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 Canadian Capital Rises
Do you remember TD Place in the snow, When Ottawa believed, and banners flew? The 2016 Redblacks would not let go. November frost, the east wind’s bitter blow, Yet Henry Burris shook the season through — Do you remember TD Place in the snow? Eight and nine and one, the doubters said “no,” But playoff grit made all the forecasts untrue. The 2016 Redblacks would not let go. Edmonton fell first, hearts beating slow, Then the East Final: Sinkfield’s catch, a breakthrough. Do you remember TD Place in the snow? Grey Cup in Toronto, down ten, apropos Of every script that said the dream was through. The 2016 Redblacks would not let go. Overtime. Burris hurting, Brad Sinopoli low, Ernest Jackson in the corner — red and black flew true. Do you remember TD Place in the snow? The 2016 Redblacks would not let go.
By Clyde E. Dawkins4 months ago in Poets
SITTIN' IN MY BLUE ROOM . Top Story - June 2026. Content Warning.
SITTIN IN MY BLUE ROOM 1967 This is a 1967 poem from my archives. The world in the 60s was a different place. Girls were 2nd class citizens. Boys were perfect in every way. I am sharing these poems to focus on staying in 2026. I believe in equality for all. Let’s learn to love not to hate. Girls need college and careers not top to just rattle pots and pans.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 4 months ago in Poets
June Tomorrow
November. December now. June tomorrow. Like it means anything for the sun to circle around me as tiny bodies in a horse tank— whipping us with as much force as we can make— watch for the sharp edges— it’ll cut you. Soon it’s August and I have a little more color and I cry a little less. I’m wearing the jeans my friend gave me at her birthday party three years ago and I like the way I’ve filled them out since. (We’re back in pre-June now). I like the way I look to strangers. I’m not sure if that includes me. Anyway it’s Halloween next week. Christmas is in a few hours. February comes and goes while I’m asleep and I don’t feel its hand on my shoulder. I pack my things in April. We’ll have to donate the memories. There isn’t enough room anymore and the sun is coming up on the kitchen walls. It’s June tomorrow.
By Olivia Dodge4 months ago in Poets
Couch, Draft
11/7/25 I’ll sit on our thousand-pound plaid couch and listen to you tell me how your family wishes me well, misses me, is worried about me, and I’ll stare at a spot on the tv screen that looks like the hole I dug out back when I was still on Sheridan street, and I’ll nod along to your kind-intentioned words because you don’t know that it’s twisting my heart and leaving streaks of soap on the rug, and I’ll tell my family it’s a shame you never met them and I won’t be able to sleep at all because I don’t think I ever will, and I’ll sit on the couch and drink from your beer and listen to you tell me how it’s all okay now, it’s good now, it’s normal now, and I’ll understand because I always will, and I’ll keep my words in a sealed box and shove it as high up as it can go, and I’ll leave it here when we’re gone, and I’ll leave everything I ever felt in these rooms because it’s not going to make it any better to stick it on a dolly and decorate my next closet, and I’ll tell you I would love to see your family because I really truly would, but I’ll keep the rest of it sealed, and I’ll put another layer of tape every time I want to open it, and I’ll cry when this couch is gone, and I’ll cry when this house is a memory, and I’ll dig a hole in the backyard and put my shoes at the bottom and I’ll bury them there, and I’ll throw the box on top and I’ll keep track of how long it takes to decompose, and I’ll let you finish what you’re saying but I won’t say anything back because my feet are getting sticky from the mud and I have a few more lives ahead of me that haven’t been dealt, and I’ll retire for the night and I’ll retire forever, and I’ll sit up against the wall and wonder if my eyes are burning for any particular reason or if this is just how they feel now, with plaid thread and well wishes stuck in the tearducts and nothing but my own feet at the end of the bed.
By Olivia Dodge4 months ago in Poets
The Kings of Queens
Forty years since Shea erupted, blue and bright, When Buckner’s legs gave way and destiny turned, The ’86 Mets made chaos into right. Backs against the wall in Fenway’s hostile night, Game Six tied with two outs, bases churned, Forty years since Shea erupted, blue and bright. Mookie’s grounder, slow and full of spite, Through the wickets — hope returned, The ’86 Mets made chaos into right. Doc’s curve, Darryl’s swing, Hernandez’s fight, Knight rounding third as October burned, Forty years since Shea erupted, blue and bright. Carter’s eyes, Kid rallying with all his might, Wilson, Mitchell, all the table turned, The ’86 Mets made chaos into right. So raise a glass to that October light, To champagne, scraps, and pennants earned Forty years since Shea erupted, blue and bright, The ’86 Mets made chaos into right.
By Clyde E. Dawkins4 months ago in Poets
