Long Surrealism Poems
Long Surrealism Poems. Below are the most popular long Surrealism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surrealism poems by poem length and keyword.
Dreaming of frogs playing guitars, lounging on a campfire pyre,
Her manifestation of these little hopping miniatures tickled her
Naturally nude with an upside down hat, she was uninhibited, fully exhibited.
Two prissy potential suiters ran out screaming, recognizing her strength.
Attitudes of grandeur did not play in her head.
She meant no harm to these males; yet they had been clearly terrified.
Women who are fantastical and barbastical confuse ones who are weak.
She did not wave, frankly, had not noticed they left. She was playing a harp with her bear.
Is she bizarre, modern, an alien or just weirdly avant-garde?
Status quo relatives who were watching were also consternated.
Their brains often pitter-patted by the norms society revers.
Creativity was outside their jurisdiction, thank God!
Pink woman’s frog dreams led to a parade of unicorns and eunuchs,
Horrifying the refined who sneaked peeks at her surrealistic attitude.
Why can she not conform? What is wrong with her?
Hell. How did they get into my dream state Pink wondered.
The watchers did not realize her spontaneity was a result of natural play-ity.
Which is why she moved away from them, for how could brilliance stay?
She took the frogs, unicorns and eunuchs with her of course.
The bear elected to remain. He loved frightening the relatives.
Written: May 20, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Siren stunningly sprung a sanguine sway
sailboat sheaths spread, and storms swell
splendid summer shorelines spike
summertime spousal serenade swept
scrumptious, sturdy sibyllic sweeps
silky shorelines settle scrawls
seawater subtly scrubs sewage
skirr is a spectacular sand stronghold
sapphire specks spruce seaside sand
shoreline scoria is sharp
shipmates glide along a sleety seacoast
shivering seafarers' sight.
Straight skyline scaled saddlebow
sighting swallows spawned sibilance
stalls and slumps were scrutinized
strolling solysium soliloquy
stranding Schadenfreude
satisfied spectator
sarcasm serves as a solecism
slanting supplants a sempiternal scintilla
swirl across a snapped soul
supported standout slide
spiraling semantic spondaic species
sweeping synopsis syncope
start to sense surrealism
Sensual, sensuous, slim, and smiling
sits silently staring
sapphire sky sight
the sun casts scarlet shadows
slowly sinking silhouettes
scatter stars on skylines
Sunday sermon supply
searching souls
singing serenade.
Slides speckled sunshine
souvenirs spark strands of subdued shades
sequential surety swelling
strange, scarlet, silky songs
sway symphonic sylphic stardust
store sustained scrupulousness
silver surges spurred the space
snagging scents
step sibilant serendipity
stirred spectrum.
The grey oppresses;
surrounded by fog,
I traverse this shadowland;
Dorothy in reverse,
stuck in this land of monochrome
Xerox grayscale in 2-D.
Hoping it is but a dream,
valiantly, I stroke in Technicolor
Only to see it erased, again
It is no more real than the specters
haunting my thoughts.
Still I stumble around searching;
hues of hope hover out of reach
as these low-lying clouds
cast a pall-- blinding me to joy.
Perhaps, I'm trapped
in Tim Burton's sketch board;
these monoliths of grotesque
caricature evidence such.
At every turn there is a new one,
popping out of the mists.
Large, unmoving blocks of black granite
ring me like Stonehenge-- surrounded--
Leaving me wandering this maze of dark surrealism.
Glimpses of color reveal themselves
in the distance through the shroud,
ephemera teasing my senses.
Blow! benign zephyrs;
sweep away the haze
invading my peace.
Rescue me the confines
of my self-induced prison.
Let me walk in daylight, once again.
Lasting memories are verse of a moonlit storm
Innermost emotions melting in pages, unplanned
Forgotten life whispers with gentle voices, warm
Easing the torments of life, with a healing sound
Stories are ashes; the anger of loss and pain
mystic dream blossoms, alive, yet unspoken
Young souls, in need of memories to retain
Strive in fortitude through vigilance, unbroken.
Time gets frozen, caught up in immortal song
Eternal bliss of morning sun kisses your face
Reveries of dreams guide me to be headstrong
In poems, a journey begins, to embrace
Eloquence, a tying knot in threads of life
Surrealism, in sagas of enduring strife.
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
And the monk -
that graveyard instrument of bone and golden hair -
laughed like a maestro striking a black bell.
"Begin?" he said,
"As though the soul were simply a corridor,
with arrows nailed into the walls."
Outside, the trees were committing
their annual suicide into autumn,
each leaf a small, burnt scripture,
spiraling through the throat of God.
I desire instruction.
A clean, pristine wound
A staircase hammered into heaven.
Instead, he handed me silence -
that terrible animal with human eyes.
"Listen," he whispered,
and even the dust obeyed.
The room grew enormous.
The candle performed its yellow autopsy
upon the dark.
