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Villanelle Metaphor Poems | Villanelle Poems About Metaphor

These Villanelle Metaphor poems are examples of Villanelle poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Villanelle Metaphor poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Villanelle | |

Cruel Ballet

An open window frames a scene        
Compelled obsession’s wistful sway
A metaphor imbues my dream

Entranced a moth, in porch lights gleam
Around it flits, a cruel ballet
An open window frames a scene

Alone at night, the same routine
Your heart within a glass display
A metaphor imbues my dream

Unaware the faux flame's scheme
A driven urge the moth replays
An open window frames a scene

With fettered will and pull extreme 
Your gravity of soul persuades
A metaphor imbues my dream

The glass I stroke as slumber weans 
In crushing heat I fall away  
An open window frames a scene
A metaphor imbues my dream

Chopped II Contest 
Includes:
A Moth
A Porch Light
You Alone
An Open Window
-10 Nov 2014-

Copyright © david mohn

Details | Villanelle | |

Violet

VIOLET

If only blue and red came together,			
to build a violet colour instead,
then our lives will certainly be better.

The sides of politics will not matter,
no more deceit and gross lies will be spread,
if only blue and red came together.

If sports rivals did not turn game wreckers,
and accepted defeats with a calm head
then our lives will certainly be better.

Red and blue coats in battle forever,
throughout all of history this is read,
if only blue and red came together.

If both husband and wife kept their measure,
and family feuds where fixed before bed,
then our lives will certainly be better

If we spelt each word letter by letter,
and foresaw misunderstanding ahead,
if only blue and red came together,
then our lives will certainly be better.

Copyright © Ronald Zammit

Details | Villanelle | |

From merry green, the dream ascends to Skylands

From merry green, the dream ascends to Skylands.
Comely words of comfort put the comma in the gray;
Hushed roads are dusted with sugar in the sun`s hands.

Hesitating white clouds meet the night`s dark commands,
But bring the dawn`s serenity for the a golden bay;
From merry green, the dream ascends to Skylands

Luminous black jack oak stopped the moving sands;
The winding road might have danced on the hills` clay;
Hushed roads are dusted with sugar in the sun`s hands


Recollections` last wave in the glass blowers` light stay,
Smiling from Spring Lake to Thistle Shimmer`s way, 
From merry green, the dream ascends to Skylands, 

Pine Barrens` silken grasses are kissed by birds of height,
Chateau Inn looks at the grave laurel and blueberry gay, 
Hushed roads are dusted with sugar in the sun`s hands.
In Paradise, rivers flow under Blueberry Month` sight.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa

Details | Villanelle | |

CONSUMING FAILURE

Consuming Failure


Pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
lest you believe the music makes him strut
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet

the cooling of the iron his sole treat
keep moving to avoid the final cut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet

harsh tempo of perfections searing heat
obsession with the ifs, and whens, and buts
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet

performing in the hope of winning seat
an endless line that must remain uncut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet

there is in heated battle no retreat
for some the dancer’s door will soon slam shut 
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet

accept in simple failure your defeat
perfections long sought peak a muddy rut
pay heed the dancing chickens hot plate feet
outrunning death by curried peppers sweet



6/12/2015

submitted to – Villanelle’s and Terzanelle’s Only – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton


Copyright © John lawless

Details | Villanelle | |

Cool Mists

Like steam arising from a pot
and floating by this grassy field,
the morning mist concealed the plot.

I could not find the thing I sought
because with mist it was concealed,
like steam arising from a pot.

I tried to find, but I could not;
my sightless eyes by fog were sealed.
The morning mist concealed the plot.

Encircling seas of white I fought,
as drops within the air congealed,
like steam arising from a pot.

Then, as I stood there, lost in thought
away from there the sunlight peeled
the morning mist that concealed the plot;

And through the veil the thing I sought
a moment showed, and then resealed
like steam arising from a pot;
the morning mist concealed the plot.



{Written June twentieth.}

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst