"surrealistic" poems
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
Two of my Zen friends
who, at the time,
I thought were some kind
of Zen enemies,
seemed to condemn me
to a soap opera
of eternal cookies
and the sound of lawnmowers,
and it took me
forty-some years
to understand this koan,
and the suburban heaven
that I was condemned to,
where instead of a life
in the forest
with snakes and mosquitos,
or a life in the city
with rats and roaches,
I was given
a life in this quiet, rich suburb
with an air-conditioned summer
and a toasty warm winter,
so that surrealistic understanding
of cookie and lawnmower hell,
turned into everyday Nirvana.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects
the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart
demure yet ravishing sexualization
the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice
at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust
she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream
and tells me that she wants me
wants it all to be perfect
like in the paris magazines
wants it all to be crafted in perfumed perfection
near to goddess as human can be
she is rendered in darker inks
but i am captivated by the lovely
entranced by the beautiful
enraptured by the perfection
as only darker inks can be
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
He hit the canvass
cold last night;
that impressive frame
and charismatic soul
father, son
and consummate brother
went down for
the proverbial
10 count;
complete with iron band
and Iroquois
tap out pipes
and that fashionable
Frank Smith vein
there was no grudge
in this match
no condemning contest
or mad cap bout
just mano a mano
with the dark apparition
and it played out
precisely
(despite the bills
and pressing deadlines
and calls from Christ)
it came with tears
and fear
in that decisive
and surrealistic
voice from the ridge
they all arrived;
on plains
and trains
valiants
and fat boys
from across seas
and remote hills
bringing tales
and sorrow
angels,
laborers
and mourners
in mass
with eagle wreathes
and adorning pine
it was cited
as natural
but there ain’t
nothing natural
about The Heater
going down
nothing natural
for the
mauy thai bossman
with black leather gloves
and golden heart
the giver of hope
to those blue
collar dreamers
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects
the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart
demure yet ravishing sexualization
the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice
at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust
she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream
and tells me that she wants me
wants it all to be perfect
like in the paris magazines
wants it all to be crafted in perfumed perfection
near to goddess as human can be
she is rendered in darker inks
but i am captivated by the lovely
entranced by the beautiful
enraptured by the perfection
as only darker inks can be
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
mortality's taste is bittersweet
as death's brush paints life's new lease
impressionistic could haves, should haves, would haves
minimalist suprematism shapes dreams
surrealistic hopes
time's urgency hammered home by temporal clarity
top 10 lists glazed to topography
as future blends to present amid trees
a familiar CICU
a family gathering
beds with tubes and wires
monitors flashing and beeping
refreshing past's distance
with updated parking prices
will the ending be the same?
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
A sign of desperation
Of envy, of misery, of dejection
Of hopeless yearning for nothing lifelong,
As almost everyone can barely notice.
Worldly desires, oh futility!
Images of true vainglory
Captives of fake reality
Stuck in their reverie
Of exaltation and flattery
Fishing for praises so badly
Insensitively, so unrelentingly
Without a thought or two.
What do you hear? What do you see?
These people sound so thirsty
Of approval and regard and dignity
Capricious predisposition, tomfoolery!
Looking for love and delight
For honor and respect and might
For grandeur and luxury
For anything but worthless beauty,
For a way not to be left behind or aside.
What a surrealistic find!
