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.
Little Red Bird
Two black foxes Courting May. One lost morning. One lost day. One loved smoke, One loved stone. Neither ever learned To walk alone. Count to thirteen. Count once more. Lock the window. Bar the door. I left both Before the snow. Seeds remember Where not to grow. Little red bird, Little white thorn, Some hearts die Before they're born. Count to thirteen. Count again. Never marry Hollow men. Milk turns bitter. Bread turns blue. Ravens know What sparrows knew. Crows eat daylight. Moths eat lace. Every season Knows its place. Count to thirteen. Walk away. Night belongs To yesterday.
By Shannon Hilson3 months ago in Poets
The Leech Song
Little black leech, little red thread, Count all the girls they swore were dead. One came home and one stayed late, One slipped smiling through the gate. White lace apron, iron key, Someone else's pulse in me. Wash the floor and bless the stain. Tomorrow we'll begin again.
By Shannon Hilson3 months ago in Poets
The Voices. Honorable Mention in Static Challenge.
The sound of what an itch feels like. The grinding of a rusty spike As it drags slowly 'cross my teeth To overwhelm the nerves beneath. It started intermittently Creeping inauspiciously And now the nagging metal rain Is firmly anchored in my brain. A constant, crackling overtone That rattles each and every bone And under the metallic hiss, Voices from some deep abyss. Warnings shouted, barely heard. Terror ringing in each word. Muted, cut off suddenly As I strive to hear the plea. Yet, their dire message has unfurled. Something comes, not of this world. Something with a heart pitch black Comes, and our cosmos will crack. I am no prophet, nor do I Understand the reasons why, But I must warn humanity Of what the static speaks to me.
By Dana Crandell3 months ago in Poets
