There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
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.
By Forest Green11 days ago in Poets
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.
The orchard tilted sideways in the glow, Where neon berries floated off the vine, And rhubarb stalks began to bend and grow
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.
