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 wind blows (4)
The faintest echo of footsteps follows, soft but deliberate. The wind blows harder now, rattling the windows as if demanding entry. The sound rises, a crescendo that drowns out all else. And then, as quickly as it began, it stops.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (7)
He freezes, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turns toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. “Show yourself,” he says, his voice firm now. “I know you’re here.”
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (8)
“I thought I’d never see you again.” The figure remains silent, but the air grows colder, the kind of cold that seeps into the soul. The man reaches out, his hand trembling.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (9)
He steps closer, their fingers almost touching. And then she is gone. The wind rushes back with a vengeance, slamming the door shut and rattling the windows.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (2)
The door creaks as if on the verge of giving up its last ounce of strength. The paint, once white, has surrendered to the elements, peeling back to reveal the naked wood beneath.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (3)
A man and a woman smile out of the past, their faces frozen in a moment that no longer exists. The woman wears a dress with tiny flowers, her hair tucked neatly under a hat.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (5)
He reaches the house and hesitates. His hand lingers on the doorknob, fingers trembling slightly. Finally, he pushes the door open, the creak echoing through the empty rooms.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (6)
He moves through the rooms, his hand grazing the walls as if searching for a hidden memory. Each step seems to carry the weight of countless others, each breath a struggle against the heavy air.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (10)
He picks up the photograph, now free of its shattered frame, and slips it into his pocket. Without a word, he leaves the house, pulling the door shut behind him.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
the wind blows (1)
The wind blows. It moves through the branches of skeletal trees, bending them with whispers that carry the weight of secrets. A dried leaf tumbles across the barren ground, a dance without rhythm or purpose, yet hypnotic in its randomness. The cold bites at exposed skin, but it is not the kind of cold that comes with snow. This is a dry, relentless chill, the kind that sneaks into bones and refuses to leave.In the heart of the empty plain stands a house. It is neither grand nor particularly remarkable, but it's silhouette against the grey horizon draws the eye. The shutters bang against the siding in protest of the wind’s intrusion.
By cordell johnson2 years ago in Poets
The Soul's Ambrosia
Air to breathe, water to drink, Sustenance so you can think, What you need, but not for me, I am a soul adrift, lost out at sea.
By Bradley Ramsey2 years ago in Poets
The Topography of Oblivion
A Landscape Erased by Time A world where remembrance is a dwindling resource forgotten landscapes unfold like a palimpsest of worn vellum
By Kingsley Gomes, PhD.2 years ago in Poets