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.
Muse-ical
Inspiration From her tuneful spring It skitters Electric rays Strike me hard To the fragmentation of My spirit I let it clear the way Reconstructing the hidden reality Stored on an internal drive Programmed at my creation Hiding behind my heart Ruling my mind But never functioning by design
By K.B. Silver 3 months ago in Poets
The Cartography of a Soul
Should ah depart early Ah shall let the cold breeze scatter me where it sees fit Somewhere northern Wild an' serene An' far frae society's Demands an' expectations Look for cabins In remote regions Surrounded by trees An' beside a loch or stream Elder statesmen o' the woods Stand as a testimony Tae the quiet calm O' ma natural fortress Though ye may be tempt'd Tae look for ma name oan a sign Ye willnae fin one But ye will hear me afore ye see me Oan the whispering winds Ye shall hear the tempered call O' Springsteen or Reed. An' the soul o' Simone— oppression, expression, an' freedom. The homely scent o' bread baking Will dance an' delight an' draw ye close As the distant drumming o' a woodpecker Provides the backbeat for yer quest Colours o' green, burnt ochre an' brown Sombre an' vivid Like an auld master's piece Search oot a clearin' in an unlikely spot wae an orchard o' apples an' pears Taste the fruits o' my covenant The craws an' ravens My solemn watchers Bring guidance an' warning Advance wae caution Offer thanks tae the wind. The melodies o' auld hum. As the waters keep time Look for the sketch No sign o' perfection Mair etchings o' feelings Experiences lang gone Fine an' thick lines tell tales But no o' convenience Or easy-won answers O' tragedy an' survival Through darkness an' light Taste the salt in the air As the smoke o' the kindling Claws at yer throat As memories not yet complete Fill yer lungs o' the past An' future twistin' Like the wild willows Tones o' Mogwai an' Davis Collide wae harmonies o' Buckingham an' Nicks Wae cries o' war an' peace Dae ye ken whit ah said So many times afore Solitude be ma elixir Awae frae the noise Lay yer haund oan a log Ye'll ken the one Coarse it'll be but Through it ye'll ken Ah'm near Come empty-handed But no empty-minded Bring yer questions, Ah'll hav mine For when ah depart A covenant ah shall grant Confer wae the woodlands Tae convene wae the trees That's where ah shall be
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Addiction's Whisper. Runner-Up in Static Challenge. Top Story - August 2026.
It whispers... The constant tension, bound in crackling, gradient whiteness the fast fragmenting sound of barely camouflaged crisis the colorless hymn of stasis singing in each last ear the rhythmless hum, a basis for every background fear. And I listen. It whispers... Like coiling spring or serpent, it's a long-impeded flow all made of breath, unspent, with nowhere good to go; a hungering voice without vent - charged, and waiting to blow. And I listen. It whispers... Torn 'twixt fight and flight, this body opts for freeze, quaking, cracking, cast alight upon the venomous breeze; clinging to numb marcescence while captured is all of time by this atrophying presence: drone chorus without a rhyme. And I listen. It whispers: who, and where, and why you are never shall they change your light is lost, a stillborn star in resting place most strange - a flickering screen, a dim-lit bar - anywhere in this addiction's range. And I listen. It whispers... and I think to myself it is about time that I said something back. before lost am I forever in whispering fields of white, and gray, and black.
By Gabriel Huizenga3 months ago in Poets
Solipse of the Heart
Crashing down The rabbit hole Roots tear at Strawberry hair Splash down in the bluefin sky I backstroke Past a troupe of fried Lobsters spitting butter in My pastel eye As I dance the jive Dodo’s smudge lines In the rainbow sand So I race the tide even as Fear for my sanity takes root All grow restless as the Music suddenly mutes Shimmying down Twisting purple vines I watched the crowd pass Going nowhere fast Jogging in place At my own glacial pace None had family or A discernible past We all wonder aimlessly Searching our hearts For freshly baked mushroom tarts Dreaming up new havens To escape the buzzing Ts We roll around fretfully Like hedgehogs seizing On a crimson-painted lawn
By K.B. Silver 3 months ago in Poets
