Spoken Word Poems | Examples of Spoken Word Poetry

I walked where the trees don’t speak— yet somehow, I heard everything. The wind and the trees held secret meetings, and the leaves nodded in agreement, like spectators dressed in green. The waters didn’t rush— they marched steadily down the riverbank, telling stories in ripples— of rain that once fell, and mountains they had kissed on the way. The sun appeared, golden and gentle. Snakes and lizards...

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Why does the sky keep falling — but never fall? Each dusk a slow descent, yet it never shatters. How do planets remember the path their fathers walked? No traffic signs, whatsoever! yet still, none collides with the other. Why do clouds — swollen and quiet — give birth to rain, already full-grown, ready to kiss the earth? Who whispers to the raindrops which road to take? Which village...

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There is a silent visitor inside you now — softer than fresh-baked bread, more precious than gifts from wise men of the East. A second heartbeat, gently echoing beneath your own. You carry more than a name. You carry memories yet to be made, a mirror of past souls, a vessel for tomorrow’s joy. So walk gently, eat wisely, rest fully. That bottle of cider — it whispers...

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You put me in a box— 'Cause that’s what makes you comfortable. You put me in a box— 'Cause that’s what makes you strong. You put me in a box And tell me That’s where I belong. You put me in a box To keep me Contained. Controlled. You put me in a box To strip away my soul. You put me in a box And seal it up...

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Let’s give it one more go— Don’t let a good thing die so fast. Don’t let one moment bring us down; Together, we can beat the past. Let’s try again—maybe we’ll make it. But if we don’t, I promise you this: I won’t try to fake it. If you leave me now, I won’t last another hour. I can’t go on living If your sweet love...

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That Chosen Day Where will you be when Christ returns, Will you be in His will as He yearns. What will you be doing on that chosen day, Living in sin thinking it will be years away. Will you be ready when the trumpets sound, And the clouds part as our Savior comes down. When He returns,...

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The bridge/ Hear that?/ Snap it pop it / Not the one of stone and steel, holding cars and trains aloft/ This bridge hums/ It vibrates/ yellin’, mo’ funk and groove please woven into the boss horns strung with a bassline thick as smoke and Clyde Stubblefield holding down the fat beat/ Acid Jazz...

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“Are you okay?” They ask me as my grandfather gets ripped from his bed. “Are you okay?” They ask me as i acfively watched my grandfather die. “Are you okay?” They ask me after seeing tears streaming down my face. “Are you okay?” “Am i okay?” What even is “okay”. What do i have to feel to be “okay”. This question...

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When those in this nation, ...

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I am evil. I am evil. And still, in my evil, don’t leave me, Lord. If You walk away, I will fall. My flesh will devour me. I’ve tried to please You with everything in me, but I can’t. I can’t. My strength is not enough. I need Yours. I’ve fought sin until my knuckles bled, but I keep losing. I can’t save myself. Son of David, have mercy...

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FOR ALL THAT IT’S WORTH – BY HAMID SINCLAIR In God… we find the godless. So-called transformers of faith— Neo-Decepticons, New Age ravers, Ravenous sheep… in wolf’s clothing. Hapless victims—bitten by the serpent. They entered humanity’s paradise… and robbed him. No—her. Wait… is it her/him? Everyone catching the vapors of...

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Out my door, I dash To other people's doors for cash Dashing, grubhubbing, and ubering galore In an economy that's sputtering, lent-filled pockets I really abhor Rapacious eyes peruse desktops, tablets, and smartphones for eye-catching menus Man's incessant search for comfort and convenience hungrily continues Dashing, dashing past drive-thrus and beyond dining rooms Now a new and different energy looms Dash for cash Dough...

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Who is like You, O Lord, in all the earth? He who breathes galaxies as easily as men exhale, He who paints the sky with colors no eye has named And yet stoops low to cradle the sparrow in His hand. Who is like the One who carved mountains with a whisper, Yet stitched lilies with more care than kings...

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(Sam Trio stands at the mic, snaps fingers lightly, takes a drag on a Marlboro, and smiles to the crowd) Dig this, we’re going back in time, way back to the smokey jazz clubs and cool sounds and jazzy vibes of the 50s and 60s jazz scene in America/ I’m talkin’ bout a sound, a feeling,...

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A street beat… no, a clave/ not just one, but a chorus of Cuban souls, whispering stories of sun-drenched streets/ sugar cane rum, and women of the streets/ Conga lines in the neighborhood/ Fidel Castro and baseball/ Mongo Santamaria, Chucho Valdes, and Perez Prado/ rumba and rebellion, history in their pulse/ then a...

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