performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
He Is Risen
To a Christian, this day of all days Is the greatest day of all days, Because this day is Resurrection Day. Every language and every tongue shall say, One day, to enter Heaven, Jesus Christ is the only way. I fall to my knees, bow my head, and pray.
By Dr. George Shannon Ferguson29 days ago in Poets
The Worth of Jesus' Blood
As You ate the last meal with Your friends, Knowing You only had a few hours until Your life would end, You looked to the friend You knew would betray You. You smiled at him, already forgiving Judas for what he was about to do.
By Dr. George Shannon Ferguson29 days ago in Poets
Heart Beneath the Hide
In a forest deep where shadows play, There lived a beast with fur of night, His eyes like embers in the fray, A creature born of fear and fright. The villagers whispered tales of dread, Of claws that tore and fangs that gleamed, But few had glimpsed what lay instead— A heart untouched yet softly dreamed. One stormy eve, when thunder roared, A maiden lost her way from home; With courage bold, she sought the lord— The beast who ruled this twilight dome. Through bramble thick and misty air, She found his lair adorned with woe; Yet as she stepped into despair, His mournful gaze began to glow. “Why do you hide?” she gently asked, “Behind this mask of fierce disdain?” For beauty dwelt where hope was tasked— In shadows cast by silent pain. He spoke of battles fought alone, Of love he lost beneath the years; Of dreams now set to bitter stone— Each word wrapped tight in veils of tears. But there within his sorrowed chest, A warmth ignited through her grace; She saw beyond his fearsome crest— The gentle soul time could not erase. From that day forth their bond grew strong; In laughter shared beneath the stars; He learned from her what felt like wrong— And healed his heart from all its scars. Now children tell a tale so sweet: Of beauty found within the beast; How love can mend what’s torn or fleet— And turn a monster into feast.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Inquisition of Curiosity
In a land where questions sprout like weeds, And every thought becomes a quest for leads, “Why is the sky blue?” “What makes it rain?” A chorus of queries—delight or bane? With furrowed brows and lips pursed tight, We ponder life's mysteries late into the night. “How deep's the ocean?” “What’s love’s true guise?” Each answer we seek just fuels more whys. Oh! The ceaseless cycle spins on its wheel, Like children in circles with endless appeal; “Where do we go when we say goodbye?” The answers are countless—so why even try? In meetings and gatherings, they spring forth anew, Questions like popcorn—pop! Pop! Pop!—it’s true! “Did you hear about Tim? Is he still in that jam?” As if life were a puzzle and each clue is a sham. Yet wisdom they say lies not in the ask, But in learning to breathe under burdensome masks. So while I applaud all inquisitive minds, I yearn for a moment when silence unwinds. So hush now dear friends, let’s savor the pause; Not every conundrum deserves such applause. For sometimes in quietude wisdom will rise— Less asking may lead to more brilliant replies.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
