"conjurer" poems
Oh ROSE! How immeasurably I adore you!
So expressive, you are! Eloquent and evocative!
Robed in red, you say to the world, “I love you,”
And speak all about courage and respect.
In white, purity and innocence are your names;
Then you’re a bride, heavenly, and in silence;
You’re clothed in secret silence and youthfulness,
And humility that commands world’s reverence.
Your pink is happiness; dark pink says “thank you”;
In yellow, it brings joyfulness and friendship;
With red added, the world would fall in love;
And orange—it’s full of desire and enthusiasm.
Red-and- yellow is jovial; peach, modesty;
Coral is desire; and lavender, love at first sight.
But you’re never black, for you know, it is sad.
How gifted a poet you are! A great symbolist!
A bud in red is purity and loveliness coupled,
One in white, emerges elegantly as a girl in her teens;
And a bud, if thorn-less, calls for love at first sight.
Oh, your magic tricks! How great a conjurer you are!
If single, you’re devotion; twin says, Marry me;
Six, suggest need to be loved; eleven says, Truly loved;
While in thirteen, you say I’m your secret admirer.
Oh! It’s wizardry! So overwhelming! So breathtaking!
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
1
*In the masquerade of a poet
he acquires secret wings,
becomes equal parts real and unreal,
treading the twilight zone.
He still is an apprentice
with the conjurer,
incomparable wizard
who never stops amazing
being the anarch of slight of hand,
the illusionist grand,
we in the flow who swim or drown
in the river, known as life
that none ever defined the way it really is.
2
Inside his cubicle
transformed to a scribe by a curse
when he coveted it, was a boon
he is real, all his magical powers robbed
by the day light, realities of life
he is grappling with news
that make his heart grow weak.
He is now a sobbing poet within,
firmly handcuffed to a pact strict,
only to write reports, that's his might
anything of beauty he couldn't escape,
its all pain in forms unimaginable
most of it man made, even famine.
A life swinging between a hope
to come in terms with
the uncertainties of the ebb and flow
that breaks his heart bit by bit,
and facing realities stark that drives a knife
has become the rut, he wouldn't escape.
Dawn peeps through the window blind
he has lost meaning for day and night long time back
when this double life, has trapped him in this pen*
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Conjurer of spells,
I stir phrases
in a witch's cauldron.....
wizard's breath to
tint the potion
Let it boil over
Reduce the excess
add emotion
and a four leaf clover
Temperature at serving time defines the tone and
type of incantation
Cold spells work
as heartless breaths
Warm ones jubilation
Hotter brew brings swift results
Careful even death
My sorcery is well disguised
as poetry and song.
I'll have you laugh,
yank a tear or
make a day
feel twice as long.
I'll look you in the eye
as I feed you all
my truths and lies
None can break the grip
of words I wield,
won't know to even try
Warlock...my voice enchants
let me whisper in your ear
You'll result bewitched....
but if I hold you high .....
there's never need to fear
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
Vulnerable smile, cherubic. Vessel in the well.
Watery eyes. First tooth. Nameless relation.
New birth. Memories. New joys. Old pain.
Overflowing love. Half-voice. Kin-sister.
Stars, crackling up in the creux. A relation called
Nights. Angling; moon. brumeux love, half-hug,
Nets wide cast; comets pass. folded in the wallet.
Pouring out. Half-gong. Calling to the valleys.
Brook. Shadowy corners. Tongues, welling up
Delight, discovery. voices, hushed whispers
Bleating with the sheep, hymns rising.
crying with the birds, Conjunctions of states.
whirling with the winds; Conjurer of fawns.
Casting; soil; roots; new growings;
smiling, spiralling around the hollow,
new life; a cherub, the new dawn.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
*It all started in the town Warwickshire,
within Stratford-upon-Avon
a magician invented a spell
a thaumaturgy from Ovid's
magnum opus and Holinshed Chronicles
that whispered an image
of kings and battles
which turned into a game of bewitchment!
Hail the Globe Theatre
where the throng gathered
and witness the sorcery
ensorcelled by the conjurer
though spell cast into ashes
and turn dreams
into a nightmare
Yet, 'Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.'*
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
Mention this word
and a picture of white skin
and glowing red eyes
will be the first thing
that my mind creates.
