performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Spoken Word #2
I remember that day clearly. The night before I slept in the nurses' office so I could stay later on to see the concert. Mom was gonna bring me some clothes later, but in the meantime, I wore what the nurse gave me; black shorts and a red hoodie over a green tee.
Summer OrbanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Magic of Words
Words. They are the medium by which we relate reality; a currency of intuition and thought. Toward lexiconical pools we cast our poles of cognition, weaving from our bounty elaborate tapestries of self reflection. To the spiritualist, words are aether made form. To the reductionist, words are impulse made vibration. Perhaps the beauty of words lies in the fact that they posses the power to relay intent, thus reassuring guru and scientist alike that we are not alone in the dark and infinite cosmos. Words reassure us that our senses do not lie. Remember a time when you basked in a cerulean pool under the soft light of a full moon? If you can not, make a note to do so; it produces a holistically pleasurable warmness. Remember a time when you exchanged glaces with your love? Such euphoria and understanding can not be properly expressed without metaphor. To sate our dire need of relation we cast our poles out yet again, for senses are meaningless if we can not make sense of them. Every word we use references each of its predecessors and provides context for each of its ancestors in the continuous dance of discourse by which we mediate experience.
Zeno AntoniusPublished 7 years ago in PoetsSpoken Word #1
One of them speaks words. She checks up on me if I'm in the bathroom for more than five minutes. She wants to look at what I've written whenever she gets the chance.
Summer OrbanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsSomething
Big is something that isn't small Tall is something that isn't short Fat is something that isn't thin Red is something that isn't blue
Rebecca Van RielPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWhen the Night Comes
The day is fine. Filled with hope and daydreams of the future. I walk around with cares as little as what I'll eat next cuz I always have to be thinking 10 steps ahead. But when the night comes so does fear. It envelopes my positivity like an eclipse. The light and all my hope disappearing into the stomach of the night. While mine growls. I look scanning my surroundings like an animal being hunted. Alert but exhausted all at once. My steps seem louder now quickening with pace, oh I wish I had mace...to keep a distance from the man following me. Maybe I'm just overtired imagining things. I think in lost him I don't see anyone around. Breathing a sigh of relief I then feel a sharp pain in my neck of God it stings! Everything goes black. When I awaken I feel sick. There's a man on top of me. I can feel the cold air all over my basket body. I try to move or scream but my limbs are like bricks. I can't tell where I am, it's so dark. But the pain inside me is telling that nothing is right. I need to get out of here. I manage to get 1 word out. No. And I feel a cloth over my mouth. Everything goes dark...not again. When I wake this time I'm able to move. There's puke on me...I don't remember throwing up. I look around and the man is nowhere to be found. Just me and my naked body on cold crumpled leaves in the wooded area of what used to be my neighborhood. My clothes are strewn to my right side so I grab them and put them on as quickly as possible praying he doesn't come back again. I nervously scan the woods as I shove my foot into my shoes. I run to the police building and into the bathroom to lay on the floor and try to get some sleep. "You brought it on yourself!" or so I've been told by the sheep. I have work tomorrow morning. I can't let this distract me otherwise I'll never get out of this situation...this...homelessness as they call it. I can't wait until it's over, I can't wait for the sun, cuz when the night comes...out come the rapists and the bums.
Identity
My name is Chloe Amongst other things Named after someone From Home and Away My family calls me sweet things Like honey, sugar plum
Chloe GilholyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsConnections and Deceptions
Connections and deceptions, do you know where you fit? Connections, energy, vibes with peaks and valleys flow out of all of us
Shae Lynn SandersPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThere is a Nothing...
There is a nothing… A nothing that hovers over my every moment, my every breath Yet, this nothing will no longer haunt me, it will slowly drift away
Shae Lynn SandersPublished 7 years ago in PoetsOur Rainbow
The colors of my rainbow will not bleed The colors of my rainbow will not fade They will not back down and they will not be afraid
Shae Lynn SandersPublished 7 years ago in PoetsBeyond Gibeon
It is all done now but for the mopping up and we now know our fates, which we hate, hate... disdainfully swept aside like so many crumbs from
A. F. LittPublished 7 years ago in PoetsHarvest
My legs sprout new bruises every day and I’m never sure where they come from or from whom or whether they send their regards
Daisy LennonPublished 7 years ago in PoetsFather's Hand
Father's hand The ubiquity of beauty and loving the light the omnipresence of day's transition to night Let Fibonacci free, a newly found sight