There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
GRANDMA’S APPLE PIE Sunday lunch at Grandma’s, Was always such a treat. And afterwards her apple pie, Was something we would eat.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 10 days ago in Poets
The kitchen clock dissolves to dripping wax, Where floating floors reflect an upside-down sky. We slice the heavy noon with silver tacks,
By Forest Green11 days ago in Poets
The autumn pulled the orchard’s shroud too tight, And bruised the heavy pears against the loam. Inside the glass, a slow, celestial light
The kitchen clock unspools its rusted hands, While glass-bound oceans dream upon the walls. A stranger sits in unremembered lands,
A porcelain slice suspended in the void, Where lemon-light bleeds soft through heavy air. The crust is made of hours we destroyed,
The moon was beaten high and pale, Whipped stiff against the velvet air, A pale, translucent, ivory sail Adrift upon the midnight stair.
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,
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,