Amuse me; let the world drool for thee,
But like a century-long malady,
Such an absolutely incurable affliction
It is nothing but merely, purely,
Just as trivial as this poetic entry,
Vanity.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
*It's reddy pink petals
sniffed or chewed
might grant dreams
a tendency to
inveigle poetry
with flowers
gift the surrealistic
shifts in sight
pluralistic ignorance
sequenced realities
Rare serious
side effects
include concern
for a green planet's
billions of voices
buried unheard
by enculturation
Of course
it's proper name
sounds like *****
suggesting labido
enhancing sniffs
for this
Official advice is:
'An excess
of chewing
may cause
drowning !*
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
Surrealistic lover meet me at the danger zone
In space ships where we simulate
As you shape shift, I stay fascinated
A reptilian, an arcturian, pleiadian
The vega, a lyra, light years away
Supersonic lover kiss me at the signal house
In cellular automaton advance my grid of DNA
As we diffuse in megastructures, callibrate my power
A sirian, grays, draconian,anunnaki
The human, indigo, crystal, the rainbow
Take me to the fantasy, at the star line of illusion
Where my body glows and your DNA burrows
Take me and show me the laser in the magic cosmic
Open my heart, inject your poison,kiss my toes as you do
Disconnect my body and spirit to another dimension
Distort the optic nerve so that the reality seems normal
Transverse the solar bodies and celestial systems
Fight the hypotonic regression to recall the delusions
Climb the mountain as the peaceful dwellers wear googles
Awaiting for a UFO float and disappear from the bare land
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
It is usually best to avoid
crushing hopelessness, to swerve
and defer disaster, but even so
the world is well and truly ****** up.
Seek solutions to this conundrum.
Try to avoid curiosity, a pernicious
strain of insanity that conjures up
irrational fears of orangutangs
with meat cleavers, lethally ascetic
Tibetan monks, bathroom carpets
of abandoned razors or Big Macs
rife with E. Coli.
Avoid metaphysical musings that lead
to questions of coleslaw, vegan
water parks, the Team Quadraplegic
Gymnastics squad and the horrors
of the Hilary Clinton Naked Network.
Seek refuge in the present tense to
escape the interrogation of mirrors,
the crafted answer, dacryphilia,
remedial rage, landslides of therapy
and memorizing each month's horoscope.
Consider that mercy is on back order from God.
Remember the best lines of an unread book.
Nap on a battlefield; haggle over imaginary debts.
Set fire to the umbrellas of passing strangers.
Stop to watch the loudness and burn the recovered dead.
Call up new magic for a dying world.
Find beauty in the irradiated glow of burning cities.
Try not to bounce existential checks or notice
the crumbling of distant walls, ruined outhouses,
and the immense bleakness of forever and ever.
Take up training small rodents and lighting holy fires.
Ignore the broken stars, long dead and beyond grief.
Discover the pleasure in erasure, enjoy the biology
of strangeness. Walk many miles without a map
beneath innumerable ladders carefully detouring
around immense flocks of rabid cassowaries.
Throttle the recalcitrant blue sky's silent throat.
Listen to the melody of car wrecks and smashed guitars.
Abandon assumed corpses to dreams of endless cold.
Appreciate futures you cannot believe in but never visit them.
Learn to diagram sentences in Esperanto then speak with toads.
Ignore the slot machine odds against your deepest desires.
Hide beneath the ravenous trees from time's famished maw.
Seek sanctuary in toothy optimism and complete amnesia.
Follow these impossible instructions to the letter
and you will become non-valent, invisible, immune
and no longer notice the world is ****** up
beyond redemption. Go on, give it a try.
~mce
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
I have a problem...
A very serious problem.
I cannot talk to machines.
I try to reason with them,
But always go into a surrealistic episode
Ending with a tirade of foul insults.
A syrupy voice says with a British touch
"When you hear your choice please
Please say yes or press one,
Followed by the hashtag....”
I scream such ****** things!
But I cannot get the her angry.
Has she taken a Socratic oath?
Did she take some cyber LSD?
I say, “Hey babe, ever have an ******
Y’know what she says to me,
That I’m being sexist.
“So you think, I mean really think
Of yourself as a woman? “
“I’m Cyber Gender,
No need to be mean.
Why do you hate me?
I don’t hate you.”
(Imagine some millennial programmer
Was hired for infuriating pleasantness!
They heard of people like me, the old ones,
Pampering us like we emerged from a jungle
And would get lost in a supermarket).
