Writing Metaphor Poems

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.


The poem(s) are below...



Details | Free verse |
Well hopefully you've read the last "Poetry for Poets", now here's the one I wanted to write, enjoy...

POETRY FOR POETS 
(I own this- edition)

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
rooted in the shit of life
manure

Some grow wild
seeking their light
through a gnarled thicket
of images
and symbolism.
Ill watered
or sprayed with chemical defoliants
they strangle themselves,
few
managing to blossom.

Manicured
Poems thoughtfully precisely planted
to achieve optimum yield
banquet

			though occasionally
		poems require		to be forged
	beaten into shape
like a horse shoe
with a few holes
	accurately placed
		ensuring they		will be nailed
			to their purpose

Pruned
dead words and metaphors 
selectively snipped away
stunning display

There are times when it’s best to live with your poetry
Cover yourself with its words until they stretch and become sloppery
For its comfort increases as the stanzas begin to fray
Patched elbows illuminating what you intend to say
And eventually you’ll have a poem to slip into by the fire
To savour with hot chocolate as it ignites your desire

Poems
more organic than fertilizer
flourish when tendered
with love

Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015




Details | Free verse |
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet- 

Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off 
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause 

The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse 
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse 
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse 
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance, 
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers 
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest, 
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein

You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal, 
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree 
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."

I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter, 
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer 
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer

Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light, 
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes, 
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.

If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause

by;PD
I do it for fun

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

Details | Couplet |

Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
     hoping my thoughts will fall like rain.
Thunder and lightning mix the brew
     stirring the words soon to break thru.

Pressure builds up, clouds turn dark gray
     swirling and twirling, find their way,
freeing the weight of thoughts that flow
     down from the clouds to grow below.

Falling to weave creative streams
     nourishing thoughts into word dreams,
forming soon a landscape divine...
     rainbow of poems that are mine.


Sandra M. Haight

~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: What Was I Thinking?
Sponsor: Daniel Turner
Rules: Choose one line from sponsor's poem below
           and write a poem.  I chose his first line.
Judged: 12/19/2016


Between The Lines,  by Daniel Turner

Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
Vapor trail dreams, from paper airplanes
Cherry red glow, watch with no chain
Ribbons and bows, tied to the flames

Anchors on strings, hanging from sails
Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
Falling through cracks, greased by the sale
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail

Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings
Broken blue dishes stuck to the king
Photos with glitches on invisible wings
Temptation itches on all living things

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016




Details | Free verse |
Little houses deep asleep
   In beds with down pillows
      people are
                                in wooden miniature houses
                             dogs are
            on couches cats are
               (not in their dedicated sleeping
                  places no they don't)

                        I sleep in far away places
                        in cold beds no duvet
                        fingers clamped in soil

Return to me what was taken
   for granted, this home
      all that was stolen, return
                                  Return to me flowers
                           with butterflies and bees
                    and honey sunlight poems

From little houses fast asleep
  birds fly
    spread their wings
      and lift on wind
     fill the sky
      a dark cloud
         for blind eyes
                 sombre screams
                            to deaf ears

So many words
misunderstood


***

July 27, 2017 
Copyright © Darren White

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Verse |
As the wind ripped the leaves from the trees
I thought of you
As I stood there like those trees
Stripped of all their glory
Their only crime
Giving birth to beauty

I watched them fall
All those brilliant leaves
And knew you could never stop
Poetry in motion.

THIS POEM IS NOT FOR ANY CONTEST

Written:  September 14, 2014
Author: Elaine George

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2014

Details | Didactic |
 An inquiry into form






There-                            Not here?


Start over-                     A planet and good for YOU!   maybe-


 'Bigger than a breadbox?

So-     vegetable!    GREEN     like €x spec tations


HERE-                    n OT  THERE?


Not again?!             therefore  "w€ s€€"?


