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Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******,
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.
Jamie Bell Oct 15
Tempting to think that
soliloquies of the morning
on the garden bench radio
drifting in and out of earshot
seagull on the patience wall
tilting heads in confusion
to understand such chaos
well-wishing together to say
stumbling along blind desire
into ignorance forming timely
manner please don’t shout
when you could speak softly
it’s not enough to want
but always better to kneel
to protect your loved ones
elevating the ghosts yesterday
whispering their magic ballads
Buy my collection of 30 Surrealist poems here:

https://www.blurb.com/b/10330013-dreaming-in-lockdown-meditation-poems
Jamie Bell Oct 15
sorrow catching my eye in glancing along the sides headphones
dry up form music flowing safely home swimming the stream
dream relaxing into it and out of it furthermore striving inside
the haste of time and space leaps forward catching fish Google
the names of people still not here for you and I lips reading
the notice on the wall by night sorting moods and blue light
goes out of the clouds riding alive and free eternally into the ocean
of goodness we never see the reigns of the old and passed the future
we go onwards but luckily sure of ourselves but yes he said testing
the old stuff into new territories like the old school flies on the walls
coping with the stress of it all to tie the ends of fame and fortune
crying sighs the clouds move in on him park rides and scatter cushions alive feeling to stress the importance of love five times they said that to your whole company beats money and things although he crashes on the waves to meet the fears by night and by day we all say
today that the day comes before the dawn night air feeds folk love lost trite excuses follow the lead on by day and hopeful necessity flings itself beginning from the mouth of the ocean rivers flight by the by to meet the order of the dayside loneliness heights of fiction function beneath us time and time again and again over and over tomorrow freely likes the excuse of never coming to meet us morning times coming and going fortune reigns high on heads of might and yours come follow me to the hall taxi you can be there in spirit and hope gladly I see them all moving forward those fields in different colours vivid through and through my dad where is he I saw him earlier but no more stress on legs from crossing the tides chair away on the carpet tv on high below the strife of times away gorge on fruit and rubber duckies triplicates forward to the marketplace Robin Williams long grass and blood from the eyes of the breezes cold wind blowing knows shoes to take in Paris ghosts haunting the rooms
of the hotel desk table with soft light and fairy lights dim
and nearly gone to turn freely like the beach cards on which we play and frame our references on them let us leave it all to you then sidecar halfwit in control of how things should be normal or not normal or whatever you say is nonsense but the belief is strong and the winds of change are coming fast to throw you all on the **** heap of misery built on the sores of people raging in their hearts from nursing their wounds blooming flowers of negligence to take their heart to gold and charity caving in on their souls for good luck to with the night airs of chairing the meeting of time and Teams for 10 o’clock likeness of the world gone by cavernous value of meritorious victory sponging on the cave tonnes of brickwork graffiti faces
This is a Surrealist poem outlining experiencing in Lockdown.  I think it's a good one to read out loud.
Medea,
Sorceress in blue.
Tell me what is true.

Medea
Tell a vision
You lie and we listen.

We’re all alone
In a room filled of people
Staring blankly into the blue.
We hold the control
But who’s in control of who?

A room filled of sound but nobody can hear.
Walls of images that no one can see.

A house with no walls
Listening to when Medea calls.

She casts her spells through the holes in my head.
She likes it better when I’m half dead.
Fading in and out of the picture like a ghost.
Possessing me when she wants it the most.

Medea,
Your greatest illusion
Is kept in my living room.

Medea,
Turn truth into fiction,
Make the lie our addiction.

We’re at war,
With our maker.
With bodies of metal,
And hearts as cold as steel.

Loveless love,
The anti-man.
You killed god,
And built a can.

Medea,
Appear in the blue,
The eyes of the undead are focused on you.

Medea,
You’re a hypnotist,
Every word you speak is followed by a hiss.

Oh Medea,
You’re a liar.
Norman Crane Oct 3
Not all light has a source. Some streets travel
in freight cars city to city to be
extra-urbanistically unravelled,
oppidan rugs unrolled for you and me,
Only upon close inspection we see
that the perspective lines fail to meet,
A top shadow has spilled. Tread carefully,
Although a flag blows, the street is empty,
What lives in all these abandoned buildings?
you may ask but no one will answer. I
wander here searching for who pulls the strings
of this, our cleverly falsified world,
But quick look now how the light breaks the rules,
They already roll up the street—the fools!
Inspired by Chirico's painting of the same name from 1914.
Norman Crane Oct 2
converging clouds create
a celestial ceiling
a disappearing of the sun's rays
an ominous feeling of the revealing
of the truth:
the world's been packed
into an intergalactic burlap sack,
taken—
and we are not coming back
world-napped—
never to be awakened.
kiss us, but
the prince is not handsome,
we are alone, so
no one will pay our ransom.
Tania Sep 12
Rainy Italy
Where a heavy, red door flies
Enjoying the rock.
Haiku
Norman Crane Sep 11
He was a toad catching flies
Except that with each lashing of his tongue
He pulled down aircraft
And long could be heard their cries:
Blessed be, Amphibian Creator!
Death to America!
Frog is greater!
Is this heaven?
High above, above High
Bizarre, @ poppy sky height
leaping clouds on cloud 9
eyes, hypnogogic eyes
roams recalcitrant red
Idle! Martian! Deserts!
live streams can't pry
**** dried, silica tears
dam: # freedom cry
Free as a sand storm spins
Head: "I'm lost in the winds"
Headhunter's Hunger
Insatiable Appetite bites
Gnawing butterflies
crawling by poppy sky flowers
High above, above High
Heavenly Heights
Salvador Dali was a surrealist
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