Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Beneath a violet moon that wept in cream, The kitchen drifted through a frozen dream, Where ticking clocks had turned to molten glass,
By Forest Green8 days ago in Poets
The kitchen clock drips backwards down the wall, Where summer sleeps in jars of amber glass. Outside, the velvet shadows start to crawl,
The orchard bled through heavy glass, Where pears of wax and bismuth bleed, And clockwork wings of beetles pass Across a tart of frozen seed.
Upon a table spun of morning mist, Where gravity forgets its heavy pull, We found the pastry, sun-and-butter kissed, A golden circle, fathomless and full.
Upon a porcelain plate of spun-glass blue, Where shadows melt and skies begin to brew, They set the table for a dream to rise—
The twilight hums in shades of melted pear, As porcelain plates float softly through the air. A kitchen drifts upon a painted sea,
The kitchen floats in an amber sea, Where upside-down clocks drip lazily. A harvest moon has cracked its shell, And baked into a porcelain bell.
The kitchen ceiling dissolves to dew, Where grandfather clocks tick backward in blue, And the pantry floor is a river of glass
The forest exhaled through a window of glass, Where amber-veined leaves turned to liquid and mass. A saucer of twilight, spun thick from the bark,
A shore where sugar-tides are spun, A pastry moon descends to greet the sun. In valleys deep where ancient mosses cling, The Cumberland winds wake up and sing,
A board of checkerboard and thyme, Where ticking clocks forget to keep their time, A crust is spun from silver clouds and dew,
A plate of woven glass, Where liquid shadows softly pass, A comet fell from starry skies, Reborn as chocolate haupia pie.
