Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The orchard spun backward, reversing the sun, Where a clock melted down to the weight of a stone, And the kitchen was carved from the rind of a dream,
By Forest Green8 days ago in Poets
The autumn bled in shades of bruised and bold, Where orchard shadows swallowed up the sun. An iron pan, predestined and grown cold,
The kitchen clock dissolves to dripping wax, While walls of custard bleed a bruised, pale yellow. A crescent moon, sliced clean by heavy axes,
A clockwork orchard ticks inside the floor, Where gravity forgets the heavy fruit, And shadows bleed through wallpaper and door,
The salt-tide recedes through the floorboards of sleep, Leaving a residue, pale, wide, and deep. A sun made of buttermilk hangs in the haze,
The kitchen clock begins to melt and bend, As porcelain plates float softly to the floor. We’ve reached the place where afternoons ascend,
Beneath a porcelain moon that melts like lard, The kitchen floats on tides of violet glass. I stir the bruised geometry of stars,
We woke beneath a sky of melted mint, Where clouds were spun of sugar-frost and light, And every blade of earth caught emerald glint,
The sky dissolved to curd and beaten gold, A buttery horizon, folded deep, Where silver spoons of cloud began to steep In citrus light that refused to grow old.
The jade and glass plateau, Where violet moons begin to glow, The stalks of crystal rhubarb wake, Drinking the light of a liquid lake.
The morning broke in shades of bruised magenta, Where ruby berries floated on the lawn, And stalks of jade climbed up the steep horizon,
Beyond the lavender rim of the sleeping moon, Where rivers run backward in silver-strung tune, The valley awakens in amethyst light,
