Metaphor 8Th Grade Poems | Examples
These Metaphor 8Th Grade poems are examples of 8Th Grade poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of 8Th Grade Metaphor poems written by international poets.
As this life now quickly drifts away,
I'm unable to look around and say,
Look at all the difference I've made...
Sewn is the carnage I now reep today..
The fields I'm forced to work, like a nineteenth century slave;
With only my two bare hands
under a sun of a southern summer day...
My sweat pouring down like a thunderstorm drops it's rain;
As every new day leaves, more and more pain.
Captured are all the moments that created this disarray...
Ignored was the spiraling, from all your mindless yesterday's ;
That now lies before you, like a body in full decay...
The kind ones, the mean ones,
the big ones, the lean ones-
Some try, some don't,
and some cry, but some don't.
Actions and reactions,
what are they but events,
cycling o'er and o'er?
We laugh, we cry,
we live, we die;
cycling o'er and o'er.
The poor ones, the rich ones,
the happy ones, the sad ones,
"Why does money even matter?"
Cycling o'er and o'er.
History repeats, o'er and o'er,
going once, going twice, going thrice-,
The strong, the weak,
the power we all seek;
it cycles o'er and o'er.
Cycling o'er and o'er.
Tears falling like rain,
Face aping nature's playground;
Fall's pollen is here:-
TREASURE YOURSELF s
Be in confidence,
Doubt not your God given gifts—
Treasure, nature, and share them:
For peace, war can not be the answer;
For war is much more deadly than cancer:-
With divine wisdom and guidance from above,
Let us strive to be instruments of peace and love:-
Let us strive to perpetuate worldly equanimity,
Rather than supporting debilitating worldly inequality
Harlem in the 40s
Harlem in the 40s was a place of rhythm and soul
Where music was the language and jazz was the goal
Where singers and musicians made the crowds go wild
Where swing and bebop and blues were the style
Harlem in the 40s was a place of art and flair
Where painters and sculptors showed their talent and care
Where colors and shapes and forms were the expression
Where beauty and meaning and vision were the impression
Harlem in the 40s was a place of words and wisdom
Where poets and writers shared their stories and opinions
Where rhyme and meter and metaphor were the tools
Where inspiration and emotion and message were the rules
Harlem in the 40s was a place of joy and wonder
Where people celebrated their culture and their power
Where creativity and innovation were the norm
Where Harlem was a renaissance and a legend was born
From the creation to the end
From a speck in the gloomy and taciturn void of space
First came sand then ready reigned rain
Creatures roam the Earth with no name or race
Every creature lived and roamed, no efface
Titanic and verdant mountains rose over the desolate plain,
They hustled through the rubble and trouble just to gnaw
They struggled with the muscle and knuckle to live raw,
Brothers! The end is nigh near
You won’t wake up one day
The clutches of the machine I fear
Your phone took your world, oh so dear
Technology bites us just like a tiger biting its prey,
The phones shall kill us and gawk with transfix
The moans shall chill us and knock with hiss.
Thunder god
Oh, thunder god might be the harbinger of an eddy,
He is a potent striker and a deity,
Yet his mind bores him with the power which is at the ready,
You may think he has a lot of power,
Though his dejection is that by a sneeze he may raze a tower,
He just wants to watch and smell a flower,
He is considered a monster and blight,
Sailors are scared of his thunder’s sight,
Little do they know he wants a buddy who can hold him tight,
He may be very potent and active,
I am afraid we are wrong as we see a different perspective,
He cries and causes storms because our views are radioactive,
He is humane and full of clemency,
Oh, brothers but his surly nature is the only thing we can see!
Verbose word
among deaf...
brilliant gesticulator
among blind...
wobbly loser
in lonely races,
harmless digger
from the deep void...
you have a fast hand
inside the fatal night,
you have a fleeting gesture
and an atrocious glow...!
you have no heroism
in the nameless pallor
of all your acts... !
Her eyes shone like diamond pools,
Only in distant memories and dreams.
Once loving heart intensely beats,
Exploding, bursting at the seams.
The sweet voice of lullabies,
Ever vacant, ever hollow.
The sun always made her glow,
In despair it simply wallows.
Waves of time,
Of intuition.
Ever rarely,
In her vision.
Nerium bloomed,
In her bright smile.
Alone once more,
In exile.
Her eyes refused,
No longer shone.
That day I knew,
She was too far gone.
Date: 07/24/2022
Contest title: Pick-A-Title, Vol 31 Poetry Contest
Title Chosen: "Too Far Gone"
Name of sponsor: Edward Ibeh
MIGRATING
Juana and I sit on the fence,
swing our legs,
throw seeds for birds,
check nests for eggs.
Juana,
like the migrating bird
that traveled mile upon mile,
is here now too,
but I hope she stays longer
than the bird that flew.
June night…
Gibbous moonlight…
My inner pearl shining bright;
Dwarfed under reflection,
Yet un-shadowed—beaming…
Waiting her coming resurrection
Above the lunar mirrored gleaming.
Passing strange is her journey…
A June timed sojourn to destiny,
Teasing the moon’s cosmic majesty;
Tonight, we conquer the abyss between us:
Space, stars, satellites, or any other celestial stuff;
Nothing can keep me from the pearly glow of Venus.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED
We dance, mutate and celebrate: another perfect host.
The old make easy prey, we watch them gasp
and slip away. And our kind are not averse
to the odd doctor or nurse, regardless of their ages.
But while the populace weeps and rages, the death
toll turns, a thousand pages .We catch the young
while on the run , target bathers soaking sun.
Here’s to a babe in its mother’s arms. He takes no solace
from our charms. We proliferate in lungs, leak bodily
juices, giving neither apology nor excuses. It’s strike,
strike and strike again. Attacking gaps in mask, gown
or gloves, we seize our chances.
The target’s cells weep blood, and slowly die.
Our deadly dancers sigh and shrivel, too. But that’s what
we were born to do. Others soon will take
our places, embracing all the creeds and races.
Decima Wraxall
From the days the banner was hoisted
This breed has uttered flowery prose
They swear they speak naught but the truth
Some of our fathers, before us, believed them
Those that saw their truth as subtle untruths
Faced the option of turning back or going with them
Those that chose the former
Seldom saw the inside of the palace
Two generations later
The first breed has bred its own type
Who now tell unjust old tales in new ways
Believing we learnt nothing from our forebears
They see the silence of the populace
As solemn trust in them as gods and deities
Those who find noise in their sweet melodies
State scoundrels pummel into seeing lies as truths
Our folks have sacrificed limbs on Patriotism’s altar
And amidst woes, they toil for the bliss of the mighty
Like the Iroko tree, this generation has come of age
We, remnant of the brave, know where truth lies
Now at the cross-roads, we know the choice to make
We know the road we should take.
Death torturing knee…
Law and order prevailing;
Oppression speaking…
One knee on my neck,
The other kicking my butt;
How long will this last?
We both have our knees…
You bend yours praising Satan;
Mine bend to praise God…
I bend on one knee,
But I stand on hope and faith;
Divine wisdom guides
Your knees confuse me;
Just who are you supporting?
I still cannot breathe…
You kneel to praise death;
I kneel to resurrection:
My spirit rising…
You may knee me once;
Better watch out the next time:
I’ve chosen to live!