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.
Adversity
The essence of time is in the wind drifting by as we watch the circus unfold entranced by the swagger of inadvertent tales of valor met with insurmountable odds bringing about the quality sought. Subservient thoughts all in toward the evident marker, without direction, is there an archer without a mark, there is not, then so as adversity wages its war valor is born if the soul may stand amidst the maelstrom. On bent knee he sighs as nature's furry beats against him, he rises and stands headlong into thee immense coral of confusion, is there an end and what will it be, he does not quit, he may slip, trip, and fall, but he will crawl if need be, this will end before he does before he even thinks of quitting, skin torn and eyes bloodied, hollow to the bone yet standing, the air is clear, calm, and refreshing, the end had finally come but he knew there will always be another, but he gets better each time. But there will be no crown, the crown is to be standing knowing that this is where you come from, that this is who you are...
By Johnny Gerbrandt5 years ago in Poets
Expanse and Wisdom
Calculated cohersions of copteic corruption seeding the landscape with confusion touting knowledge of newly discovered landmines of understanding, even though the static is all encompassing, all enveloping, creating concepts of rabid understanding, maneuvering in dark places believing to have epiphanies in mirrors of silver lace with lulibuys meant to coddle soft minds, Remember the days of silent solitude, where nature mezmorized and fascinated when the static was not and clarity was manifest in the soul. Are our spirits not knit with ancestors of ancient days, is the connection too far or has the static destroyed all possibilities of clear correlations between the expanse and wisdom.
By Johnny Gerbrandt5 years ago in Poets
Snug in a Snag
Once upon a moon, there was a giant wolf bat living inside a snag. When a tree dies it becomes hollow and is from then called a snag. It’s a cozy place for a bat to hide during the rain. Oscar is a large bat, much larger than anyone else in his family. Oscar wiggles his closed eyes when it becomes dark outside and opens them. He jumps down on the floor, stretches, and yawns, washes his face in a sink with a mirror, and winks at himself, then smiles to show his sharp teeth and brushes them.
By Kat Bailot5 years ago in Poets
Arcadia
I sat there in the quiet pleasure of the wind, staring at the rows of marigolds that lay ahead in the rolling fields like a perfectly knitted blanket over the green grass; I continue to let the thoughts of my troubled past flow through me as if my golden hair that hang down, touching the paper beside my ball point pen is what’s really fueling it to dance along the pages.
By Diamond Powell5 years ago in Poets
