Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
A life of labor. But despite that.. Honesty, and a striving for good. ''Good'', y-yes.. An overall good man, yes, but despite it all this gnawing impression,
By YonathanJ - Writerabout 24 hours ago in Poets
Morning Has Broken Morning has broken, Hello, brand-new day. I woke up feeling lost, You’ll show me the way. Lots of things to do outside On a bright summer’s day. So come on, dear sunshine, Show me the way.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 days ago in Poets
You get that special kind of crimson sensation Underneath the skies of your own making Rest easy as you look to your only true nation
By Jason Morton2 days ago in Poets
The Fish That Came From a Doodle This picture started as a doodle, While I was eating my Pot Noodle. And all at once, it grew and grew, And a fish popped out and said, How do?
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 days ago in Poets
The Monkey Who Became My Best Friend Monkey laugh and monkey sing, Monkey do most anything. At a circus one fine day, A man was giving his monkey away.
I used to find my way through the cracks finding the path that fit just right and being able to say "I made it". As I sift through the emails of "thank you, but sorry"
By Angel Adagio3 days ago in Poets
Beyond the veil where ancient forests gleam, Where purple moons dissolve into a dream, A silver alchemy begins to spark, Within the quiet hollows of the dark.
By Forest Green4 days ago in Poets
Beyond the edge of waking years, Where silver maps unroll, There lies a kitchen wove of dreams, Within a copper bowl. The orchards of a bygone realm
Upon the mossy, emerald floor, Where ancient roots remember lore, Beneath the canopy’s green keep, The forest wakes from enchanted sleep.
In orchards where the silver moon-moths sleep, And shadows weave what memories long to keep, There stands a cottage built of braided thyme,
Upon a sill of woven cloud and fern, Where stolen hours refuse to turn, There sits a kingdom, glazed and bright, Brought home upon the tides of light.
Beyond the briars of the waking world, Where spells are spun in curtains pale and curled, There lies a kitchen touched by elder lore,
