Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Killer Slugs from the Haunted Lake No ripple warned of what would rise the lake lay still beneath the skies but something moved beneath that gloss
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
I Don’t Say These Things I don’t say that I rehearse small talk like lines in a play, or that I practice smiles in mirrors I don’t trust.
The Unloved Twins In a quiet room the twins were born a mother’s hands that fed and cared but cold between her silent eyes
If I Was His Queen If he wanted me for his queen I would hold every broken piece softly gather all his doubts and turn them into quiet strength
That afternoon was nothing special—just the usual rows of colorful tents, college students meandering around, street food steaming into the sky. But there she was, tucked into a plush donut of gray fluff on a wooden table like royalty. My cat.
By Jawad Aliabout a year ago in Poets
Poetry: In the hush of night, he stands alone, A soul half-lost, in silence grown. Smoke spirals like forgotten dreams, Woven through moon's silver beams.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
Moon in GeminiThe Messenger Thoughts meet paper, Now they are real Tear stained face, Shows how I feel Starving for something,
By Jennidoll of (jennidoll.inc)about a year ago in Poets
I. The Cup A curve of white, so thin it sings when struck by light—a whispered chime. The glaze, a ghost of ancient kilns,
By Jacky Kapadiaabout a year ago in Poets
What is that to never speak of? But then decide to write about? That seems like a contradiction, I would never let those thoughts out!
By Adora Hooperabout a year ago in Poets
On the curve of night, where silence bends, A soul sits still as the dark transcends. Upon a branch that dares to dream, He rides the hush of moonlight’s beam.
This a part of the Outstages Cafe series. The blue chair is the disappearing and reappearing object in this series of memory static, Blue Chair at the Edge. Step into the Echoes Beyond the Veil
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
I. The Dawn of Breath From silence sprung a whisper deep, Where stars and soil in cradle sleep, A breath was drawn, the first of flame,
