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Best Analogy Poems

Below are the all-time best Analogy poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of analogy poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Analogy Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Analogy poems are below this new poems list.

Pardon My Analogy by Banks, Russell
River analogy My Life - Before and after You by panwar, sharaj
Covert still Blood analogy - Only you could see the pain you found in me by panwar, sharaj
An analogy of memory loss by alexander, elizabeth
The Iceberg Analogy by McConnell, Gordon
Love Analogy by Negron, Nayda Ivette
Analogy Between Good and Evil by Negron, Nayda Ivette
A Bovine Analogy by Camp, Elton
An Analogy by Camp, Elton
The Mark Twain Sausage Analogy by Devonshire, Carolyn

View all new Analogy Poems

The Best Analogy Poems

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Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

ONE WORD~

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my mind,
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my veins,
                                   
A silica odor, dust walks through a fresh desert night
Cool air beneath and above the sea
A warm furnace smell, I don’t understand
Intricate to rise and receive without knowing
Up ahead in a virtue distance
A mysterious poisonous effluvium light-     
My face feels like a leaf'
My sun holds up its own pendulum rods
Inflammation comes and settles in for the night,
There it stands in a pertinacious manner, with quality
I resurrect this air created from madness, all over again
Twilight, rain stranger than strange
Visions, pursue my path into an infested dark pasture
"From the red Heaven I fell into the waters of a cobalt Hell"

Perhaps this venerable moment, will pass slower than slow
PERHAPS NOT!
If I accept, and then decline
Would this balance the precocious state I live in?
How about when wrong directions follow my promiscuous ways 
Is my conglomeration of ideas, no longer safe?	
When I no longer value the values of the young
Will I sleep at the mercy of his ancient heart
They're the voices give and take from our health

Today, those soft, perfect eyes are calling from far away,
Ashes high, vapors and infection welding me
The bright skies swallow every thin silver line,
Where the clouds sit somehow~ in bacteria
UNITY! 
YES UNITY! Fantabulously-fantastic!
Always, wanting more than love can touch

We are living' it up with no alibis!
A way to be and not to BE!
The champagne leaves their cup
Awaken in a life, disturbed ~ NOW INTERRUPT!
Only in this world, lava will reach her lips
Prisoners and doers; 
All night…. Too late for a treatment
Lungs, decaying, evil rats
Direction, affection, ending all the inhalation

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my lungs,
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Flat-lined my life ____/\ /\___ ___/\______/\___ _______________

By; pd


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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The Library of Trust and Hope

The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Rise above it

In silence an eagle soars,
as vapours carry him higher,
through overcast horizons.
It is not afraid of its scorn,
as the storm's temperament
only gives him more power.
With fear, comes courage,
in adversity, evolution of character.
An eaglet becomes an eagle,
only when it has learnt to handle a storm.

In the realms of pain,
when each heartbeat
bleeds speechless tears,
when words are suffocated,
submerging you into uncharted waters;
LISTEN - for every ache and agony
is the provenance of wisdom.
With suffering, empathy is born.

Turbulence in life is like a dandelion:
once dried petals have fallen,
it flourishes into a full sphere.

14 June 2016
Rise Above It - Poetry Contest by Becca Teagan
Contest judged: 17 June 2016

Eagles love a the storm. When clouds gather, the eagles get excited. The eagle uses the storm s winds to lift it higher. Once it finds the wing of the storm, the eagle uses the raging storm to lift him above the clouds. This gives the eagle an opportunity to glide and rest its wings. In the meantime all the other birds hide in the leaves and branches of the trees. We can use the storms of life to rise to greater heights. Achievers relish challenges and use them profitably.
(Author unknown, several different sources)


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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Dear Lucifer

I cannot compete with something as painstakingly glorious as you
Envy is but a humbling tumble down a steep, rocky hill
I am crushed in your fits of glory—your screaming for passion
My approaches are absolutely wrong
Therefore my communication is a weak, ransomed victim
Your poison arrow frog skin rubs against my exposed body
I happily accept my fate
For your beauty surpasses the ephemeral pain of the infectious reign
My erroneous, inevitable downfall
I hold you up—I feel the need to keep you tall!
Michael the Archangel did not insult you once, Lucifer
How then will I? 
How can I possibly be higher than you?-
Why would I want to?
I admire your freedom
I simply disregard your macrodomes of ever-worshiped flaw 
If I could allow myself, I would share in your glory
Only to add to it further
But as I am poisoned with the truth
I can only be your grounded pedestal
And though you flee from humility in its wake upon my brow
I realize everyday you are living for the grounded now
And I merely look to the unknown future
A place I dread where you unwillingly hold me up
Bonded in the ground with Death and Hades
You become my pedestal, and the worms my vineyard
My parasitic feet seer your glory
I am ever so sorry
I never wanted this renown

There was a time I do recall
When you overtook me in my sleep
I cried aloud in helpless acceptance
But soon I was forced in a croak of laughter
I felt your bitter poison
I felt pride at last
I thank you for it
I thank you for showing me

What I will never be

Dear Lucifer,
Provoke me no longer to praise your eternal existence
Generations of Evening take a hold of me now
And the fruit must be shared


Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013

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Simple Words For Simple People

If I had a pretentious brain which acts faster than my heart Maybe then,I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse Maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words I would scrutunize each and every coma dot and exclamationmark believing I know best But I would never let that happen I'd rather stay at bay Writing firstly with my mind and not my heart leads only to an asylium within the being of myself Poetry is my voice,my shadow The sacred shrine of great escape Each stored emotion processed within a yesterday Poetry is the inner of my existence breathing softly,bleeding deeply exploding in death,love passion and romance In every verse a whisper a thought that I would scribe of a silent cry expressed Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by me Tread your footstep on my ink and spit saliva in my face But maybe in a today a broken -hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world Maybe a prisoner,a tramp an insane soul or outcast would pick these scattered scribbles and gather them as whole Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle finds a narrow passage which leads his faith to home Maybe a little child whose blissful giggles depends on little words would turn the dusty pages of silly rhymes I penned Rhymes which know the moons stars,faries,and the magic land Rhymes which know each fantasy and how to be a friend And maybe He would smile Maybe He would laugh Maybe He would dream Maybe He would grow up to write the most eloquent sonnet there has ever been Or maybe He would grow up to write simple words just like me about daises or dandelions and expressions to be free


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014

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Shades of blue

Everything seems so blue
as the sun rises among
clear baby blue skies
ascending from palatinate oceans.
Navy of bluebirds serenade
a royal morning, chanting
among zaffre gardens of
azure bluebells blossoming
with Persian orchids and
true blue forget me nots.
Federal blue jays feed
upon succulent blueberries
as bright blue Morpho butterflies
flutter among cyan Ulysses.
Sapphire lustrous horizons
turn indigo as a blue night appears
introducing a cerulean moon
with twinkling turquoise stars.

The Silent One
17 February 2016




Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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Prophet of DOOM

Fabricated whispers seduced by falsehood
have the grapevine shivering in notoriety
Pernicious vile glutinous serpent revels
in poisoning the innocent children of Eve

The prophet of doom gossips about scandal
fictitious storytelling with inaccurate slander
deception, deceit, dishonesty, disinformation
leaving behind a trail of falsification myth
Venomous words spoken form into miasma
toxic breath pollutes mutating malignancy

Children of Adam, were born to be together
but, the Devil, conceived demonic partition
Divide and conquer, Apartheid are his work
sadly, some still give devotion to his creed

Silent One
20 January 2016
Remember God is always watching and knows the truth
Just because somebody says something - does not mean it is true

Triple Filter Test
In ancient Greece, Socrates (the famous philosopher) was visited by an acquaintance of his. Eager to share some juicy gossip, the man asked if Socrates would like to know the story he’d just heard about a friend of theirs. Socrates replied that before the man spoke, he needed to pass the “Triple-Filter” test.

The first filter, he explained, is Truth. “Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to say is true?” The man shook his head. “No, I actually just heard about it, and …”

Socrates cut him off. “You don’t know for certain that it is true, then. Is what you want to say something good or kind?” Again, the man shook his head. “No! Actually, just the opposite. You see …”

Socrates lifted his hand to stop the man speaking. “So you are not certain that what you want to say is true, and it isn’t good or kind. One filter still remains, though, so you may yet still tell me. That is Usefulness or Necessity. Is this information useful or necessary to me?”  A little defeated, the man replied, “No, not really.”