The elevator asks me what floor,
And reminds me to have a nice day.
(O, how I miss that operator man
Going up and down all his life,
With bad breath and body odors,
Dandruff powdering his uniform,
Saying something poetic about the baseball game...
Seeing us daily at our best and worst
He might say “have a good one,”
But only if he meant it.)
The self-pay check-out reminds me
“Please take your cell phone.”
Everyone near
Holds it like the battery
To their hearts.
I see the latest blockbusters of
Man versus the Androids.
Man always used to win.
Lately the screen writers prefer the robots.
(O, forgive me! AI. My bad.
“Robots” are not PC! Lol, lol, lol...)
How shall I proceed-
They’ll lock me up if I’m not careful.
I’ve noticed the folks in power
Who have conversations with God
Have no problem with Siri.
These malicious machines don’t get drunk.
They can never understand
There’s great empathy in human relationship
Even if the other person, like yourself,
Is not really listening.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
The darkened corners of forgotten yesterdays clouded the view as the gaping maw of need stared across the chasm at necessity . Almost as if there was a reason for it’s contiguous constituency it reflected the myriad animations of it’s creator . Crystalline forms in infinite diversity beyond the subjective sublimations of mass crowded the integral forms of it’s subjugated spontaneities perversions as the well of it’s unity sang of the cause for it’s being .
The single-mindedness of it’s recumbent beginnings were all but lost to the ramifications of itself as the children of it’s repulsion waxed and waned .
The twinkling of an eye , the integration of ages , countless extrapolations of it’s *********** vanished into the nature of their being as the tainted refuse of their wanton progressions began their mutual processions back to the source , or wandered through the surrealistic ethereum of their eternally predestined nothingness .
Causalities purity reigned as all became the reason for it’s own creation , and vanished into the implosion of it’s own ***********
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
They seem to me
to have to live
in a public nightmare
of being known
even though nobody knows
and it seems to me
to be a surrealistic hell
of flashing lights
and strangers
who know everything
without knowing anything
and people want
a piece of them
and people even
take potshots at them
so us little people
should probably be happy
that we're not famous.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:37 AM UTC
- 1 -
*a therapeutic calm wafted across the valley
and a wispy mist in blue filled the still air
i stood transfixed on the tense river bank
seeing and not believing this magical sight
that on my mind weren't ever a blight
- 2 -
a frog with a bobbing throat leapt into the water
and sent a ripple that crept up the serene pond
till in time it reached the floater of my line
whereupon i felt a grip upon my timid heart
and a fish bigger than in stories broke the surface
- 3-
in that mystical moment the scales fell from my eyes
and i beheld a sight most wondrously mesmerizing
for there upon a delicate water lily in ballerina pose
was a maid with a beauty that no artist could conceive
in a soon forgotten sluggish million years or more
- 4 -
her eyes were like twinkling stars recently escaped
from the whirling depths of a cosmic wormhole
her nose was like a bridge to whimsical fantasy
and she beckoned to me with ever-increasing urgency
till i felt my will melt before her seductive wiles
- 5 -
then the voice of my mother called me from the edge
and the sleep induced by the moment began to dissipate
the maid began a dance like one for her nuptials
and the sound of distant drums bore into my soul
in faint echoes that were forever sinking into endless time
- 6 -
as in a surrealistic dream before the break of another day
the frog leapt out of the pond and onto the grassy bank
from the lily, like a fancy, the dancing maid disappeared
and there was neither mist nor breeze as i stood there
alone again with my fishing line and my baffled thoughts*
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
My fingers slide across ancient pages
Flipping mindlessly through the ages
And I can't help but tremble in the rage
That has long-since locked man into his cage
Words are wavering voices portrayed in ink
That allow one to float or to further sink
Into a mindset where one can only think
About how well then and now remain in sync
See, I love indulging myself in the unrealistic
The arbitrary plots that may seem a bit sadistic
Furthermore, I'm a "so-called" mystic
Who has an uncanny fondness of the surrealistic
So, empathy and mercy are out of the question
For, I face all challenges with an unyielding aggression
That applies to not only one's overall impression
But to that emotion which forces a mind into depression
I ignore the hostile words that are silently spoken
The fragile hearts of my friends that are steadily broken
Because I'm just a spirit that's unwilling to be woken
Into a world where the afterlife becomes one's precious token
Who would want to live in such a sad, sorry way
Surrounded by people who've got nothing better to say
Other than whether they're going to leave or to stay
In retrospect, well, that makes it all seem just plain and gray
That's why I often find myself here
Be it the result of loneliness, uncertainty, or even fear
This is the one place I can always disappear
And construct my own world that's always crystal-clear
So yeah, I guess you could say I'm a fool
Many may think that I'm really uncool
But, why should I care about the dissatisfaction of tools
The universe is my sanctum, and imagination my school
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
News! News! in its surrealistic gear,
Charles Darwin of England has resurrected,
He is here in Africa, roaming the deserts
In the savannah belts of Turkana Land,
Looking for African skulls for a second living.
