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Metaphor Peace Poems | Metaphor Poems About Peace

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

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Details | Free verse | |

A Perfect Storm

In an open field of endless, noiseless distance,
Rolling clouds cast an impending gloom;
A welcomed and promised darkness descends.
My eyes shut as I breathe in the aroma,
In anticipation of 
The cleansing that quickly approaches.
I cloak myself in the breeze, as it promises a release..
The cool wind, calming, so gently serene...
Sweeping over my overheated skin.
Finally, the fury is perfectly unleashed down upon me.
The winds, gusting in a frenzied rush
My hair whipping haphazardly around, 
Stinging at my face.
I smirk toward the sky, as I silently, but eagerly
Await the onslaught - 
This desperate release that I longed for in secret.
It sought me out, and found me. 
I hear the angry sounds
The roaring, begging to weep alongside me.
When suddenly, the violent tears begin to fall
With a sudden, breathtaking destructiveness.
The thunder, like me, cries out in pain,
With such sadness, angry liquid bathing the parched earth.
It saturates my face, my body drenched.
As I stand in the midst of the deluge, in awe,
Crashing winds attempt to destroy me,
But cannot find the strength.
Until the tears eventually run dry,
The painful clashes and cries become silent..
The skies yield to light, as the great and
Terrible sun demands to be seen.
I open my tear-stained eyes,
And glimpse a different world before me...
Cleansed and made new.
And I cannot understand, nor
Fathom the reality...
Of the beautifully, perfect
Broken release.


Details | Free verse | |

Dementia

He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
Tough.
Independent.
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.
Sad
Lonely
Empty.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
Mind slipping, 
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it, 
until now...
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,
Oh well...
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.
Sedation
Medication
Anger
Hurt
All results of
dementia


Details | Free verse | |

Reality's Angel

I am Reality’s angel resting on the broad shoulders of discovery the truth feeds darkness and engulfs its target ideas and concepts in turn become meaningless to you there is a creator of all things He is just and patient many still have fallen into the masses of shadow wrapped in their own filthy idols of philosophy I have seen grown men fall like rose petals and weaklings rise into unjust leaders forever the follower of furtive evil dominating only to remain inferior the most important answers lie in the unseen regions where no sense can fully give assurance the mind that so many unreasonably twist and turn grows weary because of the distance it must take and truth be told the distance is not what frustrates it is knowing we are seeking something far that could very possibly not exist, that our minds can twist into theoretical, idealistic nonsense it is knowing all we really think we know is meaningless and yes—even a lie all that has been written thus far rests under my wings under the warmth in which you refuse to feel can you believe in me— though I am completely unseen? how much more difficult would it be to see Him?


Details | Free verse | |

To Eden Part I

What pushes my pen in this whimsical notch of the world?

   Something whispers to me like an elder dream....
  
   and the trees hang arbored 'oer a little stream of sea,

   the feathered folk flit and flute,

   and sip the may-season rill;


Where sun has finally come dipping like a diamond.....

   I am measured to this mighty moment found;

   and there is holly even in the most forgotten shade,

   though royal (even) ----- with garland diadems made 


It would seem the angels have foretold this:

   to not forget the most beauteous of days;

   with proud hours honeyed, 

   the long-loving minute endures in thy heart,

   and remembers the kiss of legends

   despite realms of sadness and dark,

   the withered wind which blows old upon the sad hills....

   too ancient for wise men; for in youth how pink the heart

   and varied, new struggles are many -----

   yet plain with simple solutions


Mercy hath not a mind for memory....

   swift its song, its house clean of enemies lurking,

   no bogey-man skulking the midnite hour,

   no roving-a-wraith scratching the old attic boards;


Forgiveness sleeps in the quiet wood, 

   and wakes with whispers of faith,

   with the ease of nestled lambs and recollected days;

What poor tragedy to fret with dark remembrance,

   to furl hades in the denizens of thy heart ----

   black-tongued as the devil in his den!


What fool would prefer a scowl to a smile?

   enemies come and go.....

   friends come and remain,

   when the house is quiet with memories....

   of youth and adventure in the old daydream glass;

   more precious the ancient hours 

   and parched the pages of first chapters,

   first beginnings, first faces in the ripples of time's pond;


Details | Free verse | |

Just Be

Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass. 
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are. 

Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment. 
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
Just be.
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers, 
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.

Jacob Reinhardt
10/07/13


Details | Free verse | |

Who Am I

A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment 
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.

One after another they arrive
Single file,
Steeping my eyes in the world 
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering 
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.

My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?