My brain,
a cheap conjurer of tricks,
is closely affiliated with that adjective
maniac, madman, mayhem
insane
What's in a name
as
p
s
y
c
h
o
is whispered in the chilly November wind?
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes,
Louder and nearer
Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you,
Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.
In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fretful with quills.
Here in the ruck, anyhow,
Surging along,
Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs--
Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles--
Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves
Round the first bed, where the Chief
(His dressers and clerks at attention),
Bends in inspection already.
So shows the ring
Seen from behind round a conjurer
Doing his pitch in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;
While from within a voice,
Gravely and weightily fluent,
Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly
(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)
Out of a quiver of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quick intaken through teeth
Clenched in resolve. And the Master
Breaks from the crowd, and goes,
Wiping his hands,
To the next bed, with his pupils
Flocking and whispering behind him.
Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes
Stripped up, and showing his foot
(Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint
Brilliantly hideous with red.
1.4k
The prehensile snout of a Tapir
is posturally renowned,
but I am no caricaturist
unless I required Rhinoplasty
Neither am I an
Air Force Major or a Fireman,
never having shot or doused in anger
never clanged quid pro quo,
I am a wordsmith, without a necessarily dangerous course,
a wedgeless door stop this side of juxtaposition,
trying for a profile,
riding on a buzz,
to think so few images
could conjure so much verdure
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
Poison
The First
The Serpent
The Water
The venomous black ink
Slithers endlessly
Silently
Until she reaches her prey
Power
The Second
The Demon
The Fire
The burning red ember
Watches now
Patiently
As her victim is drawn to her warmth
Sorcery
The Third
The Conjurer
The Wind
The Shadow Of The Night
Needs only
To exist
And her casualty swarms to her allure
A trifecta binds, seeking
A fourth
The man
The earth
The flesh and the bone
A host and a home
A willing sacrifice
Falling victim to her charm
Silently striding to his own demise
He succumbs completely
She devours wholly
The elements are in order
The black magic witch is born
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
I conjure you in my dreams.
Grecian Goddess that you are
arms and legs lined with colors
that bleed out of your tattoos
like the prettiest pieces of heaven.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives
i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
nonsense
or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 7:41 PM UTC
guardian,
citadel of the rocks
sea-empress
sea jade
soft conjurer.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
i would like
to turn in
my wizardry card
i would like
to drop
an art bomb
an f-bomb
(a freak bomb)
and disappear
in a fog of
green smoke
oh, you didn't know?
i am
the queen of rocking art
i am a sorcerer
a conjurer
of souls
and color
i have been
crowned
by children
i eat and sleep
children
their hopes
their disappointments
i hold up
a mirror
and make them
face themselves
their success
their failures
then i cast
spells to
inspire their
action
stand ready
to catch tears
and embrace
joy
i conjure
experiences
made of
graphite
stop bath
zeroes000 and ones111
and | pigment |
at an
impossible rate
i look inside
the souls
of
every
single
child
to find
which of
my magics
will spur
them to greatness
and my magic
grows
i use sorcery
to accumulate
new recipes
new spells
new questions
i use my wand
to summon
the forces
of earth
to make time
stand still
i forgo food
and rest
because demand
for this
queen
is
high
but alas,
i want to
turn in my
wizard card
hand it to
my overlords
because
my superhuman
wizardry
is not enough
my e x p l o s i o n s
of thought
my insistence
on quality
my very
humanity...
all
swords
in my side
i have
mastery over
light
colors
seep into
every
word uttered
every
letter written
every
glance
from my
eyes
i am a
sorcerer
(read: i am a nys teacher)
but sorcery
is not enough
my overlords
want
the gods, themselves
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
So, what is a
Phonophilosomancer:
A word that evolved over time
from within my mind as a whim
to the associations I now have established within it's earthly form,
namely a word:
"Phonophilosomancy"
First it was "Phonomancer", a conjurer of sound, vis-a-vis music;
an embellished way of saying "Musician".