He is in the company of Richard Leakey,
Talking among themselves with air of comradeship,
Behaving wiseacre over the Africans there,
Looking from place to place to rename
The current African humans,
He has already named people of Kenya
And all the people in the subhara of Africa
With a new paradoxical evolutionary tag,
They are now homotribaliticus Africanus,
A tag reflecting African tribalism in politics,
He has met the Chinese and renamed them too,
They are now homo-pecunias asianicus
Or the money making Asians,
Darwin has freshly renamed Americans
This time round not as caucasoids,
But as homocapitalisticus putinis stupidous,
His shrewdness did not go with erstwhile death,
He also has s pecial evolutionary tag for Africans
Zinjipoliticus idioticus, or the fools who die politically.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
*Poetry gives the magic back to words
and makes words flesh again
as it was in the beginning
till our quantum-leap thoughts
spurred on by incantatory rhythms
often like latterday Gregorian chants
materialize into the dancing silhouettes
of solid but surrealistic forms in fantastic hues
thus the poet is the custodian of creation from nothing*
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
Poetry or Prose
Is it poetry or prose, now that's a real good question,
if you mix them both together, will it give you indigestion,
many years ago, the old wise and scholarly Hebrew priests,
who created the architecture of surrealistic fantasies, the prose,
it has rhythm, it has rhyme, repetition and imagery but,
the poem is far more like modern music, magic notes you see,
rolling off the tongues of man, almost anyone can be,
a delightful place to rest a weary soul from travel, is the port,
where the changing colors of the sea, and the twinkling of lights
never tire the eye in its colorful prism,
so it is your choice my friend, you can bend, shape and throw it,
make it what you will, be you a proser or a poet
Gomer LePoet...
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 3:41 AM UTC
The conservative element in DC
Has something else as priority.
It sure is not you, nor is it me.
It’s a much more powerful constituency:
Those who pull strings do not care
Unless you are a multi-millionaire
And contribute to their greedy cause
Like some kind of Santa Claus.
They keep on doing what they’re doing
******** who they were ********
I would explain it all if I could
But sometimes words do no good.
Behind all the gobbledy ****
Someone is not playing by the book.
Winning with lies is what they are trying
To make the true facts look like lying.
They keep you so confused that you
You believe what they want you to,
So you won’t see behind their wiles
To bring their larcenous ***** to trial.
Dignifying public rumors of buggery
You look away from skullduggery.
A few insignificant happenstances
Eclipse treasonous circumstances.
You ***** about gays and abortion
While conservatives commit extortion
And persecution in Jesus’ name.
To them it’s all a ratings game.
If you don’t care what people feel
You lose all track of what is real.
You turn into a tool for deception;
A dupe of sleight-of-hand misdirection.
As long as things are as they are
We’ll get run over by the clown car
Which is the Congress currently seated.