“Well, then,” Socrates said, turning on his heel. “If what you want to say is neither true, nor good or kind, nor useful or necessary, please don’t say anything at all.”




Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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The Lady Of The House

It’s siesta, yet one can hear from the second floor of the house the animated sharing of juicy news some visitors have brought to the gracious host, the lovely widow of a wealthy sugar planter.  The sound of laughter is carried over the charming veranda bordered by lacy cast-iron grillwork, with its delicate oak leaf and acorn design and colorful, overhanging ornamental plants and flowers.  

Three Creole society matrons in their typical 1840s long dress fashion despite the sultry heat are being served their tea and fanned by the owner’s black slaves. They are talking about the strange happenings at what used to be Dr. Louis and Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie’s grand house at 1140 Royal Street, a few houses away from the where they are having an afternoon gossip. Apparently, the last tenant abandoned the Lalaurie house not only because of some ghost sightings and agonized sounds that were heard from within.  His furniture business inventory was also being mysteriously destroyed at night. 

The lady of the house remembers how Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie used to be a respected member of New Orleans society.  After the fire in 1834 and the subsequent discovery by firemen of seven emaciated slaves at the attic with obvious traces of abuse and torture, the couple and their four grown-up children had to flee in the middle of the night, or be lynched by the angry townsfolk.  

Were all the stories true?  Six years later, no human bones were discovered at the backyard, nor actual records or reports thereof, negating further accusations of slave murders, including that of a young girl who allegedly fell from the rooftop trying to escape her lady’s wrath.  If Mdme. Lalaurie was the inhuman monster the press accused her of that time, then all of her contemporaries were also guilty, including all plantation owners, for the practice of slavery was fundamentally immoral and depraved.  The lady of the house tells herself it is best to keep silent and let one person take all the condemnation.  This removes the attention of the press and the restless community away from her social circle and her own guilt. 


privileged mindset 
and undue exploitation -
cancer cell takes root




Inspired by A House in New Orleans Contest 
27 January 2016


Note:  The Lady of the House is a fictitious character, but relies heavily on historical background from:

1.	Mad Madam Lalaurie: New Orlean’s Famous Murderess Revealed  by Victoria Costner Love and Lorelei Shannon
2.	Old New Orleans, a History of Vieux Carre, Its Ancient and Historical Buildings by Stanley Clisby Arthur
3.	Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie, Wikipedia


Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

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December Rain

Unexpectedly the timid sun made an appearance an orb of flames silent amidst the peaceful horizon wistfully the harmony was short lived ferocious winds blew with merciless tones melancholic rain returning with little remorse inclement storms battering emotions brutally defeating them to oblivion raindrops soaked like predatory demons in conjunction with bloodthirsty winds lost within the abyss of anguish and pain seeking shelter from vicious venomous daggers I stumbled upon the marketplace of sorrow surrounded by souls lost to a religion of perturbation ambushed I remained, impatiently in this downpour degradation counting down the days of disturbing December deterioration 6 December 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Seduced by black

I was not lost, but deserted and desolate. Until delicate deep voices echoed, becoming disturbing, disconcerting, distressing and discouraging - dwindling me into depression. As I closed my eyes, this little boy told me his name was Peter Pan, promised to save me and take away my loneliness. Took me to a lost land away from reality, but instead of light all I saw was darkness. An endless tunnel with an overabundance of black, enclosed me, above, all I saw were charcoal skies, miserably mourning the forsaken moon and stars. Below, dull gloomy waters flowed surrounded by eerie black rats hiding amid onyx black roses, orchids and poisonous lilies, harbouring jet scorpions among demonic lethal black widow spider webs. Apprehensively, I ventured forward, blinded, but desperate to escape this dim dimension. Haunting voices of jet black crows reverberated like clarinets among creepy chilling shadows. Demonic creatures resembling gorillas and Tasmanian devils lurked, within this shady intimidating kingdom. As the temperature fell, satanic rain plummeted, with maniacal winds pushing me backwards. Suddenly through the misty atmosphere a magnificent saviour appeared in the vision of a black stallion., guiding me to a safe sanctuary, where light appeared. I opened my eyes.... My darkness had disappeared. 23 February 2016


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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A Poet With A Priceless Pen A Poets Worth

I am poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.
I wonder what mortal mirrors reflect...
For me, all races deserve respect.

