These Metaphor Winter poems are examples of Winter poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Metaphor Winter poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Sun beams like Hot Choclate on a blue day...
Soft silky and smooth on your skin...
Butterflies softly floating like falling feathers in the wind...
Gently gliding gracefully over the bright green grass...
Eyelashes brush against your cheek like soft snowflakes on your face...
Fingertips flit freely across your arm...
Together playfully prancing like horses running wild...
Spinning tops twiling tenderly....
Wishes whispered wimsically like pixies playing hopscotch...
Softly calling quietly,
I love you!
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
Twas the week before Christmas,
And all through Wyoming.
I was looking for another way,
To greet all my homies.
I in my jacket.
Ma, in sub-zero,
We drove to the local sandwich shop,
For a hot melted hero.
Two for the road,
I exclaimed to the gal.
Make it snappy,
Before Ma gives me hell.
We were back on the road.
Quicker than quick,
Then Ma yelled, STOP!
They forgot the Garlic.
So back to shop,
We rushed right away.
Only to find,
They done closed for the day.
Well, need be I say,
Ma was more than a little upset.
So she wrote "You A$$H@les" on the window,
With her hot melted wreck.
I watched Ma kicking and screaming,
as the officers dragged her away.
So I waved and I shouted,
"They say you'll get out, on New Year's day.
Guess you won't be needing that Christmas present?
I'll exchange it for ya.
Love ya Ma."
Peering through plate glass at a puzzling view,
In the midst of hot coffee’s morning ritual brew.
Staring out with amazement and wonderfully struck,
By our Cherry Tree’s overnight sensation run amuck!
By nature’s own standard, cruel joke she has played,
Million blossoms wide open one February day.
This juvenile sapling knows not what it feels,
Sprouting vivid Pink colors, the show it now steals.
From those all around laying dormant in state,
Expecting nature’s cue to blossom their own petals awake.
And by then poor young cherry will have muted her splash,
Replaced by green leaves summer storms will soon thrash.
But alas all this splendor making warm visual sense,
In the short time required for fresh java to dispense.
Tomorrow I’ll once again observe through plate glass,
The wonders waiting just beyond cold winter’s Rye Grass.
Submitted to Giorgio A. V. Contest themed: Impress me with a small poem II!
1) user name: wedge
2) choice of motif: nature
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
40 below and it's been a rough go,
through the talons of a frostbit mind.
Months to go, before relief will show,
the signs of a clear blue sky.
The winter in me like the hoar frost it seems,
grows colder with each passing mile.
The spring of past shall certainly never last,
with a frown where once sat a smile.
40 below in the Wyoming snow,
like a compromise between it and me.
So in the end, spring can rise once again,
to the death of an old winter Breeze.
The winter in me, like the leaves on the trees,
have outlived it's seasonal pride.
Gathered in time are all that I've rhymed,
through the ghost of my past,
since I've died.
a slight breeze
and loosely packed snow
on yonder branch
comes tumbling down
in myriads of tiny snowflakes
each flake becomes a miracle
glistening in the streetlight
like a diamond
A self-written poem begun in Christmas Time,
While it tasting the soup and looking for rhyme.
In the kitchen, neighbor with the quiet tomato paste,
The sorcerer's apprentice, a poet pretty well placed
Near Soups (ciorbe) with characteristic sour taste
With luminous face and much grace added the rest:
As he was sipping and tasting from raw and cooked.
His group had a passionate look at what was booked
For the dinner: These might be meat and vegetable soups.
They had to choose till the coming of the helping troops
For the pig`s sacrifice rite, old mixture of joy and grief
Under the hot and long debrief of the pleasant smell-thief
Tripe soup (ciorba de burta) hard prepared from beef,
And calf foot soup (ciorba de vitel), with green-gold leaf
Pickled soup (supa de moare) with pork and big rice;
But use the dice to decide between spice and allspice.
From the slaughtered pig the village` families prepare:
Carnati - sausages kept in special aromatic smoke
Of wet fir and oak burned at small fire as enjoyed by folk;
Caltabos - sausages made with liver sprinkled with beers;
Toba and piftie - dishes using pig's feet, head and ears
Suspended in aspic like a frozen symphony in red
After cups of plum brandy and before going the bed
Tochitura - pan-fried pork to bid it a farewell, twice
Served with mamaliga - palesta , and red wine with ice,
Or boiled wine with pepper and cinnamon against frost;
So that the pork can swim and the verse were glossed;
Piftie - inferior parts of the bashful pig, mainly the tail,
Feet and ears, kind of meal like taken from a fairytale
In which all are cooked and served in a form of gelatin
In this naturalist field, all the poets smile like Mr.Bean;
Jumari - small pieces of pig meat are fried and tumbled
Through various spices if after all, you are a little troubled
And may falter some poetical from the famous songs
Like "So, good people drink…" couples of diphthongs
Since Saturday to Thursday and make colorful the gray.
This poem was written in the Night of Tuesday to Friday.
( And later we`d find that the housewife had covered with it the pickles cucumbers jar.)
You're sitting alone at the bar of the coffee shop and you've got the usual.
black decaf latte, today's newspaper, and that pen that smears blue ink.
It’s the same every night, that's why you come back. Monotony is relief.
The only move you've made in what seems like hours was to refill your drink.
You stare at the latte like you’re about to open a gift.
Lifting the cup high, your lips sip the heavy cream.
Tired eyes watch the frosted window and the drift
that carries the uninvited snow effortlessly past you.
The room behind you is burning loud with conversation;
The same arguments, theories, solutions
It's a sickness stuck in the same old rotation.
Like hopeless addicts, they fiend for absolution
There’s talk of Plato’s cave that shrouds enlightenment.
Others discuss Gandhi’s hidden path to the same effect.
They repeat wise men’s words in circles they invent,
leaving what’s more than a hint of ignorance to detect
The sun sets and you're blinded by a glare as you look to the skyline,
the light glows as it sits atop the trees; you look down with a sigh.
Through the window you catch the eyes of a battered man, the look of isolation and despair intertwined.
The man’s face, streaming with tears, tells a story of one too many goodbyes.
What difference does this man make, which he is or what he needs?
You’ve seen it all before; a different movie, the same old theme.
Plus, the tilt of his head and pain in his eyes speak for him of his own misdeeds
Your stare stays locked as you say out loud, “things are always what they seem.”
You have a heavy feeling bring a question that stays planted in your mind
You wonder now if you walk the very path that hollowed this man's eyes.
The thought turns into voices, the words they say are all entwined.
Getting louder now, the more you try to block them out, the more they intensify.
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.