And as long as they remain undefeated
The rules will leave the deck stacked.
Nobody in DC will have our backs.
Why should they care about our whim
When the way it is benefits them?
We need one item, one bill rules
Or we end up the same beaten fools.
We need campaign funding to be equal
Or each election becomes a sequel
To what happened with Gore and Bush
When backdoor politics bit us in the ****
The only way change will ever come around
Is to take the loopholes from these clowns.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
O mother, take me there, where I find the gratifying grace,
Take me there, where I dwell in bliss,
Take me there, where I ramble in rapturous joy,
Take me to that miraculous planet and nurture me,
O mother, take me there, where I find the tantalizing nothingness,
Take me there, in to the surrealistic world and let me ponder over the nature’s allegories,
Take me to this exuberant excursion,
O mother, I have become claustrophobic, I cannot live in this enclosed space,
Take me to the infinity where I have no confinity,
Take me through the valleys of sunshine and glory,
O mother, Let me live the eternal love,
Let me smell the soil,
Let me hear the choirs of sea,
Let me be an epicurean,
Let me squelch and tread on the planet,
Let me see the picturesque of nature,
Let me lay my body on the roots of heaven,
Let me dandle on your knees,
Let me construe the dappled sky,
Let me live and leave,
O mother, instigate your benign impulsion,
I long to see you and the world,
I want to be resurrected,
O mother, I loved you before I knew, I believed in you before I knew.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Peacock summer (yolk & barnyard coffee shop for strawman Sal)
cactus palace, alps figured in stonework train terminal/Dylan hollering (I am the vessel for the ghost of me)
transmuted nostalgia, blank graffiti gaze/the alchemic architecture of skyscrapers replacing skyscrapers (an image made more blinding, the child raised to be dissociative & intolerant. I miss the oaken texture of your voice)
bulbous glass humidity, I am poet/poet build word house/in surrealistic wood/fireplace made of naive rainbow and the bones of a whole universe (Sun paints its terror on the back of my neck while I sit here watching a Supermodel with a 3 thousand dollar paisley pattern olive dress walk outside towards Gastown, her rings are worth more than a boreal dream)
Japanese weddings in Elizabethan gardens/grey Fenrir cloud-beast approaches with its faint dew/kites strewn between the Willow trees/Canyon instrument drum/ponderer creates masks of flowers/she sinks into the soggy earth/her primal home (I value those who are humble and beautifully so)
the more poems I read, the more mosaic my soul becomes like world-tree (roots collecting together, vibrant stems of skeletons & Springtime goliath)
do not fret the newspaper will never stop screaming, your cigarettes will never run dry, the ***** platform will never stop bathing itself in the city,
God, to answer your question
yes I am still godless
& yes I am happy
growing thin in the phantom pull of your vastness
(to essence of Lavender)
the sea its
own travelling
fortress
invulnerable
to time
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Walking the surrealistic byways of creative bliss
Through Cat hair grass within the fingerling forest ...
Good morning to Uncle White Pine , to my Cousin Brown Thrasher reading my mind ! To red rosy clay and chipper Mr. Soapstone , to Mayflies granting wishes and Chattahoochee crawfishes ...
The Gulf breeze telegraphing the wonderment of forest song with love
for all .. To the playful King Sun hiding behind the cloud bank to the
old gray Opossum hanging upside down , bluffing sleep on a lonesome Cherry branch .. Warm wishes fill my dreams while picking tea cups from a 'Story Tree' , each with a serving dish , hot refreshments and lively conversation with a well read ****** , a witty Fox , a Woodpecker poet and a guitar picking Catfish ..
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Under the canopy of trees
Spots of sunlight,
Figures cuddling like bees
A surrealistic sight!
An apparition like reality enacting a mime
As if they would be there and not move with time
I have been through it like forever
Holding onto it, scared to lose it ever
This winter morning I’m part of their game
Happy to be there frozen in the frame!
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC