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.

Staphanie Says
Stephanie Says by Lou Reed Stephanie says That she wants to know Why she’s given half her life To people she hates now.
By kd Hoccane5 years ago in Poets
I'm Explaining a Few Things
I’m Explaining a Few Things by Pablo Neruda You will ask: But where are the lilacs? And the metaphysics covered with poppies?
By kd Hoccane5 years ago in Poets
Boarding School
Boarding school was a great summer memory I have (in some ways it was). Giant trees littered the campus and nice people and energy-filled air.
By Burnt Baguettes5 years ago in Poets
My Ancestral Home
My Ancestral Home by Louis Jenkins | Friday, July 28, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos
By kd Hoccane5 years ago in Poets
A Summer well spent
I hit that sweet spot, just like we all do, lost my childness in the woes of growth. A truth that was hard, yet one I came to.
By Chandler Olof5 years ago in Poets
After Our Daughter's Wedding
After Our Daughter’s Wedding by Ellen Bass | Sunday, July 30, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor While the remnants of cake
By kd Hoccane5 years ago in Poets
Eat
I nibble from the juicy Gala apple that circles the evolutionary trail once again. It came back from its Bible journey unbruised. Perfect and shiny.
By Raissa Dassel5 years ago in Poets
Twelve -Hour Shift
Twelve-hour shift by Jill McDonough A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home to real life. Showers, eats supper, plays video games.
By kd Hoccane5 years ago in Poets
One Sunkissed Day
It was a sunkissed day in Las Vegas, when I crashed into every bumper car. The memory is pretty outrageous, let alone one in a past that’s so far.
By P. Curry5 years ago in Poets
Here I Stand
Here I Stand By: Karlton A. Armistad [In the wake of the National Highlight on Men’s Mental Health 2020] 1. Tired, looking out at the cloudy Sky struggling to kiss the Sun and highlight the Day, and I wonder again why am I here? We talk about it constantly, and as I smile and people see, we can never show that I am no longer here.
By Andrew Little5 years ago in Poets
A Dream Home
A Dream Home • And I have dreamed of the morning coming in like a bird through the window not burdened by a thought. The Design of a House, Wendell Berry
By Charley More5 years ago in Poets
Inside the Snow, First Falling
Inside the Snow, First Falling * In the white of unwrapped heaven’s gift to souls faint for peace, unknowingly – until they see their windowed longing
By Charley More5 years ago in Poets