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.
h'OM'e
This is a poem about what HOME means to me, I believe... home is where we make it, and it is always an ever-present force within us all. All we must do is be aware and conscious of this fact, that we have the pulse of life within us as our heartbeats that connects us to all things and everyone, especially the 'OM' which is the sound of the Universe vibrating, we are that music, each and everyone us has our own unique song, but yet we are innately all connected to everything always, to each other and nature. When we tune and tap into this sound that resides within us, our own 'OM', when we recognize its sweet melody, it speaks to each of us, this is our warmth, this is our safety, this is our Home. Love to All, Mahalo Nui...sweet Humanity.
By Mitchell Ryan Valdez5 years ago in Poets
Home
As I stare at this big red and white house surrounded by four bushes, two sets of stairs, screen door, and a porch. I ponder on why they call it what they call it. I don't know the true definition of it because I never really had it, but my idea of it doesn't match what I'm seeing. It took years to get here got me wondering is this it, And will I finally get treated like a human being. The social worker told me it is, but how can I believe her when she's driving away with 3 of my mamas kids. baby brothers staring at me out the back window tears rolling down there cheeks all I could do was stare as they vanished into the streets. Again I ask myself why they call it what they call it. I've been to quite a few of these what makes this one different. It feels like this is the wrong bus stop and I still gotta get off hopefully here no one locks me in a closet or squeeze ketchup and mustard on me so the dog can lick it off. Spoil hot dogs for dinner while they ate steak. maybe its cause mama had to sit in the county hospital with me as I watched her cry as if I'm a mistake. Maybe my lungs were bad from her Salem 100s or maybe the regrets just came in abundance. Spent years looking for an abode but all the warm hearts was cold so I guess it's time to throw the knapsack over my shoulder and get back on the road. Thing is I'm lost no sense of direction if I would of just knew to walk down 35th maybe I could of found some protection. Again I ask myself why they call it what they call it cause all I see is dopefeins and alcoholics. Me and my asthma pump that's my only security in my mind screaming that's enough but ain't nobody hearing me. Who can you trust when you surrounded by lies, fake love, and lust. The most beautiful things can get ugly truth is I always wondered was it a money grab or do you really love me. The reason I ask why they call it what they call it cause when I walked through the door not even the dog was frolic. Until I was taken I was forsaken lost in the middle of nowhere got me walking in circles til my feet aching. Now I'm wondering where am I ? And am I here alone feels like I'm walking through a desert with a fear of the unknown. I spent years trying to recognize who the people around me were I spent alot of time wiping my eyes but it all is still a blur. Grandmama did the best she Could but her kids was so cynical that they stuck to her with all of they tentacles so I continued my search in the hood. I finally realized that this was a mission I could afford to abort cause I can never truly explain to you what a Home is because my birth certificate says orphan ward of the court.
By Willy perch 5 years ago in Poets
Home; adrift
In a fog she walks Nightly nothing A panacea insideThe felled maple tree at the end of the gardenStill now beneath the snowA new home perhaps for some small creaturesOr families of creaturesThey too are wandering in the nightSearching with night eyes openShe sleeps a restless sleep daunted by dreams that seep Past her willA solitary dreamer in a crowded theaterWhere the carpet stained and stinking of damp Tears of when there was time for cryingHeavy air laced with the scent of youSmoke swirls tendrils Tender vapors shattered by the breathA storm is building at the front of her mindWords hanging on the tipDrip like droplets from a morning leafHer eyes adore In silence You are the itch I refuse to scratchYet my thoughts are consumed with relieving this tormentThe mind is a fickle master Without reason betraying orderEntropy untethers me from my moring I drift Upon the silent surface Enshrined in velvet midnightThe shore is safe and just within reachAnd yet I feel my feet kick off from the muddy ground Launching Again
By Sonia Cook Broen5 years ago in Poets
