Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Upon a loom of lavender skies, The morning spins a sweet surprise, Where velvet vines of amethyst Unfurl from oceans made of mist.
By Forest Green13 minutes ago in Poets
A floating plate of porcelain blue, The autumn midnight spun a dream come true. A silver spoon—a wand of waking light— Carved through the marrow of the velvet night.
Upon a harvest hill of buttered cloud, Where cinnamon moons are singing loud, A mountain rose of harvest gold, With secrets of the orchard told.
The kitchen floor dissolves in autumn light, As floating cubes of spice cake take their flight, A gingerbread balloon drifts past my ear,
The autumn sky dissolved in spun meringue, While amber moons like melting globes of fire Began to drip where velvet shadows sang,
The autumn sky was spun of molten gold, Where copper clouds in velvet oceans rolled. A sugar-wind began to softly blow, And melted time to make the forest glow.
It is the crust of a porcelain moon, Where cinnamon constellations croon, We knead the velvet of autumn skies To bake the dream of the Pumpkin Hand Pies.
Upon a plate of woven glass, Where autumn shadows turn and pass, A harvest moon was sliced and laid— A velvet ghost of spice and shade.
By Forest Green14 minutes ago in Poets
Upon the velvet, rust-spun hill of sleep, Where glowing lanterns graze the twilight sheep, A copper moon dissolves in cream and spice,
The kitchen floats on oceans made of spice, Where copper clouds of nutmeg softly gleam. A clockwork sun is spinning out the rice,
Gentle as the flow He puts his virtual glasses on She puts her virtual glasses on There they are Two different places in their own spaces
By Tanya Giblerabout 4 hours ago in Poets
The Shop at the End of the World Some say there’s a shop at the end of the world. It doesn’t sell mere mortal things. It sells the special things that heaven And beyond brings.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about 4 hours ago in Poets
