These Seasons Metaphor poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Seasons. These are the best examples of Seasons Metaphor poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
the magnificent autumn-sun bursts at its seams
the icy october-wind blows her soft-cold breeze
one of the most impressive and mesmerizing teams
stumbling over each other making me warm and freeze
fragrances of fresh grass mowed for the last time this year
the muted-green foliage whispers with leaves drying out
the hidden dark-red blackberries wither behind protective thorns of fear
the last flight of geese flying over another scout
rare but visible some glorious leaves of gold
the cloudless sky colors the very rare whiter shade of blue
the bike trail I'am on partly covered with wet leaf mold
the passing summer is now really saying adieu
while the wintery wind and summer-sun bicker for attention
I'm overwhelmed by this whiter shade of blue's fourth dimension
Procol harum's "Whiter shade of pale"(I am that old- or young?) is on of the songs on my list of most played songs on my mp3-player.. when hearing this song on a sunny autumnal day I was inspired to add my color to the palet.......... I saw a new'kind of blue and wrote this poem..
Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell then came the ice, this went on for months.
The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.
They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves. Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday.
as they were called WEEDS ..
The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.
However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .
The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB
The wind rushes through the valley
whispering your name.
Autumn trees begin to release their leaves
reluctantly, trying to hold on to summer.
I see your reflection in droplets of rain,
I share your joys, and feel your pain, yet
you have moved on without a thought of
what we once shared that summer so long ago.
As the crisp air and rain touches my face
all those memories tend to cascade. . .
flooding my mind and nearly drowning me.
Blue is my mood and my chosen hue that
lays to rest happier times in the summer sun,
in the clear cool lake, under the trees in your arms.
I, now in my autumn years, and feeling so much
like those lovely trees, reluctantly let go.
© August 24, 2013
so far the days of singing rays
have come to meet their sullen end
twixt nights of joy with hidden ploy
a sweetly tone, they do offend
O gasp! the serpent true must strike
O gasp! the lustful raging psych
whose cares are lost forever long
roaring out, O hear my song!
ideas soon drain, decisions fill
a mind at pace with thoughts that spill
float soundlessly thy solstice chill
the misty seep, foreboding reap
emotions run amok like thieves
for darkly cast, a favored past
along is lain misguided leaves
Through the lonely woods, I may head,
Upon the autumn leaves, I may tread,
At the secluded horizon, I may stare,
And only you, I may see,
In those symphonies of silence,
In those melodies of calmness,
In those euphonies of quietness.
By the silent lake, I may lay,
Till the twilight fades, I may stay,
Then in reclusive silence, I may walk,
And only to you, I may talk,
Through those toungueless emotions,
Through those wordless attachments,
Through those voiceless sentiments.
In the lone meadow, I may wander,
Along the untrodden paths, I may waver,
In companionless seclusion, I may hide,
And only in you, I may find,
The depths of oneness,
The bonds of togetherness,
The cozy feel of coalescence.
In the wilderness of emotions, I may die,
At the merciless daggering, I may sigh,
Through a million wounds, I may bleed,
And only in you, I may seek,
The balm of love,
The warmth of affection,
The heal of inseparability.
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Overwhelmed with fear I whispered into the rain
Disarming defenses, Giving in to the gray
Tearing down all of my shelter within my hollowed decay
While this echoing silence gave every tear drop a name
They begin filling the voids with mundane hopes for a change
Heaven will save me from this hell and blue skies will reign
Lazily lay in green grass watching clouds drift away
It's all but a deflated dream now that the colors have changed
My thoughts have become restless noise of uncertainties rearranged
Damning all of my emotions, lies decorated with grace
Now I stand with a hardened heart in the sobering autumn rain
I'm disarmed and defenseless, Giving in to the gray
Memories on Branches
Spirit shining as water in the sun
Deceitful beauty; icicle webs spun
Entrapping all, having mercy on none
Daring any who seek his work undone
Upon Cherry-Blossom clouds she returns
Removing the bite of his frosts and burns
Speaking with raindrops, earth’s needs she discerns
Butterflies kissing rosebuds, colors turn
Moonlight memories beckon day’s beacon
Showering light; adding to earth’s ribbons
Stroking new blooms; weaving rainbows for fun
White Lilies dance among purple Saffron
The son comes; warning of changing patterns
"The executioners soon here" he spurns
"Bees run to your queen, bears to your caverns"
Leaves warning with reds and golds; life's lanterns
F. J. Thomas
The smell of coffee: hot and bitter in the cold winter night
With the rhythm in the left hand and the rhyme in the right,
He wrote a poem in his secret pocket,
A wistful star like a speedy rocket
Ready to leave this planet intense blue
In search of other traces of life anew.
He remembered after mother had died,
In the cold touch ,stalagmites and stalactites cried.
Father and son felt a strong taste for sweets.
As in the sunset, the blind boatman meets
With an awkward touch the water`s ring
But generally they needn`t to eat anything
For a while they rested an extraordinary team:
Father insistently (sometimes boring) told him
All his recollections:childhood,war and the rest…
All muscles and teeth pressed hot, like ice on the crest.
The son learnt them by heart, and later
He would retell them to father, even better…
One was on duty to wash the dishes;
The other tried to follow his wishes…
Their only joy was to read and read and read…
One had to cook at home ,and to bake the bread
In a bread factory:He was happy even when he was sad.
He could recognize each bread: All his loafs were bad.
He was like Chaplin in “New Times”.
He was speaking in figures and rhymes.
He wore a monk beard and father was much more younger.
Looking through the window: grey hunger and anger …
At the weekend, he used to ask his father
About the favourite meal, but rather
He would find a surprise the next day.
Each day was windy winter and grey…
Father had the same touching answer:”Something good”.
In the strange interference ,water and fire ,one was rude.
Solitude was their common friend stealing in like a lizard,
But, in the afternoon they played sweeping their courtyard.
They had leaves in autumn and snow in the winter.
The sky was grey without sun, the clouds were bitter.
Father was counting the leaves, in the old horizon
The son was painting the days ,in the cold horizon.
The war with the falling down leaves fighting hard
With red faces like an inveterate drunkard .
And years after his father met his final hope,
The son would stop in front of the sweets shop ,
Ready to buy recollections as Christmas tree sweets.
It happens every year around this time.
The winds starts to pick-up and change from a warm westerly direction, to the chill of the Canadian north breezes that ice over windows on the inside.
It seems, that these old bones can tell, as well as these old eyes, when the trees start whistling a-bit
to the chilly Wyoming skies.
But the last great photo of natures camera, before the howling of winter is at our steps.
Is the Wyoming colors of fall, that nature delivers to us.
Now it's nearly impossible to describe, what nature has spent eons learning to do right.
Blazing the colors from green to orange in the aspen groves of a mountain morn.
The cottonwoods shimmer their hints of tarnished bronze and copper leaves,
it seems damn near ridiculous, to try and describe these.
One can't even come close to drawing a picture with words, to the chaotic beauty of a Currant bush,
wrapped in buffalo berries that seem to defy gravity, hanging there all by themselves.
Not to mention the golden coat of a milkweed plant, overflowing seeds that glisten rainbow colors in the light.
It just wouldn't be describable, it couldn't be imagined in words,
The colors of fall, my eyes have heard.