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.
The Moon Stood Still
The moon stood still as it often will in between now and together time. If you will, a sort of pause like a comma, or an after thought was the sky then. A tempered sky with no shortcomings since there were many orbiting around it.
By Canuck Scriber Lisa Lachapelle5 years ago in Poets
Flying
She’s still hanging there... the house has been run down for years, yet she still hangs there. The old piano we used to love, sits against a rotting wall, adjacent to the room…. I stand there, looking at the moldy, wooden bench; memories we shared there, songs we sang there, quiet nights we cried there…. We didn’t cry enough…. I gently step towards the once beloved bench, my feet squishing the sickly green ground beneath them, almost grasping my shoes, as if it meant to never let me go after each step…. I wipe the seat off gingerly, and slowly pull it across the soft and wet floor. Muffled as it slides atop the aged wooden boards, I stop about a foot away from the pedals, take a step around and in front of it, my other leg follows, and I slowly bend to take a seat. As I do so, I notice a small fly has found itself stuck in a puddle of water, twitching and seizing, unable to free itself… I thought about helping it... or leaving it to drown... but instead, I calmly crouched down, and with my right index finger gently pushed it, like a button. Like a light, it’s life, gone from this earth… I then went to my knees and began to sob, wishing I had saved it, it had more time I could have helped it but instead I took the easy way out I thought I did it a favor but she just couldn’t see that I had no choice….. Suddenly I’m staring at my hands. They’re drenched with blood, dripping onto the floor, my tears dropping into my hands. The fly is gone.
By Noah Adam Busby5 years ago in Poets
We Remember
We walk through a field made of broken glass, savoring each step as we subject our lonely feet to the razor shards ejecting sporadically out of the dead ground. The sky we walk under is grey, and gives no distraction for us to enjoy, ultimately our time here is infinite, only known to the endless gnawing untold confessions, jaws of thousands of teeth mauling the antiseptic soaked rags that drape our body.
By Noah Adam Busby5 years ago in Poets
The Glass Case
It’s cold on the skin. The glass of the case that holds me retains a certain cool disposition. I feel grounded in this floating box, I feel unfocused in this tiny case, I. Feel it. Closing in on me. Getting harder to breathe, wincing at the immense pain wrought upon my skin and lungs, as if I were being lit up from the inside out.
By Noah Adam Busby5 years ago in Poets