I often hear the splashing of rain,
and flood rushing down the drain.
I see the petals of the morning bloom
and dawn peeping into my dusky room.

I strive to forget the tales of ages long gone
when dreams died as deeds undone.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.

I pretend to be a terrific tree
sapping the tears that betide me.
I feel old scars opening each time
my heart tends to commit new crime.

I touch the heart of the gentle moon
and worry if the Sun will shine at noon.
I cry for the youth and aged in need
and for gluttons in the grave of greed.

I hear the whispers of wealth and wisdom
flowing freely from the field of freedom...
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.

I understand the chains of our choices;
frailties of our fate; our darn differences.
I say let us not preen on what is not ours,
we will leave them in the six-feat towers.

I crave a world without woes and worries;
the mortal mall of matchless memories
where everyone trades a lasting legacy...
and love is shared on the platter of mercy.

I long to see gray skies turn blue
and my sweetest dreams come true.
I am a poet with a priceless pen
born to burnish the beauty of men.


Copyright © Adeleke Adeite | Year Posted 2014

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If walls could speak

You can't break something - already broken
Can't heal something - that can't be healed
Can't love something - not worthy to be loved
Can't fear something - that does not exist
Can't murder something - already deceased
How can you live - when you fail to exist
How can you see - when your eyes are ignorant
How does your heart beat - when it is plastic
How can you listen - when you hear no sound
Why do you speak - when your words confuse
Why do you cry - when your tears are artificial
Why do you follow -when you don't know the destination
Why do you hide - when the truth will set you free
Why do you not ask - when the answers will save you

Walls hide so many secrets..... If only they could speak

The Silent One
2 December 2015






Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Emotional orange

Surely orange is the colour of emotions? It can be sweet and sour, like love, from tangy tangerines to dulcet Florida juices. Did you notice all the warning signs in orange? From car dashboards to warnings of radiation, how many of them do we actually notice? Maybe it's the emotion for anger, flaming fires and burning volcanic lava. An endearing hue that depicts fear with the introduction of scary pumpkins and Jack O Lanterns. Or does it reflect bullying as those with ginger hair are regularly mocked for their tangelo appearance. Is it a poor relation to its distant cousins, especially with it not being a primary subject. Open your eyes and witness the wonders of orange. With vestal twilight highlighting the maiden moon with satin stars climaxing incandescent horizons. Clown fish are captivated by charming corals while goldfish, that are not gold intrigue small children. Nature surrounds us with serene shades of uniqueness, from flame orange Aquilegia formosa blossoming among the wild of Oregon to Californian hills where marigold poppies bloom among persimmon oriole birds. International provinces of Portland apricots, peaches and carrots are surrounded by majestic monarch and viceroy butterflies, fluttering among a plethora of orange colonies. Further thought: Even premium membership is orange! Nothings seems to rhyme with it! What came first the colour or the fruit? 22 February 2016


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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WRITTEN IN THE SAND

WRITTEN IN THE SAND The Big Five—Africa’s pride in the vast open wild Buffalo, Rhinoceros, Elephant, Leopard and Lion Their prey—scattered Impala, Kudu and Waterbuck On hardened dust… their footprints prevail and stand WRITTEN IN THE SAND The proposal day--- carefully planned- a beautiful beach Red Roses, a Picnic, Sunrise and Diamond ring The petals—scattered on the soft damp sea tabloid Lover’s plea….a stick his pen, “Marry me—take my hand” WRITTEN IN THE SAND Early one morning--- He entered the dusty temple to teach Scribes and Pharisees brought her in—an adulterous Large stones…scattered for all to throw and accuse Jesus bent down… wrote with His finger on condemning land What was His message…..? WRITTEN IN THE SAND


Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2013

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Ode to spring

The light breaks free from winter’s bone
to cast its warmth; to life atone,

to warm the dark; to thaw the chill,
to synthesize through chlorophyll,
a dormant seed to resurrect,
and coax a soul from introspect.

Awake! And breathe the wafting spice
of lilac buds and wild rice,
the lavender; the orange puccoon,
the sweet of honeysuckle bloom.

An overture, the sparrows sing,
to celebrate the oeuvre of spring;
while wind and weeping willow dance
to promises of new romance.

Come alive! Draw in your breath,
let winter die a noble death.
The seeds of yesterday are strewn;
it does not do to weep and croon.

If you seek, so shall you find,
as true for darkness as divine.



Copyright © Thvia Shetley | Year Posted 2015

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Sombre November rain

It won't stop raining dismal, forlorn murky skies above similar to a depressed painter's palette bring torrent outbursts becoming heavier and heavier descending louder and louder drowning me in a deluge of emotions soaking the sanity from my drenched soul Sombre November rain is always different colder and sinister like a virus rapidly spreading poisoning my body with intense anxiety battering me like a hail of bullets in the line of fire Twilight is swallowed by blackness briskly stars illuminate, as the moon glows but nature continues to immerse me bathing like a forced baptism How I long for a glimpse of the sun to shelter but there is no sign of a rainbow any time soon The Silent One 17 November 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Miracle Divine

In the midst of great turmoil and strife, 
There is a force manifestly to be heard…seen….touched
A voice—ever so soft… yet loud enough to break mountains at their base
It can make a grown man cry—can distort the finest face
Lead the mother eagle back to its nest…
Run its hands against a tumultuous sea to rest…
Shedding tears of empathy when the woman,
With child, is seen- alone…sore. . . distressed

With mind enduring beyond mortal endurance
With arms stretching across the universe of opportunities and darkness
With eyes blossoming like those crazy sunflowers reaching to the sky…
Suddenly… you will feel its yellow fires 

It is the very storm that knocks us down 
To the depths of humility...patiently waiting for the perfect time to strike, 
It comes like an earthquake and tremors the very soul into action... 
It is the war of mercy that will devour to create and rejuvenate! 
It tells the geese to fly south, whispering them in the right direction... 
It is the soft growl of the lion that wakes its babe to safety...

Like music, it can soothe, or agitate,
Its rhythms changeable…forgivable… 
When you take a wrong turn, a dissonant chord harsh as lightning will expel
Suspended in the air—colors more mysterious than hell
And when you love—oh how sweet love carries cherished lips cosmically….
A smile of the most precious melodies ring
New colors—see it, new colors shall spring

What this light truly means is to be revealed
Only for the precious few who listen and truly feel
Wrapped in the soft ribbons of love beyond all mortality 
Beyond space and reality
Beyond the very tip of the mountain,
That never had to be touched to be brought to its knees…..
Not once did this force ever have to take the woman by the hand
And say with conviction… “everything will be okay….”
Because phenomenally… she would simply hear it in melody,
Inspired by the blazing sun of a newly dawned day-
Freshly caught tears of joy priding the lonely spider’s web

For Justin Bordner’s Divine Intervention Contest
Thank you, with love,
Laura 


Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014

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Lady of the Stream

Oh lovely lady of the poetic stream
Such beautiful verses we have seen
Your flowers more vibrant than heavens tone
Your mountains more majestic than ever known 

Your pen full ways are filled with grace
As you take us to a wondrous place
When you dip inside your wishing well
We are transfixed from your magic spell

Oh Lovely lady of the shimmering stream
Enchant us now so we may dream
A volcanic resonance within your soul
Gushes out versus that make us whole

I stand yonder as I look and glean
Toward the lovely lady of the poetic stream.


March.03.2016   ^WW^


Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2016

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The Merry Go Round of Earth

One half is submerged in light,
the other in darkness.
Half says goodnight and the other
tugs the harness.

Kids climb backyard trees tinged
with school bus yellow.
As lovers play hide and seek
in the nighttime meadow.

Training wheels lay abandoned -
youthful eyes bear cornea confidence.
The silver spokes whistle through copper leaves -
once in a lifetime decadence.

August stars say their last farewell
in glorious beelines.
Whilst wrinkled fingers grasp the moon
in delicious daytime.

A woman dressed in white walks down the aisle -
her father proudly flaunts.
As a preacher recites Scripture at a funeral:
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want...

A newborn's laugh lights the whole world up
with effortless ease.
Whilst a pair of liver-spotted legs
unbuckles its knees.

One takes the first step -
the other reaches the end of the line.
One is a wealth of wisdom -
and the other is a gift divine.

Tiny toes to caress the sand,
ashes to sprinkle in the sea -
as if Nature itself has read aloud
Ecclesiastes Three.


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014

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The Flight of Tempest Reigned

Upon a glorious night
A burning fire lit upon my unrented spine
Deafened by fleeting sight
I flee the home that never was quite mine

Crushed in garish fight
Within the corridor I dare to flee
Blinded by his might
While all the sad spirits return to me

Oh Tempest, you blow in me hope
Of sorrow more true than any other light
Oh Tempest that guides my departed
To your soul so bright
Rejoining each of us—the broken-hearted 

Upon that vaporous eve
Enclosed in bond beyond mortal grief
Lost to the foggy reef
The fog that so lingers in these glistening eyes
That vapor drew me near
Bedazzling more than the moonlit mirror
To where I see him fly
Twas a heart-reaching place I always fear

Oh Tempest, you blow in me hope
Of sorrow more true than any other light
Oh Tempest that guides my departed
To your soul so bright
Rejoining each of us—the broken-hearted 

Between the beat of my breast
A heart that beats only for him
He slumbers in the clouds
The clouds that pour my poignant prose
Beyond the darkened seas
The wind does carry the scent of his bequest
Within the folding of the storm I cease to rest

Oh Tempest, you blow in me hope
Of sorrow more true than any other light
Oh Tempest that guides my departed
To your soul so bright
Rejoining each of us—the broken-hearted 

To him my sorrows lay 
And fall into the arms of strangers' trembling spine
As light and pain fall gray
Twas there they grayed and blended with the rain
Twas there they grayed and blended with the rain
Twas there they grayed and blended with the rain 


Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013

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Tranquil waters

Poisonous gasses pollute, like a gun to my head unaware a swan floats upon tranquil waters delicate cherry blossom buds blow in the breeze creating a pink tapestry resting upon the water resentful, in envy the sun hides behind grey clouds torrent rain falls accompanied by thunderous flashes of light interrupted, the swan swiftly seeks safe sanctuary those around panic - yet he remains elegant intense rain drops destroy the formed pink tapestry like daggers piercing on dusky meandering waters eventually - the sun wakes from her slumber dehydrating the rain - annihilating the clouds Picturesque - the enchanting rainbow sing's her song Mother Nature's symphony highlights the horizons oblivious - a swan floats upon tranquil waters The Silent One 19 December 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Where Freedom Finds the Fire

You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged

(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)

You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day

(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)

You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,

leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.

You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain

(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)

You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward

Where minds silently unhinge      (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe      (for a moment)

When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.

And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.

Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.

Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence

... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.



Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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Phantasy Willow

This night, this light,
the moon a balloon
that floats away hope.

Myself a tree, a willow weeping -
ripple of sighs, fountain of cries,
my tears like leaves.

Aftermath of moonlight rape:
my battered bark, my bowed boughs,
my leaves a draping shroud.

In phantasy, currents carry me
down, down to drowning depths
and all my tears are water-wept.




Five words used: Willow, Phantasy (amalgamation of phantom and fantasy), Rape, Moonlight, Aftermath

6/3/2016


Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2016

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PERCEPTION

   PERCEPTION

Before the abyss, I had it all
Letting go of all I see
My friend, I hope our time won't end
It took a short time for you to notice 
Without knowing who I am 
We talked, we became friends

Connecting the dots, missing every line
Connect them and figure me out
Randomly it comes your way
Underneath a never known chemistry
Ask me to stay and I may
Grinding your teeth into my way
Cut out my eyes, and store them up
A tongueless mouth, nothing to say

Maybe by tomorrow you will forget
Losing myself in my own conversation
Hiding behind my one big regret
Don't know, Don't care
You had me open up
A book I closed, knowledge lost

No need to see 
A mystery called deception
What I am cannot be seen with the naked eye
Along came you using your *ucked* up perception
The ability you miss use
making sense of this connection
A process you carry with your own  patterns
You asked, you listened,  without making assumptions
A taste to take off my shoulders, 
To release an error locked in my Asylum
I myself am enjoying the insights about him
He's got me convince, using his perception
               
  :)
SKAT


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010

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SURVIVAL IN THE MIDST OF IGNORANCE

My prayers are not asking you to
 
save me from my enemy.
 
My children have turned their backs.
 
They praise dance with many
 
Adversaries-
 
When they need be refuking,
 
protesting and rebuking.
 
Among-st those who fight against me-
 
be my offspring.
 
I fear not the man who
 
I already know to be the beast
 
While my eyes follow my historical foe:
 
Those created in my womb,go
 
behind my back sign treaties with known
 
enemies
 
Chiding our valuable place in history. 
 
They do not want to know how they got here-
 
They do not care.The nature 

of the beast consumes them.
 
Eyes full of temptations we 

kept their butts covered,
 
and gave them what we could never have.
 
Instead of gratitude they give us latitude  
 
we cannot reach them.
 
They love the enemy, like a favorite pet-
 
Stroking the dog and biting
 
the hand that feeds them wisdom.
 
We walked miles with no shoes -
 
Prayed for our families-
 
Now our families-prey on us
 
With every thing handed to
 
them through the struggle;
 
Our children render our efforts
 
useless and in vain.
 
Vanity be thou sanity 
 
Consuming life from 

the top shelves in cafe's...
 
Thinking non -sober thoughts-
 
Who knows why we now be despise.
 
Deaf are their ears when they hear our names;
 
Holding us accountable, For the shame. 
 
Never ready for the change.
 
My prayer now is;
 
God save me from my people:
 
The joy that settled in my
 
accomplishments is now
 
unsettled disappointment,
 
disturbing !
 
They want to have 

their cake crumbs
 
and eat them too.
 
Save us from the

 disgrace of how they
 
discount all we've sacrificed - 

We made it through
 
and we have shown our 

strength against all odds
 
How now they praise-

dance with the enemy
 
They drink no more 

from separate fountains
 
Never sat in the balcony-
 
never knew the colored section;
 
Never stood on buses.
 
Those of us who never found a soft
 
place to land in the concrete jungles;
 
 have lined your bottoms with cushion's
 
from the sacrifices and suffering we
 
endured.
 
Watching you again discount us as you
 
leave us to the ridicule of your own judgment.
 
As you praise dance with those
 
who aspire to see your detriment.
 
Never before have so many brave elders
 
have had to watch their own children rob
 
them of their glory and dignity.
 
Even an imbecilic knows when he's better off.
 
That's the sad difference between an
 
slow learner and a fool.
 
A fool never cares nor takes responsibility..
 
The slow learner finally learns.
 
And is delighted to be enlightened.
 
Where the fool continues
 
to waddle blissfully in his own ignorance -
 
Resenting all who shed light on the
 
error of his ways....
 
Those who have his best interest -
 
Become his stumbling block.  
 
Difficult now for them to blame others;
 
With bright lights shining on stupidity--
 
We give them proof-
 
blinded and overwhelmed
 
by the truth-they are not interested our story
 
Never realizing that while their
 
stubborn heads were buried-in the sand.
 
We still have to stand-- guard
 
over their protruding azzes 
 
Until my children have learned  
 
where they fit in on earth,
 
and what they are truly worth
 
they will continue " Praise-
 
Dancing" with the enemies
 
They will continue to be as eaglet's
 
flapping around the yard ,
 
clucking with the chickens...
 
never soaring-never getting off the ground
 
Bewildered by our "diminutive etymology":
 
The Elders and The Ancestors;
 
We look dumbfounded,and mutter....
 
"Where did we go Wrong" ?
 


Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013