal a pineapple popsicle and a Dr Pepper
From a vending machine
We then hopped in an airborne submarine
Only it was really a long broomstick between my legs
And your legs
And the legs of two others I’ve never met before
And we weren't ever really airborne
Even the figments of my imagination have to humor me
At times
And my ghosts are kind enough to leave before I awake
Playing poker over my body as I sleep
As I dream
As I startle
***** Drunken Poorly Invented Modern Sanskrit
Into the thick air
So cold I have to chisel the sweat away
I don’t sleep as soundly as I used to
Or speak as well
Or think as thoroughly
I just know what feels good when I don’t want it to
And I don’t know any other way to tell you
To slow down and wait for me
Because I am sure that
We’ll get where we’re supposed to be going
Exactly when we’re supposed to
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 4:24 PM UTC
i am a clusterfuck
of metaphors
i have a broomstick
in my eye
i am a young man
hey all you young girls
let's do what we do
i am a **** up
i grabbed the pan
that burned the biscuits
my flesh is searing
your tears are cool wet milk
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
the witch
by michael r. burch
her fingers draw into claws
she cackles through rotting teeth ...
u ask “are there witches?”
pshaw!
(yet she has my belief)
Keywords/Tags: witch, witches, Halloween, fingers, nails, claws, talons, cackle, cackles, teeth, rotting, rotten, broom, broomstick, cat
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:07 AM UTC
I'll weave my spell
cook up a brew
carve a jack o lantern
all just for you.
And later tonight
with my long broomstick
I will fly us o'er the moon
and I won't be quick.
I'll dance in the moonlight
your name will be my chant
take your breath like a succubus
making you only able to pant.
On Halloween my magic I'll use
my love spell will be complete
as I charm you all night
as you are my trick or treat.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
There once was a man named Lymerick,
And sadly he was very sick,
But he wanted a kiss,
Though his love was amiss,
so he stuck with kissing the broomstick!
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
You were standing in a red cardigan.
You told me somehow a bat had got in.
I got a broom and a bucket and put on a hat. We put the bucket on the broom and that was that. You told me to get the bat back out outside or don't come back to bed, I went to war with this 4 oz mammal, the war is on I said. I'm going to get it. Get outta this house or you're going to find yourself dead.
I made a war face, it swooped down at me, I said oh no you don't and threw the bucket over his wings, and that was that. That was it, and I won the war. That was that, I put it outside and then I closed the door.
Your red cardigan was easy to spot, even though you didn't have any makeup on, I saw you sitting there in the corner chair. Bucket on a broomstick you looked absurd to me, I asked you if you wanted something to drink. You said no, I just want to go back to sleep. I said oh, do you want to go to bed back with me.
Take off that silly red jacket, and that hat that doesn't match. Put on something more for sleeping and then let's get it on. You said okay. I said I'm starving. I told me to eat something if I was starving.
I picked you up and threw you down on the bed, I pulled off your pj's and your underwear fast. I said I'd like to eat out, you said you were thrilled, I said I won the war now I'm going to stake my win. You grabbed my head and pulled it closer to you, I grabbed you with my arms I knew what to do. Mammal, mammal, animal in me, I said let's play for keeps, you said I want you inside of me. I laid you down down down down and it was on on on I said let's get things hot hot hot you said I turn you on on on, I said I'd just begun.
We danced ourselves awake until the morning light arrived. And then I heard a sound from the window outside. I think he's back, I said, you said don't focus on him, I said I can't leave it if the war hadn't ended. I kissed your face I kissed your legs, I asked you to spit in my mouth. I'm you're warrior just hold on while I **** this flying rat, you made a face, I grabbed the broom, you put your red cardigan back on and met me with the bucket inside the living room.
I took the broom as my sword and the bucket as my shield, I take our heraldry very seriously. I through the broom in the air, and caught the bat with my shield, she went to open the door, I went to open the freezer. Not in there she screamed, but he'll never make it out alive. She said it'll make everything else smell I said he's got to die, I grabbed him by the wings and took him to the kitchen at once, turned on the garbage disposal and pushed him through it. Blood on my shirt, blood on the stove. Blood was everywhere even across her nose. I won the war I said with a gleam of excite, she said now come back to bed so you can claim your gift and your prize. So I went back to bed and gave her back my head. I stuck my tongue out far as I possibly could. And I went down, I went down down town. Oh I went down. I went down down town. I went to town, I went down down town. I went to town. I went down down town.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
I wonder where my little pagan princess is?
No doubt, she's out casting spells,
or getting her nails, hair, and lips painted black.
I gave her a broomstick for her birthday and said it was cheaper on gas than her Saab.
She failed to see the humor in it.
What I wouldn't give to find a woman that dug watching sunsets, The Three stooges, and listening to Miles Davis; that looked alive, instead of like Morticia from the Adams Family, or some demented funeral
director on crack.
She's got a meeting with the
coven tonight.
I suggested that we get some
Chardonnay, put on some Van Morrison, and make love by
the fireplace.
She just cackled and flew off,
in her Saab, not on the broomstick.
Jun 12, 2023
Jun 12, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,
Clean swathe through the valley,
Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,
Pieces,
Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,
-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-
A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.
A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.
Freedom has come at last.
The lush valley,
Though it took years,
Has been traversed.
The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,
And as was written,
The cockroach was right.
When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
Women are angels
If someone breaks our wings
We will simply continue to fly...
on a broomstick.
We're flexible like that.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC