There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
The kitchen floor dissolves in pale chartreuse, Where gravity forgets the heavy spoon. A cloud of sugar, toasted loose and bruised,
By Forest Green11 days ago in Poets
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.
Upon a porcelain sea of melted pearl, Where lavender clouds in slow geometry swirl, A golden sun slips softly from the sky,
A golden noon begins to melt and spill, Across a floating archipelago of white. The sugar-sculpted clouds stand strangely still,
Upon a table made of violet glass, Where shadow-butterflies and memories pass, A wild-born vision starts to lightly bake:
Upon a plate of spun, meridian glass, Where shadows bend and time forgets to pass, A pastry sleeps in crusts of powdered light,
Upon a plate of spun, forgotten glass, Where liquid amber dreams of turning skies, The shadows of the afternoon will pass
Enter a porcelain shore of dream, Where tea-clouds pour in liquid cream, A crescent moon of fondant white Met chocolate rivers, smooth and bright.