NO      Justa                 s  p  a  c  e        (maybe)

with a shape!          Like mathematicians?
                                                                                       l
    (they gather in blue confusion)    so?                             l
                                                                                     i
So a word with a Sumar    add dress                               h
                                                                     A summer address?
    ·  The cats break-open the weeping kitchen  ·            e
                                                                                h
BROWN then         like perfect patterns        just over  t  
                                                        
                                                         and

                                              € = Q = U = A = L

Copyright © Robert Warlov | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
Self-reflection is an art
A two edged sword that no one teaches
No religion philosophized
my own personal goal 
to better myself 
and understand everything 
by seeing one another 
through the slide of me 
through another’s eyes 
and that person 
through yet another’s eyes

Four good qualities you truly possess is where I start
The good things about me
Actually that’s a lie
That’s what I recommend
I usually get a little bit sad sit here and realize 
That I think I’m deep and no one understands

I know through self-reflection of understanding history
and putting myself in other peoples shoes
Like a mental actor of how I would feel emotionally and mentally
and then writing it down
is like self reflection but not quite
close but no cigar I have learned we are truly all actors and life is indeed a stage
And when we learn how to manipulate the greatest acts of man for the history 
books
The next generations will be taught in school how to prevent wars and live in 
piece by us selling one perfect life or lie
And I wonder if I’m a 27-year-old psychological lie of a ghetto wizard
I’ve described

Through self reflection I know they're are things I need to change
Some things I never will
Some things I am a part of
And at least the parts and pieces of my life I live like poetry that if they were 
captured like dreams in a butterfly net
They would teach something to the future like Jesus or anybody would if they 
understood
Just how to self reflect emotionally mentally put yourself in another’s shoes and 
learn the lesson through writing a poem
or thinking it out

If each generation and the history books were all acts of men
and my generation has to top the last lie with a wisdom of the perfect metaphor 
to unlock the following generations thinking process
Is that the game of the planet?
Are those the reasons to the wars we fight today?
to teach tomorrow
When they write their essays that will become tomorrow’s politicians 
An insane asylum can teach politics and all we really want is to pay them to be 
rich and make global friends so we can have utopia
But in the history book of the essays they no longer write where life lessons were 
learned and taught through misfortune of man
there are gems to be uncovered of how to stop wars how to peace keep
How to mediate
How to live
How to heal
and every generation we discover it on our own as the teachers subtly shape our 
minds



Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
I’d like to pretend that my hands aren’t dirty 

from the soap of mental suppression,

that the callouses are from hard work,

and not from picking my bones back up

off the floor on a daily basis;

ragged, dry, and weary. 

Every fairy tale has a root,

stapled into the hard soil of truth.

They all have a moral,

some sort of clerical error 

born from life’s shadow. 

We watch, hoping to learn 

from the missteps of someone

else’s intrepid imagination,

some 4D revelation singing

lullabies to the young heart

of humanity.  

And they bend to the fickle 

will of greedy creativity, 

making the yoke less bitter

so that we can tongue the purge

of denial without pouting. 

I’d like to pretend that my hands are clean,

that I don’t whisper cold lies into your palms,

watch you drink from the frosted glass

of my sincerity; Hope that you don’t blink,

that you won’t notice the blood bubbling 

up, and over my shiver before you finally

finish this story. 

I just want you to understand.

This isn’t poison.

This is merely me bleeding out,

and hoping you’ll learn to love the 

taste of fire kissed oxymoronic metaphors,

served up with juiced will and the vegan

flesh of my inhibition.  

So that you can see through my eyes,

know where I have been,

and how it felt to be consumed.

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
you won’t listen to me, so i write to you on my arms. 
this one says i needed you and you weren’t there. 
this one says i’m bleeding but you don’t care. 
i wrote you this one out of despair, 
seemed like you always had to be at some other somewhere,
and it hurts, because it’s me you’re dismissin’, 
with no time to listen, just need your attention, 
it’s your touch i’m missin’, look me in my eye,
i know you see my letters, so why don’t i get a reply?
i guess it’s worth it just to try, 
to get you to notice me just one more time, 
write you just one last line, 
but i’m runnin’ out of time ‘cause i’m runnin’ out of ink, 
needin’ more time to think, 
but i don’t have it, so i sign my last letter and address it to you,
i hope this one gets through

Copyright © Erin Evans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
Here is my metaphor
Don't touch it now
I am a fisherman with a deceptive line
I throw back nothing
But by clever design
I bait and hide the deadly thing
Word like a bomb exploding
When you shackled my feet
You did not undersatand 
You were walking on oral quicksand
My tongue is crucified if you fetter my hands.
In a coffle
There is no need to negotiate
The eleders have left the tree and closed the gate
I have no home again
I am your fate
This metaphor, this oil on water
This incubator of fire.

