performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Sweet Slow Sounds
Swaying gently in the twilight's glow, Waves of lullabies, soft and low. Ethereal whispers dance on the breeze, Echoing memories that put hearts at ease. Tender notes linger like a lover’s sigh, Softly they weave through the night sky high. Luminous stars twinkle with gentle grace, Over each moment, their rhythms embrace. Winding like rivers through valleys of sound, Offering solace where peace can be found. Nestled in silence, where dreams come alive, Dulcet vibrations help weary souls thrive. Sweet are the sounds that cradle the night, Lulling us softly till morning's first light.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Group Hug
In the heart's quiet chamber, pain plays, Where whispers of longing and laughter blend, A tapestry woven in hues of gray, Each thread a story, where beginnings end. Hands outstretched like branches in our glow, We gather the fragments of souls intertwined; In this sacred circle where warm breezes blow, The weight of existence feels tenderly kind. Oh, the solace found in a shared embrace! An echoing heartbeat amidst silent fears; In vulnerability lies our common grace— Through the arms of another dissolve bitter tears. As time ebbs and flows like waves on the shore, Each hug a reminder we’re never alone; For in every clasp there is love to restore— Together we rise; together we've grown. So let us convene under stars that ignite, In moments united when darkness takes flight; For though life's vast journey may twist and unwind, It’s here in connection that meaning we find.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
I Heart New York City
In the city's cradle where dreams intertwine, Skyscrapers rise like titans against the sky, Their glassy reflections catch whispers of time, As taxis weave tales with each honking sigh. Neon lights flicker—a siren's embrace, The pulse of the streets beats steady and strong; From Brooklyn Bridge arches to Times Square's face, Every corner a story, a lyric in song. Pigeons dance on sidewalks as children chase hope, With ice cream cones dripping in summer's warm glow; Street vendors beckon with spicy kaleidoscope— Of life’s flavors mingling in sweet ebb and flow. A saxophonist croons on a bustling street, His notes lift like smoke from a soft winter fire; Each melody woven where strangers might meet, Binding hearts in their rhythm—a shared desire. Through storms that may batter this concrete domain, And winters that chill like an old lover's lie, The spirit endures through struggle and strain— New York wears her scars like stars in the sky. So here’s to the chaos that we call our home, To laughter and tears beneath skyscraper’s gaze; For in every heartbeat—from Broadway to loam— I find my own soul where this city ablaze.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
No, Chef
The kitchens are bright with dreams of gourmet fame, Where chefs parade their titles, pompous, grand, A whistle blows—a dish ignites the flame— “Excuse me, sir,” they say with raised hand. The sous-chef’s slicing onions like a pro, While patrons’ palettes waltz on tongues of gold. Yet here I stand—my heart a “no” in tow, As every plate brings forth a tale retold. “Oh chef!” they cry with fervor and delight, “The basil’s fresh; the truffle’s purest bliss!” But must we serve each whim that feels so right? Do dreams turn bland when served upon a dish? The fancier the plate—the less it feeds; With foam and froth, we laugh at simple needs. An artful swirl—a smear that makes you ponder: Is this what life has turned to? A rare squander! Oh joyless feast of fashion's fleeting trend! When shall we dine on warmth from hearth and home? To savor life’s true essence—this should mend— Yet here we are in haute cuisine’s cold dome. So raise your forks and let us digress more! For just one bite of laughter ‘neath the norm. Let flavors clash; let humble hearts restore— And from our plates create our own new form.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Yes, Chef
This is where realm of pots chaos reigns, Stands Chef Supreme with grand disdain. With knife in hand and apron tied tight, He rules the kitchen both day and night. “Chop that onion!” he bellows with glee, As sous-chefs scurry like ants on a spree. “Julienne, dice! No time for mistakes!” A culinary drill sergeant for all our sakes. The garlic’s a soldier; it must obey, While herbs are mere pawns in his gourmet play. The sauce simmers low like his temper at stake— One drop out of line? It’s an epic mistake! Yet behind this façade of chefly finesse, Lies a man who’d rather be free from this stress. For every fine plate is just gilded despair, Where dreams turn to soufflés that float in thin air. His staff fears the wrath of a spoon-wielding king; For under his rule, even vegetables sting. Each meal is a battle fought fiercely and hard— With laughter as scarce as a well-placed shard. But when plates are cleared and silence descends, And tired souls gather like long-lost friends, They toast to the chaos — their love interjects: “In this kitchen of madness, respect earns its checks.” So here’s to our Chef with his tempestuous flair; A tyrant at heart but with seasoning rare! In satire we find truth served up on a dish— That even great leaders might harbor one wish: To swap out the spatula for spoons made of gold— To trade all their battles for stories retold; For once they’ve transformed each vegetable fright, It’s laughter we crave at the end of each night.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Is it Over
This is where dreams are sold, And promises grow strangely cold, I sit amidst the hopeful throng, As each new trend sings out its song. “Is it over?” I ask with glee, As laughter swirls like leaves from a tree. The latest craze fades quicker than light— Last week’s sensation is today’s fright. We chased the fads with fervent zeal, Believed that joy was something real; Yet here we stand in shadowed doubt, Clutching our phones—what's that about? The influencers pose in sunset hues, While filters mask their own life’s blues. With every swipe and double-tap, We drown our woes in an endless trap. Oh glorious age of fleeting fame! Where every loser plays the game! A hashtag here—a meme to share— Yet deep inside we’re stripped and bare. So raise your glass to what we've lost; To hollow hearts at any cost. For all this noise has made us mute— Is it over? Not yet! Let’s recoup! But hark! The clock ticks on so fast— Tomorrow's news is already past. So let us laugh through all this dread: Is it over yet? Perhaps… but not quite dead.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
Symphony of Seasons
In spring’s embrace, the blossoms sway, Soft petals whisper secrets low, The sun awakes with golden ray, As life emerges from winter’s snow. In summer’s warmth, the laughter sings, Children dance where wildflowers grow, The sky dons blue as joy takes wings, And rivers shimmer with a glow. Then autumn drapes in hues of gold, Leaves twirl like dancers in a breeze, Each gust a story yet untold, Nature’s canvas painted with ease. With winter comes a silent night, Stars glisten like diamonds on frost, In tranquil hush, the world feels right— A moment cherished, never lost. Through cycles spun in time's own thread, We find our hearts entwined with grace; For every season that has fled— Life breathes anew in each embrace.
By Forest Green28 days ago in Poets
