Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

Metaphor Holocaust Poems | Metaphor Poems About Holocaust

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Free verse | |


On a lil busy route,
For a lil dizzy fruit
They're humming everywhere.
In a bulk, unaware

Layer upon layer
Taking concrete up the stair 
burring vanilla skies
Jesus couldn't dare

For no one they will stand
This plane is scared to land
So will crash at the end

From wrinkles to the pinks
All are humming without a blink
stacked themselves by themselves
In the subway named sewers
The sewers, about to sink

Robots of flash they are
Lost its shine, a deformed star
Humming humanoids won't make it far..

                                                -ankit dedha


Copyright © ANKIT DEDHA

Details | Free verse | |



Having settled into a firmament
of tarnished soil, 
your sprouted roots 
bring forth sullied growth.

What was blessed 
by the sun at birth, 
now hides
in deep shadows 
of the moon,
living half a life in darkness
creating the fear that 
comes from a wolf's howl.

C.A.K. 11-3-2012


We are born innocent,
but soon learn to distrust.
Racial prejudice, bigotry,antisemitism  
emboldens and excites ignorance
and soon hate becomes the bigot's
religion of choice. 

Copyright © Allan Koven

Details | Acrostic | |


Is this about the refuge life,
Leaking the essentials of being submissive…

Or shall the death defy your conscience
In being a human

Imagine the world without eyes
That sans a tiger, a cuckoo, and humanity

Kill the trees, dethrone the kings of jungle
For it seems the idea of thy existence

And now shall thou laugh,
Splintering the grins of progress

A time shall come
even thy smile will be pungent

“I wish” reiterates itself
In an infinite loop
To the screams and knuckles
Of a blemished self-indulgence

Your sanity goes beneath the surface
So does thy shelter

Thy mother nature you seek’d to conform,
To captivate and disassemble
The one that thou sought as a humble alimony
Comes back to seek the answers of questions that were long forlorn

And you’re numb for thy dumbness

so hapless you are

Here goes the world in tatters of pride

and you wait for thy death

lips closed and eyes open wide….

Copyright © Piyush Kaushal

Details | I do not know? | |

The Petty Posh-WahZee - Liberation and Ostentation

The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation

The Not-So Distant Past:

The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.

They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.

Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,

and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.

The Present:

19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,

a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.

I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,

our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.

Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,

babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,

yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,

needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,

for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Lyric | |

The Coming of the Nothing

Collegiates and learned mercenaries
Await their time to lead the willing minions
As lemmings, suicide seems ordinary
Both deaf and blind, devoid of all opinions

Ageless as time itself, she waits
An elixir of evolution
Needing no cure, no answers
No humankind solution

What stops us moving forward
What keeps us all enchained
What keeps the starving hungry
What drives a world insane

A galaxy here, a universe there
Speckled by constellations
But man it seems is content to fight
For the sake of his small nation

Black as an empty starless night
Deep as the hungry ocean
Timeless as death, on its endless flight
In a time of perpetual motion

What stops us moving forward
What keeps us all enchained
What keeps the starving hungry
What drives a world insane 

When will it end, God only knows
As greed alone inspires us
Old Earth, its very soul exposed

Copyright © peter walsh

Details | I do not know? | |



The caustic tongues of the evangelists,
Across all creeds and faiths,
Seem as brittle as an old bone.

For they promise heaven and they spew forth threats of hell
While neglecting the words of that man who walked in Galilee

'let him who is without sin, cast the first stone'

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

across all religions
new-age and the ones of old
baffle me even as I hear
a single simplistic sermon

for they really do, view us all
as blind imbeciles
scurrying around like faithless vermin

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

wag on and dazzle us with visions of an eternal paradise
while here and now
their hypocrisy festers
within their earnest
well-meaning eyes...

'...dil mein hai khwaaish-e-hoor-o-jannat
aur zaahir mein shauk-e-ibaadat
bas hamen sheikh-ji aap jaise
allah-waalon se allah bachaaye...'

' your heart you desire the maidens of heaven
yet in the now you practice the rituals of piety
o' sheikh, may allah protect me
from the people of allah like yourself...'

is my tongue as caustic as the tongues I write about?
if so, then glad am I
for they shouldn't be the only ones
who preach and rant and continually shout

from their pulpits ever so high in the sky
from their hubris of comfort in possessing the 'truth'

from their 'knowing' that heaven or hell
awaits both the strong as well as the meek

while oblivious to the reeking foul smell
that encourages prejudice and hate
and visions not of peace
but of endless chants and prayers

which they, in their opium haze
rattle on and on
as they never seem to cease to speak

and though I’m sure that all this bile that I have spewed
will threaten
and offend

friend and
unfriend and
acquaintance alike


take pity on me instead
for it'll surely be I
who'll burn eternally
impaled by a benevolent god
on a slightly warmer than normal day in hell

on a crude wooden spike.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

For Primo Levi

For Primo Levi

it darkened more
as light shone through
and the haunting past stabbed

you felt
silently the blind were led
'thieves' you called them
emerging from nowhere
yet everywhere
'thieves' you called them
no one
yet everyone
you felt

you left

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

The Seeds of Acceptable Hate

The Seeds of Acceptable Hate

Between the folds of faith and belief, 

tucked neatly in cushioned corners, 

lie the seeds of acceptable hate.

Through quaint pleasant rituals, 

and joyously hummed words, 

dumbed down thoughts

and dazed faces exude, 

righteous sweetness.

Belief wrapped in glistening foil, 

faith painted in gaudy colours, 

concealing the murmurs of hate, 

of embraced intolerance, 

and welcomed bigotry.

The seeds of acceptable hate flourish in damp fungal minds, 

as indifference flowers into the silence of frozen apathy, 

with blooming petals of finely measured howls of rage.

All the while the ever smiling faces beam with deep pride, 

drenched in all the pious tears they've cried.

And so it is that the viral seeds of acceptable hate 

thrive among the genteel folk that quietly gaze, 

in silence at the slow creeping of the horror.

As more seeds of hate are sown with manic zeal, 

and in the shrieking of this cowardly silence, 

the seeds of acceptable hate, 

continue to thrive, 

and to germinate.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses