surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Vita In Discrimine
Today, I sipped my coffee Under orange leaf hues Listening to the endless rustling Of nature’s phoenix fire *** Why must decay reign For us to acknowledge The beauty held within A leaf so mundane? *** Foliage so full of fire Underscored by snap and crackle Assembled bodies Warmed by flame and wool *** A constant, latent chill Demands a libation A cider, a bourbon A paired stew, preferred in a cauldron *** Twirl amongst the skeletons Let shivered spines Be eternal reminders That thou art mortals *** So let us come honor This hallowed month Which, if we’re quite honest Wears the crown, in triumph
By Matthew J. Fromm15 days ago in Poets
Welcome To October!
You hold the key to a secret door of octagonal shape: Two black cats, two crows bid entry--it opens with a quake-- “Welcome to October!” lightning cracks; a bat swirls his velvet cape Inside: cinnamon air swings crisp, to where scorpion stars are draped. The Masked Moon, the Mother of the Dead, brooms down with cider and spiced cakes-- You hold the key to a secret door of octagonal shape: Tunnel down fairy mounds cracked up from the ground, glowworms chant, “ ye may have no escape!” A path you snake, above and below, through a wily warped wood of apple, elm and mandrake-- “Welcome to October!” lightning cracks; a bat swirls his velvet cape At last comes a glen filled with lost Sweets within, marked by mossed stones upon the landscape. Fox, Stag and Hare, with dollies in their hair, dance 'round a fire that quivers and bakes-- You hold the key to a secret door of octagonal shape: Goblins and ghouls gorge on gourd, corn and grape. Owl deejays carnival tunes while satyrs and shapeshifters jive, shiver and shake-- “Welcome to October!” lightning cracks; a bat swirls his velvet cape Then into your void pocket you feel the key lost: swallowed by lapis lith or wind’s vape? Could all this be but a dream, at the frayed edges of sleep’s woven wake? You hold the key to a secret door of octagonal shape: “Welcome to October!” lightning cracks; a bat swirls his velvet cape
By Kate Kastelberg 16 days ago in Poets
