imagination poems

De-Shelving Latitudes – A Poem by Paul Tristram

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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
dive-bombed
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.

Weather Personified – A Poem by J.K. Durick

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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

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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.

Moss Covered Shoes | Mary Bone

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A pair of moss covered shoes
were found in the forest.
Had someone walked a mile in them?
There had to be a story here.
Perhaps the moss
felt like carpet
between someone’s toes
and they left their shoes behind.

Spook in the Cellar | Colleen Riehl

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An indubitable fact

A voice in my head
clearly said
don’t enter
the Cellar
a spook
awaits you

Oh no!
overwhelmed
with trepidation
dread
soaked in
perspiration

I was home alone
not for one week
but two.

Just me
and
the ghastly spook

What was I to do!
petrified..
couldn’t sleep
I strategized..

Devised an
elaborate plan
to lock
the interconnecting
door
betwixt the spook
and I

Who was I fooling
spooks disregard
boundaries
transcend barriers
time and space

I grew tired
slowly
succumbed to
sleep..
alone..
just my
ficticious
imaginary spook
and I

The Armchair Adventurer | Denise D’Souza

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I grab my coat and leave the house. My cat comes after me.
In the woods we meet a wizard with a crooked knee.
The wizard takes us to a tree where sits an old screech owl,
who sends on our mission. In the night the werewolves howl.
We start an epic journey searching for a magic ring,
Hidden by a dragon, to return it to the king.

We travel with the wizard for hundred years or more.
While sailing round Cape Horn we meet a mighty man o’ war.
We battle with a pirate gang and, captured by the crew,
They take us to an island ruled by a wise guru.
He wears a flowing scarlet robe and eats nothing but rice.
In honour of our visit, he serves pink champagne on ice.

The guru loves our exploits but he disbelieves our tale.
Accusing us of being spies, he has us thrown in jail.
We have no time to wonder how we got in such a fix,
Before we’re rescued by an agent sent by MI6.
By private jet we’re taken up to London in great state.
Just in time to dine with the PM, promptly at eight.

Barred entry to the Ritz because we’re not in evening dress,
We grab a cab and leave, on board the Orient Express.
Cat revels in the luxury, while I’m taxing my brain
With working out the mystery of the body on the train.
Just when I think I’ve cracked the case and know who murdered who,
My suspect has an alibi turn up out of the blue!

I’m safe home from my travels with my cat sat at my feet.
Curled round my owl-shaped cushion in my favourite seat,
I wake as from a dream. All my adventuring is done.
But family and friends have hardly noticed I’ve been gone.
I blink and wonder blearily what news I might have missed,
Then dive into the next book waiting on my ‘to read’ list.

Rayguns and More | Cattail Jester

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Enter a childhood
of pulp reading, colorful
hero pages, rayguns,
space operas, and more
That is the place I go
now in my stressed state:
To my relative’s upper
room to play with his
giant plastic representations
of science fiction dreams.

Ireland – A Poem by J.K. Durick

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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
teasing
understating
overstating a bit of action
a place
making itself up
out of this play of words
I want to hear.

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