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009

Details | Rhyme |
I saw her writing in the rain,
Bent to shield the page from wet,
To keep the precious words there set
In ink and time, in flowing rhyme,
All her thoughts would there remain.

In potter's field behind the school,
Her favorite place to muse alone,
To shed dysfunction's veil of home,
To counter-dict her parents, strict,
With pen and prose, the worthy tool.

I stood yet by the wall and waved,
Not wanting to invade her trance,
Or interrupt the fragile dance
Of words divine, and crafted line,
Dreams and notions left unsaved.

I waited, patient, for her eye,
To lift her gaze and see me there,
But she wrote on, still unaware,
And all the while, a gentle smile
Lit up her face with mischief, wry.

I'd known her many years by then,
And knew she wrote of only passion,
No other gist - no other fashion,
Just sexy schemes, and lover's dreams,
Those grand enough to grace her pen.

I watched her as my thoughts began
To spin on what she might be writing,
Romance, talks, our nights - inviting,
Moonlit swims, and tangled limbs,
Perfect passion, our future plans?

Surely, all those things and more,
Brought to words there on her pad,
The priceless moments that we'd had,
Her love for me, in words - set free,
The proof was in the smile she wore.

Oh, how my heart leapt at the thought,
That she there scribbled lines for me,
Romantic dreams of what we'd be,
Or sultry times we'd had, in rhymes,
Now put to words upon that spot.

As I still watched the rain abated,
Sunlight peeping through the clouds,
Day then shedding somber shrouds,
Yet she wrote on, intent upon
Her thoughts there being aptly stated.

She finally finished and lifted pen,
Turned her head and gaze to see
The old stone wall and finally, me,
And in a while, her eyes and smile,
Went blank ...

... and then came back again ...

I didn't pause to think on this,
So pleased was I to meet her gaze,
To see the sun and feel its rays,
I crossed the lawn, she waved me on,
And greeted me with hug and kiss.

There, in her lips was something cool,
Her eyes, too, held a distant stare,
A spark we'd had, no longer there,
And as I stood, my hands and blood
Went cold ... was I again the fool?

I shook, as if to shed that thought,
As she stepped back to make some space,
Reached up one hand to brush my face,
Looked deep, my eyes, and with a sigh,
Ripped pages from the pad she'd brought.

I reached to part her strands of hair,
She stopped my hand and looked away,
And said "I don't have much to say",
But then did plead for me to read,
The words within her pages there.

"I'm sorry" was her final phrase,
She stood on toes to kiss my cheek,
Her eyes had then commenced to leak,
And she, bereft of words, then left
Me standing stoically in a daze.

What I'd thought prose - her passion's whim,
Was clearly, now read, a long goodbye,
Her heart embraced another guy,
And while she wrote for me, this note,
The smile she'd worn had been for him.

The joy I'd seen wasn't US at all,
Not passion's memoirs, but what might be,
With love's NEW prospect, not with me,
And holding pages, my loser's wages,
The rain, once again ...

... began to fall.



** SECOND PLACE in the "Love For Movie Screens" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Sponsor. **

** SEVENTH PLACE in the "May Showers" Poetry Contest, Nayda Ivette Negron, Sponsor. **

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
I wish I could write a poem perfectly
But, alas, the process escapes me;
Instead, I write what I think, see or hear
And, sometimes, my real feelings appear

If I could write a poem e’er so sweetly
I’d share it with the world completely
Perhaps, ‘tis best for someone to find it
After I‘m gone – then, a surprise behind it!

