These Metaphor Life poems are examples of Life poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Metaphor Life poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.
So was a metaphor created from the rose,
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.
It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.
Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.
Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.
For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,
I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.
*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******
A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.
Exquisite, this expectation as dusk
mellows each ruffle on her robe de style*,
warm her expressions, candid, unrushed
for lake waters return that sunny smile.
A hem trails the shore with tulles of twilight,
overcome, the hush of angels almost cries
at grace in upsweeps and poise held as night
steals her away with a sorrowed sigh.
Dark this vista til she yields her jewels,
moonstone and topaz, citrine and ruby,
all her wisdom to forever unfurl
in fireworks, a blaze of poetry.
Love left its mark, Heaven is now altered
by a flourish that brightens even the stars.
*** We will miss you, Linda Marie, but your poetry, light, love of life, will continue to live on... GODSPEED....
* A Robe de style is a long gown with a wide, billowing skirt
In the anters and shadows of this baleful life
perhaps the little brown mouse searching in silence
bewray a lonesome story behold
For eyes to wander a brief candle behold
in hushed light, enwheeled...this pitiful life
if only, my friend, to peer in silence
where love had flown in years of silence
to gape for dawn, a friendship behold
in ghostly thought of scurried life
From the cold reality of life where painful silence smothers, Behold!! compassion is born..
Anters - Caves
Brief Candle- Life is compared to a candle flame
He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died,
he has not been the same.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it,
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain,
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best,
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows
what happens next.
All results of
They place my vowel
Under barren landscape
Sipping from cracked porcelain cup
Of an alienated heartbeat
Slapping Karma’s bottom,
A quarterback’s misguided win
Liar’s prophetic retinas glaze
With metric, disciplinary ruler
They place my consolidated lyric
On upper hand
Of cubic zirconium petulance
Their torn, lanolin coated tissue
Degrading polyester embedded uniform
Mislead by “savior’s” belief
A desolate embodiment of character
They observe me
With cherry coated pupils
Through rusty, iron bars
Its frosty echoes
Portraying fickle sonatas in these stale winds
My ambient tear
Is simply a hoax for their recycled victory
Holding wooden spoon against my waist
Ready to crawl
©Drake J. Eszes
She is the muse to her own sorrow;
She is the digger of her grave.
She is the painter of her ocean view
and every fatal wave.
She is the shadow of her Father;
She is the darkness in your sight.
She is the night without the stars
surrounding pale moonlight.
She is the music with no words;
She is sweet love without the reason.
She is your dreamer with submission
cold by warmth with every season.
She is your pet with cold intentions;
She is your baby scared and shaken.
She is the bold and pure- the lost and found,
She is a soul awakened.
And flowers wilt.
And flowers fade.
The eternity is only in me-
The twig that bears the flowers.
Sparrows are born
And sparrows die.
And brighten the sky.
That who nurtures sparrows is me-
A cozy make of a twig upon a twig.
The sun fades
And moon is born.
The twilight blurs
And moonlight spreads.
All the soothing moonlight beams are me-
A crisscross of unfathomed twigs.
Whether in its birth
Or in its death;
In the heart
Of its heart;
The entire beauty is none but one-
A design of mysterious twigs.
An I am of Love is precept approved,
Doesn’t need approval of concepts' inept,
Doesn’t need the nod of man/woman, only God,
By precept of love’s absolve soul’s love is kept!
Seeing Love’s being is uncompromising,
Not of double mind concepts non-comprising,
Within one’s own precept love is the comprising,
Will be no rising in the mind’s compromising!
As yeast from the east, bread of life is apprising,
Pending only a few mind’s their realizing,
Of love’s precept which is uncompromising,
Where shall you be(?), at the precept’s advising…
In life’s ascension of illusion’s mountain,
Toward the drinking of your precept’s fountain,
Of clear, free moving waters, life appertain,
Where forever love’s precept shall be obtained!
Since the very dawn of precept’s greatness of spawn,
Parasites of concept’s might, sought the abject wand,
Oh Judas concept, mind inept, precept abscond,
The Stubborn Ox, the metaphor correspond!
The belligerent concept, of elder mind,
In complex darkness, is groping, seeking to find,
Within the whorish darkness first light’s refine,
Out of void of darkness came light, mind was blind!
Out of the blue it dawned on me
he really meant it when he said
"all the world's a stage."
We play around our little parts
some parrot all their lines away
some get cold feet and then they run.
and there are those who madly stick
around and put their hearts to it
making their own lines as they play.
Across the Globe everyone's giving
their own special minute performance,
the world's a stage
the stage means merely
you're not the only star out there
neither the shiniest for that matter.
The stage exists there to remind you
everyone laughs, loves, cries and ponders
everyone lives and plays and wonders.
There's One who attends every performance,
Who's critic, audience and director.
Step up and well your lines deliver
and you will hear Him clap and shiver.