These Metaphor Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Metaphor Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Slate gray streets made even darker by cutting raindrops
Umbrellas popping up everywhere, people seeking shelter
But I stayed put, wanting to get drained with the rain,
then I hear this tinkling voice that says, “Don’t you just love it when it rains?!”
I look at her wearily and her eyes actually gleam with laughter
Oh geez, this lady was my total opposite. I was brooding, she was brimming.
I power-up my go away vibes, but she was like a darned magnet…
Was I the ferromagnetic one, or was she?
She gushed on the metaphor of rain in her life, and I didn’t feel like drowning.
Listening to her amidst the onslaught was so refreshing, making me thirstier…
There we were, two drenched souls, sitting on the pavement, chatting up a storm.
Of all her descriptions of rain, one in particular stood out for me…
Pearl drops strung on silver strands …
She said, “Rain for me would be silver strands streaking an otherwise somber sky…
pearl drops strung on silver strands, broken by the heavens to share with us.
See how precious it is?” Then she continued on with the metaphor for pearls…
Her words felt like windshield wipers to me, and I could see clearly now
By then, the rains had softened, and a lone pearl drop landed on her eyelashes
-that made me look closer at her eyes… her beautiful, wise, yet cloudy eyes…
I have never looked at rain the same way since then.
For Andrea's and Susan's Silver Strands contest
Once upon a time
She was watching the Sun
And she told her; ``Burn me!``
Then she wrote a poem
Which was so beautiful and sad
So beautiful and sad
That she destroyed it
But once, she was watching love
That resembled many dawns
And clouds over a plain field
And she felt that they became
A part of her, and for a moment
Only for a moment she experienced
Something that was whole and complete
And she thought that this particular moment
Defined her life
Long ago I lost a precious thing that used to lift me up as it lifted burdens shouldered with it's way of
tender holding .How barren now that what has left it's mark to shame us .Just in a role and this acheless
rage so apt a trick it lies alone as so in many ways reaching each as it denied us. Tertiary paid in knowledge
first an icon green so paramount.Strip ped barren now and left us naught but naked thoughts of whats
spilled a path while denying everything but woe to us the wickedness to whats yet still left so easily still
Apr 17 at 3:25am · · Like · Share · Remove
Love Fast Run Far
by James P Kail Wednesday April 17th 2013
Like · Edit · Apr 17 at 3:56am
Which way leads to the
land of green white
Which way are we
A country the wicked
bears the rulership, and
the people sighing
A terrible thing sprouts
beneath the sun: a
Imps come to lime-light
by snuffing air from the
goose that laid the
The blind guiding the un
The weak suppressing
the strong-a terrible
Like the overthrow of the
gods at Mt. Olympus by
A country where also
thieves appear as men of
Land of green white
A land where the
enlightened ones are
peanuts given to them.
The masses are dogs that
eat the crumbs.
Which way to go you
Iliterates stand on
podium of power
bellowing orders as milk
of sorrow known as
dividends of democracy
is passed around.
The machine of progress
manned by the
"There is better
tomorrow" we hear.
Land of green white
where rule of law walk
The proles are sentenced
to adversity,and there
endured death-like trials.
Chai! Aru! People
dancing on thorns
whimpering as they
I see a new sun rising
from the horizon,hope is
rekindled as its rays
grace on hopeless bodies.
Look!! there soon be
The man in the dark mask turns his head
To face the crowd with evil eyes,
The crowd cry out with screams of dread
But he carries on amidst their cries
As he emits a booming laugh,
Which seems to echo, through the night,
He carries on his reign of wrath,
And slaughters everyone in sight
But one small, frail, child
Decides the masked man will be beat
And runs though crowds with bodies piled
And kneels down at the masked mans feet
The rogue looks down with chilling eyes
Upon the small child on the floor
And as he wields his knife to strike
Lets out a sudden painful roar
Beneath his legs the child had crawled
And stabbed his spine with one small knife
And when the brutal man did fall
His throat was slit to end his life.
A woodland path stippled with sun, hushed and quiet -
but the path I found myself on was a dark and dangerous one.
I'd been blackberrying - bramble-scratched, branch-slapped -
snapping from barbs berries fat as leeches
seeping blood-juices on my fingers.
Wood anemones opened pale hands to reach for me,
their fragrant star faces enticed me.
They beckoned, pulling me further and further away
from the world I knew and deeper into the wood.
The forest closed around me, trapping me
in a tangle of twining paths and trembling trees,
the ground layered with brown and golden leaves.
Treetops cackled with the black caws of crows,
bushes bled red berries, grasses lashed my legs.
And every time the footpath forked
I went deeper, I went darker.
Tick-tock time slowed to a crawl,
watch hands wound backwards.
The whispering wood grew dimmer;
what little light there was struck trees and disappeared.
Fly agaric mushroomed into blood-raw open sores,
ivy ropes dangled nooses from branches.
Crying was useless, my panic-forced tears were hopeless.
Moles mouldered, luminous with maggots,
rabbits rotted, their throats ripped out.
Sky turned ink-dark, lonely wood-wild nights engulfed me.
With time, thoughts of home began to fade,
the seething forest seemed friendlier;
trees were a tease of teal and green,
rippling with strange and teeming life.
Amber algae scorched sunsets on umber bark,
wood sorrel crept, beetles burrowed, lichens came alive.
The forest floor was feathered with ferns
and plush with sponge-soft moss.
