Poems and Poetry

imagination poems

De-Shelving Latitudes | A Poem by Paul Tristram

The raft’s bindings were tied
with thesaurus knots.
Huddled beneath
a beer garden parasol,
she paddled oars,
made of wishbones,
with augmented plate-ends
of Welsh roof slate.
As the fray of the forest,
sludged slowly away behind,
the rains started, briskly.
Demented seagulls
the little bamboo harbour
off to the left…
and, to the right,
a volcano bellowed
a juggernaut argument
with the dismal sky.
Weaving and bobbing,
ruddering with underside
bottom of wrist…
she darted back towards land,
in between
the caves of stagnation
and the copper fields of tomorrow.
Landing, unnoticed by all
but the Switzerland kingfisher.
Frame arched like a bow,
she reed-ran, spritely,
towards the racket
tumble-spreading outwards
from the waterfall of nonsense verse.

Madness | A Poem by Nitya Muralidharan

Enclosed amidst four walls we dream of mountains
Of running alongside sea lines, sleeping under the clouds
And we run far away far from this chaos and crowd
To clear blue seas and skies, beyond petty things
Beyond hatred and bitterness to love and happiness
And to choose sadness, the kind that makes us want to write and sing
Beyond a world that is obsessed with sanity
Because we all are mad, that’s what keeps us alive
Madness that lets us see mountains beyond walls
Madness that lets us reach out beyond the walls
Beyond reason and logic, to that land where we try to reach
Through liquid and smoke, where our worries are taken away
And blissful happiness surrounds
Where the cloak of adulthood is taken away
And Childhood descends with a twinkle in its eye

5:00 A.M. Monday Morning | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The mist was all around
Slipping up
Giving me a playful, wet kiss
It was a spirit morning
The eerie quiet
In the early hours
With ghost vapors floating
Just over my shoulder
As I walked
To the road
In the distance
I saw a faint light
The car struggling vainly
For visibility
It drew closer
The paper man
Waved and passed
His route longer
As he cut
Through the fog
It would not last
Milky blankness
Fighting a losing battle
With the sun
But for that moment
The invasion
Held me captive

Ireland | A Poem by J.K. Durick

Seems unreal somehow
becomes this
a teller telling it
at a distance
with lights dimmed
trimmed back
to a haze of smoke
of conversation
in overheated rooms
wood paneling
a bit of song
so good
I want to hear it
just beyond
the unsettling stir
of it

why even if I were
knee deep
in shamrock
green as a summer field
by some whitewashed cottage
in the west under thatch
a picture you’ve seen
peat smoke wisping
as a pony cart full
of red-haired children
goes by
why I’d still hear
this voice over
overstating a bit of action
a place
making itself up
out of this play of words
I want to hear.

Weather Personified | A Poem by J.K. Durick

Around here they all like to say, “it’s spitting snow,”
as if they had somehow invented the concept,
even the weatherman says it, but they fail to run
with the idea, “it’s spitting snow” suggests a figure
this large indelicate being, the “it” in the phrase,
hovering over the day, spitting down on us, perhaps
out of disgust with us, or perhaps just playing with us,
his mouth partially full of flakes, he puckers up
and gives us this weather and a saying we like to say
surrounded, as we are, by his baggy grey clothes
and this bitter cold, his cold shoulder to us as he
tries to think of what else he can get away with next.

Actually | A Poem by JD Dehart

Sometimes I speak in figment
allowing the simulacrum of life
splashes of image, hints
of rumor ruin my day.
I move as if in the fight
of my life when I am alone
with my surging thoughts.
Real life, what is actually going
on around me, sits back, shaking
its head, marveling that I always
fall for imaginations.