Somewhere, invisible clocks
were chewing the ankles of time.
Then, I saw it:
how the body is only a rented coat
hung briefly upon the nail of breath;
how thought is a swarm of wasps
mistaking its hive for eternity;
how beneath the skull's temple
something starved and holy
keeps beating its bruised wings
against its own bars.
I had spent years
dragging my reflection through mirrors,
calling it a vocation of life.
But the monk opened his hands
as though releasing a bluebird neither living nor dead
and the world split.
Not dramatically.
No choir caroled
No jeweled grand revelation
Only this:
the unbearable intimacy of everything.
The rain entering the roots
without assent
The moon trembling inside a puddle of oil.
My grief wearing the face of every stranger walking by.
And, suddenly,
I could not locate myself.
The self I had defended like my kingdom
was smoke stitching itself to smoke.
Even suffering -
a clever actress dragged in widow - black -
removed her makeup at dawn.
What remained?
Not happiness,
that is too small a word.
Not peace,
peace still imagines an opposite.
Rather:
a vastness without chattels,
where even God has taken off His face.
The monk touched my forehead.
His fingers smelled faintly of cedar and graves.
"You ask for a path," he murmured,
"but truth walks only through wilderness.
The river reaches the sea
precisely because
it forgets who it is."
follow the poolside shadows
Venus of Delphi
daughter of bitter waves
peek through the peephole
of my glaucous thorax
open your byzantine eyes and
spurn your locomotor ataxia
one glance at our vitreous hands
– a sight for blind sore eyes
one brush of our riveted lips
– gone astray in malformations
one ponderous confession later
– immaterial as a shadow of the lash
let the weeping corpuscles lie
swarm and jostle in the grotto
rattle and blather away our days
I’ll wait for your recriminations
fall asunder under your touch
fastidious in my entomology
let the bouquet glide downstream
the scytheman is still in his kingdom
then we rejoice in endless daze
the lingering beaten with bravura
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clock hands move,
but do they really?
They carve circles in the air,
pretending progress.
We name hours,
divide them like cake slices,
yet hunger remains.
The river doesn’t rush;
it only looks that way
when you stand on the bank.
Dive in, and it holds you
like a lazy afternoon.
Mountains shrug off epochs.
Stones forget their own weight.
Even the sun, that punctual tyrant,
is just a slow blink
in Something’s endless eye.
We measure, we mourn,
we clutch at seconds
as if they could be kept~
but time isn’t a thief.
It’s the room we’re all standing in,
barefoot,
unaware the floor is falling.
You shout from the roof top
Nobody listens, you don’t stop.
You say you’ll make a name
With loud voice you proclaim
You’ve colors in your eye
We all know it’s white lie.
You say you’re a born artist
Such a creature don’t exist.
Look at me, see my track
In time don’t go much back
I’ve worked hard
Flowered many buds, many buds
What the artist in me
Wanted long to see.
At sunrise and sunset
To the horizon I went
I’ve brought colors from sky
In my mind, not on the eye.
My paintings are of unique kind
For these are slices of my mind.
Slices of my mind
You’ll surely find
Looking at my painting
As an art, not a thing.
You shout from the roof top
Nobody listens, you don’t stop.
You say your brush has Monet touch
The trees are cluster of broken branch
Water of the planar pond is opaque
You can’t even make a good fake.
You say you’ve Picasso vision
Surrealism drips in your creation
I see the shapeless faces of cubes
As deformed figures of color tubes.
Look at me, see on my canvas
The touch of my brush, my brush
I’ve captured nature in pristine form
It’s passion where it comes from.
I’ve crafted the contours of emotion
On the fluid faces of this generation.
My portraits are epitome of art
For these are slices of my heart.
Slices of my heart
You’ll see if you start
Looking at my painting
As an art, not a thing.
Slices of my mind are for you
Slices of my heart are for you
For you, yeah, for you
If only you knew
Yeah, if only you knew….
June 7, 2018.
Princess Forever’s Frosted Lake entices aurora borealis to smile down
Embracing and warming her with mystical surrealism that shines on the lake.
She gives a gentle blow, to see her magic,
which dances past her lips, and her gown,
Delighting her in the form of ethereal star breaths,
with every single breath she will take.
The day retires quickly, not taking a glimpse or
a glimmer of the Frosted Lake’s turn.
Princess Forever will float her magical soul into
a scene unbearable to day creatures.
Her headband, encrusted with opals, emeralds,
and rubies, that flash like a fire’s burn,
reflect themselves as a part of the magic that
shows off the night’s enticing inner-active features.
Ancient songs float from the outside perimeters
of the mist, ensuring a magical delight.
The fourteen-point snow reindeer takes his place on the ice,
ready for his gorgeous night princess to alight.
They twirl around the ice in flares,
flipping and swirling magic until the beginnings of daylight.
When they once again have to return to dreamland,
letting the sun and day take over the fight.