Oh! To be like the poets of yesteryear
“Golden daffodils” in “crowds” brought cheer;
Or as in, “From cocoon forth a butterfly”—
Flutter among those flowers would I

“The woods are dark, lovely and deep,” he wrote—
Mysterious beauty in the quote;
So, I’ll write with elegant simplicity
Lacking the format complexity

My thoughts shall flow in meters and rhyme
Until comes that metaphor in time
When a perfect poem I shall pen in ink—
At least, that will be what someone thinks!
                         -E. Pearl Anderson



			Quotes:    William Wordsworth, Daffodils, 1804
			Emily Dickinson, Art II Nature, VII, 1924
			Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, 1921

Copyright © E. Pearl Anderson | Year Posted 2009

Details | Rhyme |

At any rate ... or any time,
       I so prefer a metered rhyme ...
              If from a fool or from a sage,
                     It bounces briskly off the page.

Quick to grasp a mind or heart,
       And tickle fancies, a la carte ...
              Dancing fast, and hard to catch,
                     Nimbly footed sounds to match.

Off the tongue to tumble, swift,
       Rolling phrases dart and drift ...
              Furtive words, so fun and fleet,
                     Filled with cleverness, replete.

Locution molded, start-to-goal,
       To paint an image in your soul ...
              Terms entwining wishes, bright,
                     To dim the day or burn a night.

Letters, turned to eyes that cry,
       Lungs to breathe, wings to fly ...
              Lines with tempo, sweet or sour,
                     Blooming runes as phrases, flower.

Words otherwise, just in-a-row,
       But set to rhyme, compel us so ...
              Thus taking phrases, commonplace,
                     And giving them a charm and grace.

Turning parlance into song,
       Helping verbiage move along ...
              Telling tales with tempo, quick,
                     No matter what the bailiwick.

Speeding up the things we say,
       To send them sweetly on their way,
              Words in rhythm just won't wait ...
                     That's rhyme to me ... at any rate.




* Written and submitted on February 3, 2018, for the "At Any Rate It Will Be Fast Moving" Poetry Contest, Julia Ward, Sponsor. *

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2018

Details | Free verse |
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
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

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Quatrain |
A test of the water,
A dip of my toe.
Undeniably chilly,
But bearably so.

Before I can swim,
I must get undressed.
I’ll start with my shirt,
And then all the rest.

I’ll glance about shyly,
Then just take the dive.
Returning for air,
Now I’m feeling alive.

This is how poetry
Ever will be.
A definite risk,
But a way to be free.

I show to the world,
What others won’t bare.
My vulnerable soul,
Under scrupulous glare.

Just as the clear water,
A feeble veil makes.
So scarcely can prose
Conceal life’s mistakes.

So under some metaphor
Or in simile
If you are looking,
You’ll find naked me.

Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015

Details | Quatrain |
Le Mot Juste

The right word indeed is what we poets always seek
As we use our imaginations in finding and identifying
A theme of interest and one that allows us to work and
To weave a tapestry of poetic virtue and enchantment.

The right word for the sake of poetic discussion can be
A singular word, two or three words, or even a group of
Words; yet it is how the word or words are placed in
Verses which account for proper emphasis and nuance. 

The right word gives us that certain image or metaphor
So necessary as we dexterously process artistic thoughts
Which meld into verses conveying a wondrous message
To our readers yearning for the magic that poetry brings.

The right word often sets the tone and tenor of each verse
And as we consider the desired effect of each verse as it
Flows and follows or interlocks with the other verses in 
A poem—the tone and tenor attributes are quite important.

Using the right word impacts what we say and how we say
It and how our poetic thoughts may or may not be correctly
Understood, which means “Words Count” always—and we
Poets should consider their effect in portraying our message.

Le Mot Juste in the French language very exquisitely means
“The Right Word” and seemed appropriate as the title for this 
Poem to emphasize the critical nature of using the right word
As we poets seek to make our thoughts known to the public. 

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – April 28, 2015
(Narrative Quatrain)

*The poem appears in my new poetry book with a release date of
February 3, 2015.

