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.

What If
What if the words my mouth holds, ruptured and all my thoughts came spilling out Would it tear down this infrastructure like a busted sieve or waterspout
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Magical Sunset
There's something savory Created in the air That swishy twilight stillness When the sun has disappeared But light still floats among us
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Poets
“When the Moon Called My Name”
When the Moon Called My Name Night wasn’t supposed to feel this hollow. The world dozed under a velvet sky while Mara wiped the same stretch of café counter for the fifth time. She worked the graveyard shift at the 24-hour diner just outside the city. It was always half-empty—two truckers in the corner booth, a student slouched over notes, and the vending machine humming like it knew secrets.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Poets
Smoke in the Shadows
Poetry: In the hush of night, he stands alone, A soul half-lost, in silence grown. Smoke spirals like forgotten dreams, Woven through moon's silver beams.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
POEM - In The Porcelain
I. The Cup A curve of white, so thin it sings when struck by light—a whispered chime. The glaze, a ghost of ancient kilns,
By Jacky Kapadiaabout a year ago in Poets
the crate
High on the hill Where the flags are waving We wait for the forest's rage to quiet down And the silence to be flattened against the floor
By Ruby Redabout a year ago in Poets
What I'll never say...
What is that to never speak of? But then decide to write about? That seems like a contradiction, I would never let those thoughts out!
By Adora Hooperabout a year ago in Poets
"Whispers Beneath the Moon"
On the curve of night, where silence bends, A soul sits still as the dark transcends. Upon a branch that dares to dream, He rides the hush of moonlight’s beam.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
MEMORY STATIC
This a part of the Outstages Cafe series. The blue chair is the disappearing and reappearing object in this series of memory static, Blue Chair at the Edge. Step into the Echoes Beyond the Veil
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
The Tapestry of Life
I. The Dawn of Breath From silence sprung a whisper deep, Where stars and soil in cradle sleep, A breath was drawn, the first of flame,
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
Lack of Emotional Depth
Their lack of emotional depth is enough to leave me dumbfounded. Yes, I stand confounded. Yes, in disbelief, I remain well rounded.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
Larkspur
Canyon born, sipping the wisdom of Grande Ronde from weathered springs deep within pebble jeweled ground. I sing their songs in the golden hush of morning
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets