Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The orchard tilted sideways in the glow, Where neon berries floated off the vine, And rhubarb stalks began to bend and grow
By Forest Green8 days ago in Poets
The morning sky is spun from melted glass, Where amethyst and ruby clouds condense. We watch the velvet hours slowly pass,
The pantry doors unhinged to skies of glass, Where purple planets ripened in the grass. A harvest pulled from craters of the moon,
A pale sun kneads the morning sky, Where floating clouds of custard drift on high. A porcelain cup of dreaming blue Awakens skies of apricot and dew.
The kitchen ceiling drifted like a cloud, While bruised globes simmered in a copper sea— Sun-warmed gold and midnight, bruised and proud,
The morning sliced the violet sky, And poured peach-light from up on high, Where clouds dissolved like spun-glass wool To fill the quiet world, and full.
The kitchen floor dissolves in pale chartreuse, Where gravity forgets the heavy spoon. A cloud of sugar, toasted loose and bruised,
The frost unhooks its claws from the stubborn loam, And amethyst tendrils reach for a moon made of lard. In the glass-blown orchard, the kitchen grows a dome
Beneath a clock with melting hands, Where purple shadows graze the dunes, A kitchen floats in violet lands, Suspended under three pale moons.
A fragile crust of porcelain white, Where dreams of flour take silver flight. We sailed across a pastry sea, To find what time had left unfree.
A sky of spun-silk custard gleams, Woven from buttered, golden dreams. Upon a floating plate of stars, Far from the heavy weight of wars,
The clock unwinds its gears of rust, And time is baked to golden dust. Upon the shelf where shadows sigh, Spin the rings of the Pecan Pie.