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |
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

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Dramatic monologue |
TWO WORLDS MANIPULATED During this stage of development, I seek élan vital. The creative principle that provides métier and impulse. In that, the essence of the soul pursues her life choice. Recourse is palpable. ***** The breeze was so relaxing that I felt like falling asleep outside. Lying in my gazebo with the branches of my deciduous trees stretched vast and wide. Yet my mind did not want to disengaged with the thoughts that preoccupied. (Maybe this is because I live life in a focus in that all aspects may manifest a takeover). But oh, immanently I know that a bottle of emotions can explode. So I took a deep breath and said all things that are possible can be known and achieved. In meaning, I have to accept those things that must be depleted. As I yawn, I experienced an aura and my eyes recede into stupor and a dream. I am walking amidst the trees. |_______________________________|__________________________________| Written March 2, 2016!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2016

Details | Acrostic |
Creative Process

Can I really write something astounding, grand, and glorious?
Reality should be a part of all I consider when approaching a theme. 
Events often drive and form the poetic fabric of what we write about. 
Avenues of passion and emotion pervade our conscious thoughts.
Taking our thoughts, fantasies, metaphors to the readers are essential.
Instigating or arousing excitement makes verses interesting to read.
Viewing themes from a detached perspective gives us variety in discourse.
Every idea or theme is considered fair game when we poets write.

Poetry is a sublime medium for relating themes to human circumstances.
Rigid ideas and concepts can be artistic with the right nuance and metaphor.
Onomatopoeia is expressive sound imitation of words used for poetic effect.
Creativity forms the very warp and woof of what we do as poets and writers.
Exceptionalism is an attitude helpful to poets as we focus on what is unique. 
Syntax is the structural medium for how we write and express ourselves.
Sensitivity is an attribute essential to how poets evaluate their themes.

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - May 1, 2015
(Acrostic)

*This poem appeared in my new book with a release date of February 7, 2015

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Haiku |
the less i have of
the additional use of
the more it breaks down

Copyright © Trevor McLeod | Year Posted 2013

Details | Didactic |
Chronicler of Events and Emotions

As a Poet and as a Writer . . . 
I’m a Chronicler of Events and Emotions;
I watch, observe, and record all that I see.
It’s truly enough to absorb and understand
Both the grandeur and depravity of mankind.

As I observe events—past, present, and future
And delve into any emotions that are at hand,
I make doubly sure to comment at will while
Showing no fear and sparing not the “sting” of
My words as a poet as a situation may command.

I can and should do no less on every theme I
Approach as a poet and a writer—for all of us who
Pursue this passionate path of refined exposition
Should realize that though we all may fulfill a very
Needed function of recounting and relating events,
Situations and emotions—we should never fear in
Providing, at times, a much-needed “conscience”
To a theme, event or situation as it unfolds.

And so it’s suitable for us poets to function at times
As a “conscience of mankind” and to be not afraid
To reflect this in our poems when the necessity of
A circumstance or situation pleads for it out of a 
Compassionate need for human understanding and
Obvious decency.

For what are we as poets and writers, if we don’t
Undertake a deeper and more exalted approach to 
What we do and really attempt to become “one” with 
The human event, emotion, situation or relationship
We are writing about?

If we don’t do it—who will?

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, 
May 3, 2015 (Didactic)

*Appears in my new book under release date February 7, 2015.

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Blank verse |
Two eagles hover over the bare bones of a poem
leaving choice morsels for the appetite of the other.
And with poetic hunger they devour each other’s words
occasionally choking upon the other’s genius. 

With wings spread wide they ride a poetic thermal of prose
eagerly dipping into the ink of the other’s thoughts.
For when eagles combine talents to create poetry
oh, what wonders are conceived amidst such sheer majesty! 

They peruse through ideas like a garden of delights
collaborating on verses fueled by fragile dreams.
And collectively nurture fledgling thoughts, giving them wings
as they scratch enigmatic lines, using their claws and beaks. 

Searching for perfection two egos soar beyond belief
seamlessly approaching the heights of creativity.
For when eagles clash they release raw unbridled feelings
that converge, crafting clever prose that are worthy of note.

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
Where I'm from we don't do debts, fronts, or take tabs
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash
Put that money on the head, you don't need a mask
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash
How is a broke fool gon' try and smash
They don't understand nothing but stashing cash

Money on my mind like bread on a sandwich

I run the city, they're the lights, I'm the switch

I stand for what's mine, never see me slip and fall

I'm runnin' the race, you're a baby with a slow crawl

My cash stay on point, like a sharpened pencil

Try 'n' copy my style, you gon' need mo' than a stencil

I don't be's in the trap, buy my workers put-in overtime

Feds can't catch me, never see me committin' crime

That's why from time to time I shoot 'em a raise

And tell 'em to stash cash for those rainy days

If money talk, then there's nothing to say

If B.S walk, none of ya' fools can stay

My money talkin' for me, betta' yet, it's in a conversation

Ya' look like money; make money, nice observation

They say the love of money's the root of all evil

So how much money will it take to really love people

Copyright © Arcene Janvier | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is 
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not  done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am 
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing 
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the 
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside 
 a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...


Written By: Christina A McCullouch 
04/09/2013

Copyright © Christina McCullouch | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
The Soul is the Beautiful Light of Love
Shining like the sun through the 
NO
As the reader, I’m going to have to cut you off there.
Here’s a metaphor for you…
Reading is ****ing.
And your words hit our auditory canals
Like a hotdog down a hallway.
As an experienced reader, I’m after 
The virgin vernacular 
The aphrodisiac aphorism
You know- the big… black words
You feel me?
Because a line is a flashlight, exposing the world’s nudity-
And we’ll never get anywhere shining it in the same spot.
So kiss me with classy couplets
Smack my assonance!
Bring me to the climax-
And we’ll share a smoke together,
Warm beside the fire of your Three Inch Clichés.

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |
Pop may be catchy
But not lyrically deep
Case in point: Chris Brown.


(N.B. Poem written after hearing "Don't Wake Me Up")

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
The reason why the world is flat is simple;
why we don’t see round a bend and corner.
We search, inquire, to information garner,
but blinkered by self-imposed wimple.

A face lights up with broad smile and dimple;
a child’s delight to discover patch darner.
The reason why the world is flat is simple;
why we don’t see round a bend and corner.

Set views, a minor obstacle, mere pimple
on nose - sniff at life’s knowledge; a mourner
of preconceived ideas, is a *gonner.
Facts at our fingertips, owing to **Kimble:
The reason why the world is flat is simple. 

* dead
**Kimble County, Texas – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. 

Poetry form: Rondel (not listed by PS)

Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
Their petals are falling as their colors change
It wasn’t this way before but is it strange?
These roses are dying in delicate sweet sorrow
Will their love shed too? Or will it see tomorrow?
Petals and love falling slow like soft snowflakes
A little change in season is all it takes,
But will these roses bloom again in a new morn?
Will their love come back to greatly adorn?

Will their beauty be gone forever once it fades away?
Or will it come back to make everything okay?
For what will the roses be worth if their beauty dies forever?
Will the image and value from them permanently sever?
Will the light in their eyes suddenly become dark?
As their splendor and significance steadily grow stark? 
Or will they rise like light at the beginning of dawn?
And be reborn more beautiful than a swan?


Copyright © Literrius Miller | Year Posted 2013

Details | Alliteration |
FIGHTING FOR FOLKS FEES FALLING FREELY
FEELING FEMININE FILING FOR FALLS
FORCING FAMILY FACING FURY
FRIGHTENING FRIENDS FUSING FUSION

FEIGHNING FATIGUE FREE FRAME
FRAUDULENT FACTS FALL FALLACY
FREE FROM FINITE FRENZY
FAIDING FEELING FOR FAIRY

FIRST FIGURE FILLS FRONT
FAULTING FATE FAKES FINDING
FALLING FAME FROWN FAITH
FUMED FUR, FENCE FREAKY.

Copyright © Teslim Badmus | Year Posted 2013