These Metaphor Cat poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Cat. These are the best examples of Metaphor Cat poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
One was a child
so sweet and mild
Voice of a bell
to ward off hell
One was a bell
with a crystal chime
To comfort the cat
and make the earth shine
Two was a cat
With a mysterious past
A dark view of the world
And a horrible wrath
Two was a mind
as dark as night
To protect the doll
That could not see the light
Three was a doll
With a broken soul
A shattered heart
With eyes a black hole
Three was a rose
Of pure white
Covered in thorns
As black as night
Glowing eyes invade the darkness of the night.
A majestic hunter with prey in it's sights.
Slowly moving through the grass, as slient as an empty glass.
A creature with a sullen expression, embraking upon a hunting session.
It srikes from the shadows of the night; giving the prey little change of escape or fight.
A body full of warming fur and makes the sound of a meow or pur.
Pointy ears, thin legs and sharp claws; extending out from padded paws.
This cretaure wears a sumptuous looking coat always shiney and clean; walking with graceful posture like that of a ballroom scene.
It's younger form more playful and small, but soon will grow just as cunning and tall.
Masquerading as innocent family pets and balls of fur; hiding the true heart of a loin waiting to roar.
Some choose to live with families in thier home; well others like the nomadic people enjoy to roam.
Hedonistic in nature like Lord Henry from the story of Dorian grey, the cat hate's having it's pleasurable lifestyle taken away.
Roaming around night and day...... this creature of beauty is always on the hunt; for it's next prey....
How unlike a cat is this
slender dash of ink upon the page,
this pinch of print, this little line
of punctuation, adding
its mere millimetres of meaning,
black against white,
significant in its separation
of segments of the sentence,
imbuing words around it with a dab
of consequence or moment.
How like a printed dash
is my black cat,
stretched and stark against the sun-white concrete
of the distant yard baking below,
separating nothing but atoms of air,
significant only in herself –
a piece of furry punctuation
that tells us solely that it is,
and needs no function to perform.
By itself, it is of itself,
answerable to no one and to nothing –
except the rain, which has just arrived,
suddenly, in slapping, ponderous lumps,
to soak the stone page and darken it,
and drive her dash to drier quarters.