Then "philosopher" came into the mix;
but to incorporate this aspect of my mind
I incorporated into "Phonomancer" the Greek prefix "Philo-", meaning knowledge
and so, "Phonophilosomancer" came to be the term
I like to use to describe my creative, spiritual and philosophical tendencies.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
No.sun.will
Shine.in.my day today.
The high yellow moon.wont come out to.play
Darkness has covered my light
And turned my day into night
Where is the love to be found.
Wont somone tell me now.
I.. I got to.pick myself.from.off.the ground
In this ya concrete jungle
Where the livin aint easy....man I got to face reality.
No chains around.my.feet but im not free.
I still am.bound here in captivityy
I never know happness
Never know.what sweet rest is
Instead of concrete jungle
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Far ahead, beyond the horizon
is the pillar of shadow that
I set out in search of:
Past waves drenched of gold
and silver nights, I rode on, beyond
islands and signets.
I dreamed of worlds of light
past the winter of faith where
prayers freeze and the days still-born
But at the edge of the world
the shadow is still long
and the light-house I imagined
of shores beyond darkness
remains distant. In the deep
the shivering sky mourns
an ancient loss. What language
does the teardrop speak?
Beyond the horizon, there is a
pillar of shadow that rises
in the firmament of my soul.
Clenching a song in my fist, tonight
I rise, drawing out like filings,
the magician of my world,
conjurer of truths, I am
the magnet for secrets, onward!
I have a shadow to resolve.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
I have become so unhealthy, some may say insane
The way i conjurer up ideas to try provoke the pain
They way i like to run outside and stand out in the rain
They way i obsess over my blood as i watch it pump through the veins
I'm slowly slipping down the slope, no way of coming back
If I unleash my real thoughts I may cause a heart-attack
How I stumble threw the mist of lies, to search for truth or fact
I cant compress life anymore, my brain has now been hacked
It has been corrupted by the government, corrupted by the schools
The way they keep me in line and tell me all the rules
They lead us down the garden path as though we where just fools
Well I have suppressed my inner demon and now I have the tools
I will break out ,shake up, shout loud and take all
There is no way of breaking me, you shall not see me fall
If judgement day is upon de you shall not see me stall
Someone should inform Jericho, i'm breaking down the walls
I am a biological machine, with a brain that's finely tuned
When i release the steam, emotion can't be groomed
If you wish to stop me, then condemn me to my tomb
I'm past the point of it, this flower shall not bloom
You may call this unhealthy, you may call this insane
But this is the path i have to walk to get me through the game
My head will be raised, held high, I will not bury it with shame
It is time for me to make a stand and not pass on the blame.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
There is a Polestar in my head pointing
constantly to you: wonder woman, I can
smell the fragrances in your unfurled hair
fluttering in the winds drunk of the earth
wet with the promise of coming rains.
Though all coloured shadows, these be,
images that I dwell amongst, cut rough
they are, my fingers bleed at their edges:
I am in a kaleidoscope of a distant viewer,
the secret turner of the wheels of our fates.
I keep searching for you by the banks of
a lake draped in receding shroud of mists,
at the place where the river bends, teary
eyes moist in memories and where the
the whole world's upturned in her *****
It must be the wood, that waded into
our home one spring and snatched you off
into her depths; Or that I am a conjurer -
I conjured you into my life desolate in
springs; I conjured you out in the rains.
All the eddies are time-warps that hold
smiles and tears, embalmed, hugging one
another like old loves, that you hop on
crossing spates and reaching for the caves
that line the edges of the horizon hills.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
CITY OF THE SOUL
Dawn, take my sorrows.
I tired of being a passenger
of the dark.
Make me awash with sensation.
Let me forget despair.
Let me feel the city’s vibration.
I want to be a carefree wanderer
upon wide open boulevards,
piercing the veil of shadows’
oblivion, following a series
of endless crossroads
towards some conflagration
of urban lights, captured
by the conjurer of thoughts
agility.
I reach into all the hidden spaces
searching for the essence of myself.
Only there in the vastness of starless
unconsciousness can I perceive
that celestial expanse of light.
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 3:58 AM UTC
He will, 'cause they always do
'cause they're "different", they always say
And I hold his scraps like a pillar
Like a conjurer I let them fade
Let them feed my hate
Feed my disgust, he did
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Do you want to sketch all your life
Or learn to paint a master piece?
Do we not sketch to learn, to develop, to grow?
So why do you still sketch?
What more do you hope to learn?
That people are vulnerable?
That you can hurt them?
That you can leave them?
Are you not tired of sketching outlines?
Don't you long for tonal quality?
For careful composition and a considered pallet?
I know your secret!
That the canvas scares you, terrifies you even.
All that you will be revealed on that unforgiving scape.
That expanse of white which must be filled and not by charcoal and line.
You will be revealed, exposed and displayed for all to see.
You will be revealed in the shading,
In the sensitivity you give to light and to contrast.
Yes, you will be revealed...
But in it you will be filled in.
You will have no freedom to remain as an outline of a man,
With all hidden in fine graphite lines and hastily hatched shadow.
You will have to mature as a man, as an artist of the soul
And set yourself free on a canvas with confidence and brush!
What a liberation!
Will the first canvas be a masterpiece?
In all likelihood no!
But it will be a beginning
And how can you consider yourself an artist if you never paint!
How many sunflowers did Van Gough paint? How many chapels?
Was he satisfied with any of them?
And was each of them worthwhile?
Paint my friend, take up your brush and paint.
Use colour boldly,
Reserve fear and reservation for other pursuits
Or better still leave them from your pallet altogether.
Be sensitive and subtle with your treatment of the subject,
frame her well, carefully
But be bold.
There is little point in holding back.
Do you want your canvas to scream, "Hesitation!"?
Paint or don't, but if you choose not to, declare it to the world!
Do not act like a painter, talk like a painter and look like a painter,
If you do not paint!
Declare "I like to sketch"
And sketch until you bear no longer to leave a subject unexplored in a monochromatic if artistic hiatus.
Be true, be bold, be clear and when you feel the time is right paint with the same honesty and boldness with which you sketched.
Then it will be a true training,
Not the pontification a of a trainee conjurer working above his station.
Complete your apprenticeship, graduate,
And step forth into the world.
Confident, upright, paint brush in hand.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
words containing the most addictive of seasonings,
eyes glistening with the thought of love,
lips speaking whispers of enchantment,
fingers grazing with the most tender of touches.
you threw away your seasonings,
you left your eyes to dull,
your whispers distorted into shouts,
and your touch diminished.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC
Christine winds
the necklace
around her
going red
small finger
the small linked
silver chain
swells the flesh
why do that?
the quack asks
to get me
away from
deeper pain
she utters
the quack scowls
his eyebrows
like dark birds
join in deep
hovering
signs of non
approval
she unwinds
the necklace
the finger
once again
turning white
practising
she whispers
shoving it
deep within
the cleavage
of her plump
bra-less *******
the quack stares
like some kid
taken in
by an old
conjurer’s
sleight of hand
all gone now
can't see trick
you big *****
she mutters
feeling then
the warm chain
fall between
her closed thighs
sitting there
silver links
shut away
from his eyes.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
The skilled user of words, the wizard conjurer that provoke your thoughts.
I ought to be sentenced to death.
For an enlightened mind such as mine for the crime of influencing young minds
You see the Government hate visionaries like me, so they call the disciplinary, to disrupt revolutionaries, COINTELPRO, look them up if you don’t know, for all you conspiracy theorist, I am the head of realist **** shot calling
You might as well call me Shon the abolitionist.
When it comes to such a wicked being such as me, they call to question my thought for knowledge and I tell them
As the practitioner of hard knocks, my quest for power is almost pestilent; people say knowledge is power
But what they don’t tell you, is power comes from applying the knowledge
To acknowledge the most dangerous man in the room isn’t the man with the gun nor the thirst for power
But the man in the shrouded darkness waiting to pounce, call me Rockefeller and Rothschild.
I am almost out of time but please forgive me, my mind sits in an higher dimension
My mentality is overpriced that’s why the naïve mind is as common as head lice
As I am the sole provider to the zeitgeist.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC