Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Next Door’s Cat Stole My Steak I left it cooling by the window ledge, A masterpiece, cooked nearly to fate, Turned my back for half a second,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 5 months ago in Poets
I need to honor her! Me, a wandering young soul and the careful and the ever-worried heart of a woman born a few years before 1900 and who carried the emblem of her family and love for God until the late 80s! I believe she passed away in 1994 or 1995!
By CA'Di LUCE * Confessions & Memories in Conversations with friends!/ It’s not a revolution—it’s a quiet evolution.5 months ago in Poets
How swiftly move the years through corridors of shadow, through chambers of remembrance where the dying embers glow. I, fifty-eight in number, stand and face the vast hereafter,
By Tim Carmichael5 months ago in Poets
From the cradle to the grave You're followed By the accumulation Like dust and debris Collected over years - Whether sitting or standing
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Poets
It lurks and it hovers In the dark, out of sight You hide neath the covers Completely consumed by your fright You can’t turn around
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden5 months ago in Poets
I woke up this morning. ... I wanted to stay in bed but I couldn't, I have Responsibilities. I wanted to go watch tv but I wouldn't,
By Dylan 5 months ago in Poets
In my earliest memories I see Displayed prominently in our mid 1970s kitchen A black and white picture of Baby Me Being held by a man with pale skin and big, kind eyes
By Gene Lass5 months ago in Poets
I Am Your Past, Present and Your Future I was there before you noticed, hidden inside moments gone unseen, the quiet part of your history
I drove down that old dirt road at dawn, The sun was rising, but I felt so withdrawn. Memories fading like the mist in the air,
By Edward Val5 months ago in Poets
Me in FishNet stockings I wear them like quiet rebellion, threads crossing where stories remain, not for eyes that only measure,
Mornings Just a Kiss Away Verse 1 Morning slipped in through the blinds Soft enough not to wake old aches Your hand still resting close to mine
When the sun comes out, will we all still be Times, they are changing, but not for the best Will something be waiting on the other side of the sea
By Jason Morton5 months ago in Poets
