Long Surrealistic Poems
Long Surrealistic Poems. Below are the most popular long Surrealistic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surrealistic poems by poem length and keyword.
Pink Floyd
Such cruel misery, shocking
Parents generation distanced themselves
"The Dark Side of the Moon"
Psychedelic rock,
they could not believe -
or did not want to believe
Hallucinogens on vinyl !
Surrealistic !
"Is There Anybody Out There?"
Worldwide recognition
"Shine On You Crazy Diamond"
Pink Floyd - giants without a doubt
innovative in their; "Time"
"Oh, By the Way"
... "Have a Cigar"
Molten lava spews from my eyes
My mouth feels dry like the scorching desert
Fear, like a heavy boulder, sits on my chest
My heart seeks where the Chimera dwells
A pit is forming in my stomach
My head is riding upon a vortex
Conflicting thoughts swirling through my mind
forming a surrealistic whirlpool,
And I stand rooted
to the ground like an Ancient Oak.
A sense of emptiness mushrooms within me
like the morning miasma obscuring the visibility.
My past carried off into the oblivion,
Every moment henceforth is
pregnant with some novel challenges,
tackling a new task overwhelms me
despair overwhelms my soul undeterred—
Bogged down by fate
Tethered to my faith
I am mired in a spiritual quagmire
unable to claw my way up to the Mount Calvary.
Caustic memories dissolve on my tongue
Lingering tastes of battery acid and nicotine
Cause me to choke on putrid saliva.
Staring at melting walls, clocks tick in unison.
Distorted birdsong hums outside of jagged windows
Under the warped sun, an unrepentant landscape blurs.
Freshly budding peonies liquefy;
Veils thin, evaporating the delusion of reality.
Why must I mould to the edges at your bidding,
Contort to the point of my own dysfunction?
For such fleeting worship, this devastation lingers -
Devours and disconnects my inner workings.
I lie highlighted in shadow, a beacon of quiet distress;
A dislodged scapula desperate to be labelled angelic.
Grounded, wingless, and forever out of time -
Wearing the last face you cared for as a comforter.
Neon venom warming twisted arteries,
Sinister patches stitched upon a breaking back.
A narcissist's crown digging into my head
Like rusted nails plunged into worm-infested wood—
Permanent disconnection, frayed cerebral cortex.
Blurred vision obscures insidious figures hiding in hushed corners,
Whispering in Babylonian tongue. Hallucinatory illusions haunt
What was a once-pristine sanctuary,
Now morphing into a surrealistic asylum.
Revelation exists above shadow in temporal machination,
I'm consciousness not yet swept up with sand;
Closed eyes cleanse my corneas - I rest in a balm of clarity.
Your power superficial, a cankerous cataract peeled clean off.
It is you who is bereft, washed up with the shell you created.
All the walls of your empty room fallen flat,
As I unfurl in the mirror beyond the shoreline,
I realise - it was never me you couldn't stomach.
My head is a television
With the dream channel turned on
It always turns on
Once I forget about this world
The screen becomes clear and more focused
Once I’m far, far away from here
The colors beyond the normal spectrum
Are animated and strangely surrealistic
Almost paranormal
Anyone and everyone are welcome
To tune into my station
It’s easy
With eyes closed, just forget
About this world for awhile
Believe in the unbelievable
Imagine the unimaginable
Tune in . . . turn on
And replace your head with a television
Just remember,
don’t lose the remote
All that I am I simply can’t impart
in just one poem; I’m simply too left-brained
and practical, so when I share my heart,
to rhyme and rhythm also I am chained.
I sat for half an hour while trying to
compose a free verse poem on how I feel
about that modern style some poets do
with such aplomb, but are their poems more real
than mine, in which I’m wont to make words rhyme?
It’s so much simpler using what for me
comes easily when metered (such a crime
to surrealistic poets writing free!)
I do not rant or write from a good cry,
but at my sonnet’s end, I heave a sigh.
Written July 31, 2015 for the Contest of Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
“My soul is a black maelstrom…” ~ Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet.
Molten lava spews from my eyes
My mouth feels dry as the scorching desert sand
Fear like a heavy boulder sits on my chest
My heart is chasing a Chimera
A pit is forming in my stomach,
My head is riding upon a vortex
Conflicting thoughts swirling through my mind
forming a surrealistic whirlpool,
Grim and gloomy feelings shroud my being
permeating a fatalistic suspicion of society at large
dragging me down the road to depression.
A sense of emptiness is mushrooming within me,
like the morning miasma blurring the view,
All hands of hope have been withdrawn
Every moment henceforth
is pregnant with some novel challenges,
Tackling a new task overwhelms me
and despair prevails over my soul undeterred —
Bogged down by fate,
Tethered to my faith,
and mired in a spiritual quagmire
I am unable to claw my way back up
to Mount Calvary.
~Prompt 2: "As I slip into the void of this endless black."
~Contest: Venom and Stardust: A Birthday Prompt
~sponsor: Sara Jama.
On the grandeur of the sprawling front garden
the Parisian sun rising on the sparkling Seine
casts designed shadow of the bygone centuries,
enshrined in the medieval cathedral, Notre Dame.
She stands witness of many a turning event
of French history and inspired many authors.
A unique icon of French Gothic architecture,
has place of pride in world heritage treasure.
The rows of chandeliers shimmering overhead,
the burst of colors on stained glass rose windows
illuminate the idyllic archway of divine tranquility,
its aura guiding the surrealistic walk to the altar.
The fire that burnt the roof and the oak spire
she will take on her strides like she did before.
Resurrected, she will rise from the ashes anew,
regain her lost splendor and glory once again.
I once marveled at her beauty in the twilight glow
as the golden Seine glided past quietly me and her.
The captivating view lingers on after so many years,
I know she will look the same when I see her again.
May 5, 2019
Restless and unhappy,am I!
To be so desirous to live totally free, under blue skies.
Not living one day more, behind closed doors.
So fed up with sanitizing floors and doors.
People in masks look totally ridiculous.
Perhaps some love this fear-carousel,so totally incredulous!
Created by none other than that beast, Satan in hell!
His green eyes glow with your utter fascination.
That you are upset that you cannot get that vaccination.
We have God's power to make things right!
Those children without real schooling are in a humanitarian blight!
Lock downed states have more deaths, a surrealistic blight.
Not in Florida, where you can live free and take a breath.
I ask again....Is it really only me?
Who wants back my full American dignity and liberty?
2/22/2021
~2~
Closure to Fine
I wander lot and wonder,
I search lot and surrender
though being inquisitive :
staying sensuous emotive;
My treasure in shrine
of mind to shine,
Me closure to fine !
I venture on so many directions
I explore on so many options,
I ask so many questions
getting answers multifarious
on confused misconceptions.
On intense introspection,
continued contemplation
Runs rapture to mine,
Ethereal Divine :
Me closure to fine.
On my non ending endeavour
far or yonder
In maize or illusive zone:
Known or unknown
Implicit or explicit !
Yet to interpret :
Soul is awakening
Conscience entwined
Me closure to fine !
Roaming frolic frantic
or still stagnant static:
Dreaming abrupt realistic,
facing corrupt surrealistic
whirling twisting in turbine!
Quietude comes within,
Me closure to fine !
I asked so many questions !
Searched and researched :
Queries and explanations !
Actions and reactions :
Marched and perched.
Yet self confined !
Answer is in mine.
Me closure to fine !
02/22/23
Closure to Fine
Sixth Place
Premier Contest by Kai Michael Neumann
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.