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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: surreal poetry

  • The Voice in the Haze | A Dreamlike Poem About Being Called and Finding Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a dream that didn’t feel like it wanted to stay a dream.

    There’s a strange feeling that comes with certain moments–where something feels unfamiliar, but not new. Like you’re not discovering something, but remembering it.

    This poem lives in that space.

    Between wandering and being called.
    Between searching and being found.

    And in that moment where everything quiets just enough for you to hear something that feels meant for you–where you understand it yet or not.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person walking through a hazy dreamlike city toward a glowing figure, symbolizing a mysterious voice calling them
    Some voices don’t introduce themselves—
    they feel like something you’ve always known.

    The Voice in the Haze
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I was wandering
    blurry streets,
    not a fog
    but a haze.
    It felt like I had been
    wandering for days.

    Everything felt foreign,
    yet familiar—
    and every sound
    I had heard before.

    Every step
    echoed louder
    as I marched
    with purpose.

    Until I was stopped
    in my tracks—

    I heard it,
    an angel’s voice.
    It called to me.

    Slowly,
    my footsteps
    faded
    until her voice
    was all I could hear.

    The haze thinned,
    as if the world itself
    was holding its breath,
    waiting for me
    to turn toward her.

    And so—
    I did.

    My heart stilled,
    caught between fear
    and something softer,
    something that felt
    like remembering.

    Eyes locked—
    hers
    and mine.

    She smiled.
    I softened.

    Step
    after step,
    I drew closer.

    Until her hand
    met my cheek,
    and I fell
    to my knees—
    tired,
    exhausted
    from wandering,
    searching.

    A single finger—
    that’s all it took,
    and we were
    eye to eye
    again.

    “Rowan,”
    her voice sounded distant,
    even though
    she stood right in front of me.
    “Come to me.
    Come see
    the Philippines.”

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Pluto Farmer: A Whimsical Poem About Being a Misfit

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Pluto Farmer is a playful meditation on otherness, absurdity, and the quiet rebellion of refusing to contort yourself into someone else’s idea of “normal.”
    Sometimes resistance looks like fire and teeth.
    Sometimes it looks like space carrots, judgmental space chickens, and cultivating joy on a planet no one else bothered to visit.

    This poem is for the weirdos, the outcasts, the artists, and anyone who has ever been told—explicitly or otherwise—that they don’t belong.
    If “normal” is a box, I’m farming on Pluto.

    Illustration of a whimsical farmer on Pluto surrounded by space animals, glowing vegetables, and surreal cosmic elements, representing absurdity and embracing being a misfit.
    Cultivating joy where “normal” doesn’t apply. 🪐

    Pluto Farmer
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m the twisted
    insane misfit.
    Outcast. Exile.
    Certified weirdo.

    The farmer
    with a ranch on Pluto.
    Two camels in a parked car,
    elephants in jam jars—

    gravity folded in coat pockets,
    constellations mislabeled,
    common sense left on read—

    and somehow
    I’m the problem
    for not fitting neatly
    into their tiny little box
    called “normal.”

    So I—
    just spend
    my time,
    cultivating—
    space carrots,
    raising space cows,
    milking starlight,
    counting moons like loose change,
    gathering space eggs
    from suspiciously judgmental
    space chickens.

    “Oh my god, you’re wearing that? Ew, what the—b-GAWK?!”

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Liminal Static | A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Thoughts.
    Rapid-fire fragments.
    Electric. Static.
    Nothing whole.
    Pieces. Flipping channels.
    Incoherent.

    Yet—moments slow.
    Threads of you slip through.
     Then they bounce again.

    Twisting.
     Turning.

    Nothing ever sticks.
     Channel flips.  Sparks fly.

    Vision blurs.
     Vision fades.
    Not asleep.  Not awake.

    Caught in this liminal space.
    Threads linger.
      Faint.
       Flicker.

    A signal in the static.
    Am I calm, or about to panic?

    I reach. I grasp.

    Trying to catch thoughts.

    Elusive.
     Butterfly.
      Moth.
       Flame.

    In-between.
     Sane.
      Insane.