Jacob Reinhardt
10/3/2013


Details | Rhyme | |

AUDIO VISUAL

AUDIO VISUAL
What is a fight without a cause? Is it just a hidden affair that has no voice? Only knowledge that cannot be divulged and when discussed, the topic is irrelevant. Mentality is a place of iniquity. Mediums are designed by civil engineers to place mentally captured vestibules; those, which will manifest identities. You can hear their mundaneness in their conversation. You do not want to speak to a naked wall. As a result, they enter your vocal environment. For that reason, you speak out. ___________________________________|
penned on october 24, 2014!


Details | Blank verse | |

AU COURANT AU FAIT THE HEART OF IMAGINATION ABREAST

AU COURANT AU FAIT – THE HEART OF IMAGINATION ABREAST
The invention of the automobile is a thing to ponder. In words of the heart of imagination, the temperament wonders why divine providence gave the sense of knowledge of those natural resources that predefined the automobilist. Medical science is even more radical to design machinery that tells about our brain and body. Hardly conceived is their intelligence, the questions are answers hidden. I imagine that deity would be exposure to another vestibule with biblical emergence. The status of a country being oppressed is imagine by who defines the Antichrist. We have seen in the time of Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, and now reign Vladimir Putin. Can you imagine the words to define suppression with the heart of a warrior depicting the coming mêlée? The imagination portrays the brilliance of today to evolution and the procreation of humankind. What do men seek via Social Science? A world that is no longer divine but a mind that divides to discovery a new way of life. I imagine that divinity is vested on earth because of lack of appearance of a known God. The imagination questions prior occurrences aboard and at home. We are our insight and inspiration via an unknown God. I imagine that religion imperceptibility will become a theological pre-cognizant of The School of Social Theology, which is demarcated as the heart of imagination discerned by word utilization. Do you imagine the same? Are similarities being disseminated? Facilitated via a school of thought, suppressed knowledge will come forth to take the outer limits to higher grounds. Were heavens are immortalized. In essence, these words have been pre-constructed to predefine the heart of imagination.
____________________________________________|
Penned on October 18, 2014!


Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: IV

God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.


Details | Haiku | |

Patience Hears

birds retort
wind whispers riddles untold
patience hears


Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: VI

The body: sacred
We’re all made in God’s image
Hence... circumcision?


Details | Free verse | |

The Willow Tree

I am
The willow tree
I am joy and I am sorrow
I am unmoving but free
I am what everyone is
But what few people can be

I have lived through many days and many years
And I have gained much wisdom and peace just by listening
I have witnessed much laughter and heartbreak
In the flat, flowering field that I stand in
I have had many children swing and tug on my vines
And have felt love and joy as if they were mine

But just because I am wise and old
Does not mean I am not strong
For many years I have withstood raging rains and wicked winds
Like a concrete wall
With my love of life to help me along

So when my time comes to an end
When my curtain is starting to close
I will be tired and spent
But peaceful and content
With the great knowledge that:

I was
The willow tree
I was joy and I was sorrow
I was unmoving but free
I was what everyone is
But what few people can be
I was alive.


Details | Free verse | |

The Window Seat and Me

Excuse me Miss
I have no intention of harming your shade,
But the seat you left vacant for me is rather 
absent. 
Absent of roses I could finally romance into 
smelling, absent of yin that could relax urges that 
might present a stroke, 70 chapters later. 

For some esoteric reason, this seat you’ve 
manipulated into occupying until tomorrow’s 
departure seems stable;
It has no opposition in waiting. 
So please Miss, introduce your window seat to 
me, ever so kindly. 

You see the seat you offered in due time, does 
not welcome smiles. It’s cold, unfulfilling skin leaves 
me cautious; the torn fabric has failed my thoughts 
of safely time and time again. 

Hope won’t join my travels while married to this seat. 
I’m left contemplating questions of whether this 
is my sedentary companion for the next 100 years? 
But what is perhaps defined from amazing, is the 
glimpse you hold dominant in this seat. 

You’ve’ held this arrogant glow upon the leather, 
with no remorse for the penniless seat fillers. 
The carelessness of sight unvisited through the
multitude of generations is the lowest insult one
can fathom; with no refund offered as of yet. 
Miss, the window seat, please. 

You see, beyond the significant glory the seat
would offer, 
There is a silence of worries I wish to court, 
An everlasting view from peaceful quarters, that 
never warrants a superficial return. 
Specs without representation could meet their 
potential, among the tranquil armchair. 
That is why my passions advance today; for there 
is a retreat looming. 

Miss, I believe this is your exit. 
Remember, change pauses for nobody’s unanswered
why. The knowing is what you will reap later. 
Farewell, descending one. 


Details | I do not know? | |

My Wishes are Simple





My Wishes are Simple


My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.



My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.



My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.