Now and again I caught the briefest glimpse of blue,
cool and welcome as water,
and once or twice, through distant trees, I spotted
what I took to be the twinkling lights of a town,
but it was only rainbow flickers glinting on leaves.
I've been gone too long, I'm too far gone.
Faint memories of home still siren-sing to me,
but just when I think I've found the right track
the forest tightens its grip, drawing me back.
Oh how frail is the life of mortals
Look at how our tongue treasures the taste of food
Without oxygen we die
We sleep as though we're dead
I've seen demagogs rising and falling
History hasn't been fair to their very great powers
In our virtues, our pride lights our vice
Oh such hypocrites at heart
Oh how our desires hook us like fish bones
Into doom we gleam
Until we see our fragile weakness on Earth
True repentance is just a dream
I've seen the Light I believe
The truth of God who lived as man
His sacrifice made me free
Oh such a hope of eternity I share
Last knight Eye dreamed Eye was a dragon with wings made from disdain and shaped like quaking fear that burned holes through my subconscious imaginings. Eye was gliding soundlessly thru dark clouds, thunder, and rain, while the Slayers stood below, grounded in tyranny and trying to pull Me from the knight sky...Then Eye could hear, then Eye watched thru Dragon-I's as arrows joined my flight...trying to penetrate the hard scales of My spiritual skin. The muted sharpness of the arrows' dancing ricocheted off of Me.
Then Eye cried. Not in agony or pain or sadness...no
Eye cried in echoing defiance of the oppression of blind slavery and meaningless denial. Eye belched blue and green flame and roared aloud--as loud as my Dragon-voice would carry. Eye scorched the minds of the lie-ers and self-made martyrs (there, the ones who were carrying the omission of Truth of this world).
The Slayers still stood their ground. They kept circling around and around under Me...but Eye kept pumping My neck, Eye kept beating My wings, but still the Slayers came...more and more of them...
Eye dived down deep toward their barren landscape (My Own Hunting Ground!!); Eye needed to see their torn, hated faces...Men, all. They kept their hoods drawn, their faces hidden from My I's. But their bodies were bare and naked to My Dragon-flame, naked to the force of My righteous wrath. Eye swept down closer, closer until Eye could smell the scents of their sweat and dried blood (of conquered servants before), and Eye could see, even count, the dark hairs sprouting from greasy, dirt-clogged pores. Eye could see that some bore vehement scars, jagged marks streaking across their man-flesh.
Their weapons were crude, mostly: wood axes, scythes, cudgels, kitchen knivez sharpened to a murderous edge...the only sophisticated armaments were their bows, their arrows. The bows were of blood and bone and tendon and blind fear, the sinewy string woven with acceptance of the Truth...how odd (the Truth that they must stand and fight a common enemy as a single unit, that they must stop war amongst themselves to do so)...and their arrows were bound with Hope and Reason, that Eye would die before them, that they would live on. The bows were more beautiful than the Slayers deserved to wield, but they commanded them with such grace and poise and proficiency...
The Truth is Eye, the Dragon-Knight, and the Slayers are all of mankind's fear and war and social stigma among thorns...
Their bows were the making of Truth and Love and Acceptance, only constructed and command-able when mankind will stand together and open their I's and see.
You're sitting alone at the bar of the coffee shop and you've got the usual.
black decaf latte, today's newspaper, and that pen that smears blue ink.
It’s the same every night, that's why you come back. Monotony is relief.
The only move you've made in what seems like hours was to refill your drink.
You stare at the latte like you’re about to open a gift.
Lifting the cup high, your lips sip the heavy cream.
Tired eyes watch the frosted window and the drift
that carries the uninvited snow effortlessly past you.
The room behind you is burning loud with conversation;
The same arguments, theories, solutions
It's a sickness stuck in the same old rotation.
Like hopeless addicts, they fiend for absolution
There’s talk of Plato’s cave that shrouds enlightenment.
Others discuss Gandhi’s hidden path to the same effect.
They repeat wise men’s words in circles they invent,
leaving what’s more than a hint of ignorance to detect
The sun sets and you're blinded by a glare as you look to the skyline,
the light glows as it sits atop the trees; you look down with a sigh.
Through the window you catch the eyes of a battered man, the look of isolation and despair intertwined.
The man’s face, streaming with tears, tells a story of one too many goodbyes.
What difference does this man make, which he is or what he needs?
You’ve seen it all before; a different movie, the same old theme.
Plus, the tilt of his head and pain in his eyes speak for him of his own misdeeds
Your stare stays locked as you say out loud, “things are always what they seem.”
You have a heavy feeling bring a question that stays planted in your mind
You wonder now if you walk the very path that hollowed this man's eyes.
The thought turns into voices, the words they say are all entwined.
Getting louder now, the more you try to block them out, the more they intensify.
Among the flowers of beauty bright,
Upon leaves of green I sight
Graceful webs of intricate fashion
Of labor and of passion.
No architect so proud can craft this shroud;
Its sticky vines of ensnaring gloom
Tell little of an impending doom.
Hidden fangs await the unwary,
The thirsty, the greedy;
Entangled vivacity thrashes about
With a dreadful shout.
The spider’s banquet is short and rich
As it savors every twitch.
No prying eye will dare to spy
On death’s descending cry.
At dusk it drops from a canopy sky
To taste the spoils from its ravenous eyes.
Death wrangles a martyr, wraps it in twine
Then dangles it from a vine.
Flowering sprouts enjoy the morn,
Marveling at the horde of spiders born.
A cloud of spiders take to flight
On currents of air lassoed