performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Arches of Memory
Beneath the arches of red and white, Where light filters like ancient breath, Whispers stir in columns’ flight — Silent songs of life and death. Stone remembers every prayer, Every footstep, every tear; Visigoth, caliph, king — they share The shadows of this hallowed sphere. Marble echoes golden days, Córdoba’s streets, bright with flame, Scholars’ words and poets’ praise, Empires rising in its name. Arches curve like ribs of time, Holding centuries in grace, Faiths entwined in quiet rhyme, Stories etched in sacred space. A mihrab glows with gilded light, A nave soars with Christian stone, Two faiths, two empires, in their fight, Left beauty neither one could own. Orange blossoms scent the air, Minaret and bell compete; What endures is what they share: The wonder where their echoes meet. So let us walk these columns long, Let our hearts in arches sway; For memory’s arch is wide and strong, And holds the past we can’t repay. ---
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Poets
Excluded: Biased Toward Bias
Preamble: As many of you probably know, I've been working on trying to get published and entering various competitions outside Vocal for sometime now. This next piece, is my 10th overall rejection, that includes competitions and submission calls with literary publications. I've been encouraged, inspired and spurred along to try by the two Stephens. Stephen A Roddewig and Stephen Kramer Avitabile.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Guardians of the Soil
They rise before the sun dares blink, In fields where silence learns to think. Steel in hand and fire in soul, They march ahead to pay war’s toll. Not for glory, nor for gain— But to shield us from the storm and pain. Their names unsaid in daily crowds, Yet written bold among the clouds. With uniforms worn not in pride, But as a promise—none shall hide. They bleed so borders hold their line, Their courage cut from cloth divine. Their mothers kiss their shadowed face, Not knowing if they'll win the race Between a bullet and a breath, Between survival and silent death. They sleep beneath a foreign sky, Dreams pierced with every distant cry. Yet still they stand, through blood and sand, With oath and rifle in their hand. They know not rest, they know not ease, They serve in snow, in storms, in seas. A heartbeat steady, sharp and bold, Their stories rarely ever told. Yet every child who learns to play, Owes joy to those who kept harm away. And every flag that’s raised to fly Salutes the brave who dared to die. So let us never turn our eyes From those who walk where danger lies. Their silence speaks, their honor shines— The guardians of our bloodlines.
By James World about a year ago in Poets