Details | Free verse | |

The Lonely Army

When wind’s silence 
heralds boundless oblivion
and the trembles of cracked earth
raise the dust of tears
dried by the boundless footfalls
of sallow flesh

When a thread of gold
brings unearthly thought
and the misconception
of suns fallen
drives foolish men to their knees
in unending tremors

An army of one
frees the air from his fingertips
and stays not his opal blade
as it bites the rotted gray necks 
of kings released from their wrongful bliss
by his trembling palms

An army of one
unconstrained by nature’s volume
freed by the sin of his naivety
yet, bound by earth’s oldest secret
as the scarlet sun weeps
its bloodied tears

An army of one
his cloak worn through
by the acid blood of his deception
and his bones stilled; 
the branches of a dying oak
which no longer caress the wind


Details | Rhyme | |

The Twilight Moor

Gazing out upon dusky barren moor,
Where gray grass grasps the air
Finding no purchase but sad allure
Straight stalks elapse their endless despair.

Teased by tales of golden reach
Tricked by gales, whose song they preach.

Redtail’s velvet wings breach the sky,
Maroon lips who kiss the grass
Stirring the song, its desperate sigh
Catching the words, her beak of crystal glass

Behind her, midnight shadow draws
Fells her beauty with unseen charcoal paws

Scarlet tears dampen the earth below
Nurture the roots held by dusty truth
Finally, the wind, gray grass’ will bestow
The hawk once, now the fountain of youth.

Litany of silence reigns in dusky glare,
Each blade bowed in mournful prayer.


Details | Epic | |

Simply being

Simply being
Nothing more than 
Than it is gone out of hand
No winds to flow to grow in land
Given bright stars in darkness

Nothing more than  
Light years rose hope
Back flush riddles in game
Only hope once to face to face

As seen bleeding in tears


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.








Details | Epic | |

Isigin Dusu-II

Senle ve sensiz bir hic
Yururum yolumda
Korkmadan yasamin
Senle sensiz bir hic

Bir dag yamacinda ucurum hayatim senle sensiz bir hic
Yasam dersem kabulum agit yakilmis sevdamiza
Hikayesi  umit olsa da  acsa  cicek olsa sevda yaylalarda
Senle sensiz bir hic  bilerim  tasinmaz yasanmaz  nefesimiz

Bir cicek sevda yaylada ruzgarla esen
Kosma  olumune  desem  kimse dinlemez  
Ruzgarlar  sallar eser gullu  basma  bedenini 
Saklar saclarini yazmali basortusu dantelli
Akar bir nehir  sevdayla senle ve sensiz hic
Bir  koca cinar  bolunmus toprak yarik yarim
Amansiz nehir  akar  bolunur  delinen kalbim 
Senle ve sensiz bir hic  canim sevdam
Cok  canlar  oldu telef gozyasi oldu tasti  irmak
Cok analar yakti agit  kan kirmizi  irmak

Cok kahpe planlar hoyratca  goz yumanlar
Cok aci  kahkahalar oyunu  sessizce  oynatanlar
Senle ve sensiz alkis tutanlar bir hic  utancim
Gelecegim senle sensiz 
Isigin dusu  umidim cocuklarim


Details | Rhyme | |

Shimmering Darkness

She woke up everyday 
to the beckoning of death's toll. 
But decided to embrace life, 
pulling herself from the darkened hole. 

With a new brightness in her eyes, 
she lived life as partially buried gold. 
Never afraid of the darkness, 
or what the future may hold. 

Shimmering beneath the dirt, 
her beauty shall now unfold. 
True legacy lies hidden to reign, 
for a prodigy has risen from bitter cold. 

One example of grace goes far, 
farther then any story ever told. 
With strength that comes from deep within, 
that's been held from days of old. 

Among the majority she lived, 
witnessing atrocities flare. 
From her soul she would always give, 
though no one seemed to care. 

As the bells of sadness began to ring, 
she would rise above the gloom. 
Out of darkness and despair she would sing, 
with a melody that filled the room. 

The tears that had fallen proved as strength, 
to her ever-impending light. 
Onward traveling to any length, 
for what she believed was right. 

When darkened paths shimmer, 
despite the pangs of apathy, 
through life she will always glimmer, 
no matter what the tragedy.


-Collab with Dan Kearley! You're the best, Dan!


Details | Verse | |

Silent sound

As night should fall and the bat flying in the nightly sky, I stand there at my window gazing into space light shimmering, singing the silent sound of my music.


Details | I do not know? | |

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries.

Epochs apart, yet,
bound by conscience,

Buddha, 
Jesus,
Moses,
Muhammad,
Ram.

Enduring the whispers of time,
through creeds professed,
sermons preached,
and a million sins confessed.

Though,

the essence,
of these banished revolutionaries,
is ceremonially muted by ritual,
and gleefully crushed under,
grandiose edifices,
that serve Religion Inc.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth",
an incendiary thought,
conveniently discarded,
for the pie in the sky that must be sought.

The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
stings.
stabs,
whispers still,
for us to hear,
through the din of the cacophony of prayer.

Buddha,
Jesus,
Moses,
Muhammad,
Ram.

The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
persists,
each day that we choose,
to shun the meek,
and mouth conscience-salving prayers,

for yet more silver,
and yet more silk.


Details | I do not know? | |

A Chipped Heart

A Chipped Heart...


Dreaming, my heart brittle as glass,
my solitary facade a pitiful farce,

shards tearing out of my skin,
seeking release, from cages within,

I am lost, in the dream,
bellowing out a silent scream,

torn from reality, drowning in the now,
yet I refuse,
I refuse to succumb,

I refuse to bow.



My chipped heart, may be wounded,
wreathed in pain,

still,

I believe, love, truth, belonging,

will take my hand,

again...


Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Dessert in the Deserted Desert

Boiling, baking and blazing,
               Other synonyms for heat.
My camel is happily dazing,
	He was not a restful seat.
Poolside I’ll later be lazing,
	Resting my sunburnt feet.
Air conditioning is amazing,
               Ice cream is a lovely treat.


Details | I do not know? | |

Love Endures

Love floats by,


reaching,
tantalising,
meandering,


tip-toeing past pain,


leaping through walls,
weakening the barricades,


of the most private heart.



Love settles in,


trusting,
searching,
dissolving,


quietly beyond anguish,


erasing the desolation,
soothing a battered spirit,
enveloping the shivering soul.



Love stays, it is true,


love endures, as do you






Details | I do not know? | |

I Stand, Alone



I stand, alone.

Scratching for my truths,
peeling away the veneer,

I stand, alone, before this
impregnable cliff so sheer.

Cocooned in my solitary shell,
wrenching a smile from a tear,

I stand, alone, a little odd,
and definitely quite queer.

I stand, alone.


Details | Free verse | |

I'm Back

Hey, did you hear the sounds of a sorrowed heart
slowly thumping away in the evening sunsets?
There he is, baby, the man they call;
"The Blue Poet"
there he is in the flesh
with a book of poems in his hand,
look at the whores and the smiles turn to him
and say to him, "Where have you been?"
They look at him and he looks at us.
He sits at his desk,
he lits a cigarette and smokes.
He opens the big book of poetry that he had in his hand
and started to read.
There was a smile on his face,
reading to all of us;
as we sat around his greatness and glory
and we listened to his great poetry.
He looked at us through the dark
and with eyes a blazed and a smile so bright
he opened his mouth and out came the words of
a sorrowed heart and a master at his finest hour,
and he said in a calm voice;
"I'm Back, baby!"
And we all cheered,
and he smiled and drank his glass of red wine
and smoked his cigarette
He leaned back in his chair and watched us all
stand and cheer.
If you looked closely,
you could see a single tear form in his eye
and roll down his rough cheek.
The Blue Poet was back,
and this time he stayed.

-10/23/2013-

A dedication to myself. I am sorry to all my fellow fans and followers and poets and poetesses, I had left you all without a trace of ever returning, but now I am back and here to stay!


Details | Classicism | |

Painter of Minds

I once met a man, in the forrests of Tibet.
His counternance was pale yet his name was Robinette.
Past the clearing of the Belt and down into the bottomneck stream
is where he lived in isolation with a gift of crafting dreams

With just a scroll and his ink he could conquer Goliath
a GIFT THAT enscribes him a legend, a self-imposed pariah
His mind was unhinged so the words were unhindered,
never once did he blink,lest his memories squandered

he would wield that pen,  the greatest painter of minds
would surrender each soul with the lies he devised
he would keep an accounting of the words in each page
in all of those scribbles, were  worlds to be named.

Those words made me sleep, guarding my peace
rendering this beast to a ransom release
The sentences were a rhythm that I could breathe
the punctuation of which, was smooth-calm light breeze

As I browed, frowned into the pages that were
So too the the vast letters my eyes chauffeured
mY senses mangled, my vision blurred
this was more than a vision, this was my life's metaphor

So the PAINTER MINDS,did paint me a dream
scratched out my boundaries and stroked in a stream
created new paradise, and new heavens unearthed
but the later was not to be, and the former re-emerged.


Details | I do not know? | |

Blasphemy

Blasphemy

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...'


'...in 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
hurt
and offend

friend and
unfriend and
acquaintance alike

but...

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.


Details | I do not know? | |

She

She

She smiled, gently,
her warmth infusing me,
with a serene stillness of time.

She settled, slowly,
in my waking thoughts,
a soothing balm of simple joy.

She remains, scribbled,
on the walls of my fractured heart,
memories of happiness that once breathed...