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.
No, Chef
The kitchens are bright with dreams of gourmet fame, Where chefs parade their titles, pompous, grand, A whistle blows—a dish ignites the flame— “Excuse me, sir,” they say with raised hand. The sous-chef’s slicing onions like a pro, While patrons’ palettes waltz on tongues of gold. Yet here I stand—my heart a “no” in tow, As every plate brings forth a tale retold. “Oh chef!” they cry with fervor and delight, “The basil’s fresh; the truffle’s purest bliss!” But must we serve each whim that feels so right? Do dreams turn bland when served upon a dish? The fancier the plate—the less it feeds; With foam and froth, we laugh at simple needs. An artful swirl—a smear that makes you ponder: Is this what life has turned to? A rare squander! Oh joyless feast of fashion's fleeting trend! When shall we dine on warmth from hearth and home? To savor life’s true essence—this should mend— Yet here we are in haute cuisine’s cold dome. So raise your forks and let us digress more! For just one bite of laughter ‘neath the norm. Let flavors clash; let humble hearts restore— And from our plates create our own new form.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Yes, Chef
This is where realm of pots chaos reigns, Stands Chef Supreme with grand disdain. With knife in hand and apron tied tight, He rules the kitchen both day and night. “Chop that onion!” he bellows with glee, As sous-chefs scurry like ants on a spree. “Julienne, dice! No time for mistakes!” A culinary drill sergeant for all our sakes. The garlic’s a soldier; it must obey, While herbs are mere pawns in his gourmet play. The sauce simmers low like his temper at stake— One drop out of line? It’s an epic mistake! Yet behind this façade of chefly finesse, Lies a man who’d rather be free from this stress. For every fine plate is just gilded despair, Where dreams turn to soufflés that float in thin air. His staff fears the wrath of a spoon-wielding king; For under his rule, even vegetables sting. Each meal is a battle fought fiercely and hard— With laughter as scarce as a well-placed shard. But when plates are cleared and silence descends, And tired souls gather like long-lost friends, They toast to the chaos — their love interjects: “In this kitchen of madness, respect earns its checks.” So here’s to our Chef with his tempestuous flair; A tyrant at heart but with seasoning rare! In satire we find truth served up on a dish— That even great leaders might harbor one wish: To swap out the spatula for spoons made of gold— To trade all their battles for stories retold; For once they’ve transformed each vegetable fright, It’s laughter we crave at the end of each night.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Shifting Tides
I'm watching so many echoes shatter, where laughter once danced like fireflies, shadows stretch longer than the twilight, and memories rustle in the winds of change. Once, colors dripped from skies with joy— a canvas splashed with youth’s delight, but now the hues drip gray and cautious, like hesitant brushes on a wilting bloom. Streets hum a different tune today, each note tinged with the whisper of loss; we tread lightly on this brittle ground, where dreams once sprouted like wildflowers. Time is a sculptor carving unfamiliar faces— we wear them like masks at a fading masquerade; familiar hands turn to strangers’ embrace, the warmth dissolving in the chill of uncertainty. Yet in this kaleidoscope of changed designs, there flickers a spark—a stubborn flame; beneath the rubble of what we knew lies gold— resilience blooms even through cracked concrete. So let us gather these pieces anew, crafting mosaics from fragments of what was; for in difference lies not just despair— but an invitation to dance with tomorrow's dawn.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
The Great Egg Hunt
In a world where treasures lie beneath the screen, Where dreams of fortune dance in pixels’ gleam, A marketplace of oddities unfolds its scene, Oh Craigslist, you curio shop—what a strange theme! From sofas worn and weary to cars that wheeze, You’ll find it all—exotic pets or ghostly cheese. An egglist springs from this bizarre bazaar, A listing for each whimsy, no matter how bizarre. One man seeks love in a vintage recliner’s embrace, While another peddles avocados with flair and grace. “Free kittens!” yells the header; “Buy one get one free!” Perhaps that’s just a ploy for some feline jubilee. But lo! What’s this? An egglist born anew! “Fertile duck eggs,” cries a vendor quite askew. “Collect them while you can; they hatch into delight!” What luck awaits the buyer on this fateful night? Yet tread with care through these eccentric lanes— For what if the eggs hold secrets like hidden chains? “The yolks are golden treasure,” says the shifty-eyed seller; Or perhaps they’re just illusions spun by an old feller. So gather ‘round dear buyers of the digital realm, In Craigslist's sea of nonsense let whimsy take the helm. From couches to critters and eggs that might rot, Life’s absurdity shines bright when sold at such a plot!
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
A Piece in The Stillness
What is the best way to go about it, do you think? Pull up the remains and create some space? At least for a few of us to get together and share a meal. Enough room to trade perspectives. Enough to cross your legs. To stretch your body out and pretend. Tilt your head back. Keep your warmth on your own skin. Not so much as to create a distance. As to let a thought linger in the middle, dust and breath halfway too far for anything. To cause a stillness born from lacking. A space wide enough for a body. Don’t forget, we’re the ones who made it ours. We’re the ones who cleared it out. The ones who thought and decided, this space could be enough, not so much. Not so much. Not much, enough. The best way to go about it, I think, is to save a piece in the stillness. Enough to acknowledge, not so much as to give pause. Something in the middle, too far to touch. A thought. A stretch. Create just enough space around the edges. Enough to share something, enough to grow outside of it. About, around, beside, within.
By Olivia Dodge29 days ago in Poets
Lure of Shadows
The small dusk where whispers curl, a path diverged beneath the trees, we danced on edges, heartbeats chime, lured by shadows' softest tease. Each step a question—will we fall? Beneath the boughs a trap was set, with roots like fingers grasping tight, and echoes of our past regret. The ground was ripe with tangled dreams, a siren’s call in every leaf; yet laughter lingered like the breeze, as we wove through doubt and disbelief. A flicker caught—a glimpse of light! We turned away from danger’s grin; the thorns that whispered sweetly now— their velvet lies could not draw us in. With every breath we carved a truth, in twilight's arms our courage swayed; for freedom dances on the knife— and love is never meant to fade. So here we stand—a radiant choice— beyond the trap where dark things tread; together bound by woven fate, our hearts alight with what we've said.
By Forest Green29 days ago in Poets
Quiet Resolve
The heart of a village, where whispers reside, A woman named Clara walked softly outside. Her hands, worn and weathered, told tales of her toil, Each wrinkle a story, each scar from the soil. She rose with the dawn, as the sun kissed the earth, With quiet resolve that revealed her true worth. The fields stretched before her in hues of gold green, Yet few could perceive what lay silently seen. For shadows danced near her; they clung to her feet— Memories of sorrow she faced with defeat. An unkind husband who left without word, A child who departed—so swiftly unheard. But there by the brook where wildflowers swayed, Clara knelt gently and offered up prayers. The soft sighing breeze carried wishes untold— Of strength in each heartbeat and warmth in the cold. Her neighbors would pass with their laughter and cheer; They saw not her struggle nor felt all her fear. Yet she bore it with grace like a tree in a storm— Rooted deep in resolve while its branches stay warm. And when evening fell like a blanket of night, She’d gaze at the stars—a reminder of light. Though silence enveloped her world like a shroud, In stillness she stood tall; not broken but proud. Years rolled on gently like waves on a shore; The village grew older yet Clara bore more— With each whispered hardship that tested her soul, She learned how to carry both burden and whole. So when folks gathered round for stories anew, They marveled at Clara—the things she could do— With hands steady clasped ‘neath an old oak so grand; Quiet resolve held firm—a testament planned.
By Forest Green29 days ago in Poets
Dimming Light
As the bulb clutch, lights weave, Beneath the thinning veil of day— A whispered sigh from branches grieve, As light retreats, it turns to gray. Crimson embers on the horizon bled, Fleeting warmth like a lover's hand, Each heartbeat pressed where dreams have tread, Beneath the stars' cold reprimand. Once vibrant hues now fade to dust, Echoes of laughter in twilight’s breath; Life’s canvas brushed with fading trust, A melody dulled by encroaching death. Yet within this dimming glow we find, The beauty wrapped in farewell's kiss; In silence deepens a truth unconfined— That endings cradle beginnings in abyss. So linger not in fear of night; Embrace the soft descent of gloom— For even lost are fireflies bright, Their flicker still ignites the room.
By Forest Green29 days ago in Poets
Small Shadows
In the soft light of a fading day, Where the sun dips low and colors sway, A child runs wild in fields of gold, Chasing dreams that never grow old. Her laughter dances on the breeze, Echoing through the whispering trees; But soon her joy will take to flight, As shadows stretch into the night. Beneath the boughs where secrets lie, She finds a nest where small birds cry— The world around her slows and bends, In these small shadows where magic blends. Each shadow tells of tales long gone, Of gentle giants and quiet dawns; The stories woven in twilight’s loom, Where whispers gather in the gloaming gloom. "Come play with me," she calls out loud, To figures hidden within the shroud; Yet only silence meets her plea— Just small shadows that dance with glee. As dusk unfolds its velvet drape, She gathers dreams in a fragile shape— Not all who wander are lost from sight; Some linger softly till morning light. When dawn arrives with golden rays, The shadows shrink and fade away; But memories linger like scents of spring— In small shadows lies everything.
By Forest Green29 days ago in Poets
Subtle Strength
This is the place where strength dwell, A strength unfolds that few can tell. With roots entwined in earth's embrace, The silent oak holds steadfast grace. Though storms may rage and winds may howl, It stands its ground with solemn scowl. Each branch a tale of battles fought, Yet calm within is all it’s taught. The gentle sway of leaves at play, A dance of peace that won’t betray. For though the world may twist and bend, Its quiet heart will never end. In subtle ways it offers shade, Where weary souls might seek cascade. No grand display or boastful fight, Just humble strength in soft twilight. So let us learn from this old tree, That strength can flow so quietly. With every storm we face anew, We find our roots and hold them true.
By Forest Green29 days ago in Poets
