Long Life metaphor Poems
Long Life metaphor Poems. Below are the most popular long Life metaphor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Life metaphor poems by poem length and keyword.
The new Girl at Work (The Coward Speaks)
Should I feel a shamed?
I want to kiss the new girl at work
but I don't know her name.
Her understated beauty
is the first page of a book
I can't put down.
Man... just learning her name
will be my favorite sound.
She's the one I want, and need.
The treasure of her femininity
is the center of my greed.
But I am unknown to her.
I have yet to say hello.
At work I’m always
a good-natured fellow.
So, why am I afraid of
telling her who I am?
On the outside,
I feel like a youngster
trying to be a man.
On the inside,
I 'm like Tarzan of the jungle
beating on my chest.
And she's an attractive female
I need to impress.
I've been alone to long,
my soul calling for a mate.
But the coward in me
won't ask her out on a date.
So, I feel a shame
I 'm to cowardly to even
ask for her name.
swimming
against currents
of constant confusion,
a comedy? a tragedy?
this life...
is it...
a cup half-full?
or perhaps half-empty?
'tis far more puzzlin' than jigsaw,
i'd say
no doubt
an enmeshment;
one cannot ascertain
the byzantine complexities
of it
in truth,
an entangled web
tough to extricate from;
untangling life's knots only get...
tighter.
Adrift
upon the vagaries of life.
I have sailed this sea
prayed for a hint of breeze
a whisper of hope
a passing cloud’s shadow
run through the troughs
of crested confusion
withstood the fury
of its nameless demons.
Sailed –
toward an unreachable sunset
growing ever nearer
run full sail at sunrise
fleeing the darkness
sat - becalmed
deafened by the silence
shouted into the emptiness
of doubt.
Mended
tattered canvas,
caulked with dusty rope
aging cracks of voyage
tarred and oiled
split and cracking masts
held pains polished
rudder wheel.
Set sail
into the darkened sky
seeking passage
through the jagged rips
for storms will rage
a failing fury spent
as sailors sail
into a future’s end.
John G. Lawless
10/8/2015
Family
I've been at the deepest boroughs with them
In deep having real conversations,
and for a moment I thought
That finally I'd gotten through them
Only to be disappointed all over
It's like everytime I find something meaningful with them
They throw it out with the trash
And I have to try again hoping to keep it going
Only to be hurt cause they never learn
They're just those irreplaceable pricks
Pricks that you cut and move them out your lawn
Cause they'll be mowing you up
Mowing whatever sprouts of hope you have
It's like they don't want you growing with them
Distancing themself with anything yours
And still be the ones to say you not giving effort
Saying all sorts of things that break you to hear
Family
I've fought wars in their name
Saying that nobody should talk ill of us
While they're the ones making us lose respect
With the wrong moves cause they rush things
Not even taking a second to reflect before they act
And it hurts more when you realize
That all your life they've downplayed you
You like the cards that are not drawn
Cause you a hand they're not dealing
Only to find you winning even before you start
For you never wish them bad and that's why you get more
The PO£T
In the wilderness of bewilderment,
Sculpting different sorts of thoughts,
Where intent fades, needing no interment,
And truth exudes from all its rots.
There lies the stark resolve for my future,
A slender hope of life ahead,
Bound together by a catgut suture,
That time corrodes until it's shed.
All kept away from prying eyes,
Ever before my intent was conceived,
Just to keep all sane minds apprised,
And safeguard each new blessings just received.
Intent is wordless, lost in speech,
Etched as imagery – symbol of hope,
Quavering conscience stays unbreached,
Through the darkness of intense doubt it gropes.
SHE beams with joy, like one in love
with love itself and all that’s bright;
and when the Grecian gods above
unloose her from the Stygian night,
she sparkles like a brilliant dove
in the rays of the morning's light.
With golden locks, in flax so fair,
and liquid, limpid eyes most blue,
none are like her or can compare
to her likeness and lustrous hue
which give sight to the blind who dare
request to see her shine anew.
Thus, pre-ordained as mythic Muse
and well-worshiped as though a saint,
whom none deny or could refuse
or with vile words destroy or taint,
let therefore all beings freely choose
to revere her without constraint.
Inspired by The Tree Of Life by Gustav Klimt
Life seeks stillness at the root,
craving unfolds lattice of creeping flare.
Two figures lean on the glimmer,
her eyes transfixed in chasm, his petrified,
their silence, a still violin chord
held between the creation and the end.
The tree is the bridge for them,
an aureate whisper in the emptiness,
ensnaring their world in a dream.
The void gleams with potential,
where love gilded by eternity
waits to become a memory.
In the maze captured on the canvas
life is spun from bronze boughs
where past and future entangle
within a frail frame of mistake,
but spring air drips love on leaves,
in the tree of life flowers bloom again.
A design of the human soul
weaved from golden leaf of silent yearning,
upright as a glittering bridge
between the earth we stride
and the mysteries we cannot measure
in a non-linear journey of experience.
The branches do not grow straight,
they coil on themselves in golden twists.
Perched quietly on the radiant boughs
a solitary black bird sits as a shadow
in the forest of gold -
the quiet memento of our mortality.
A mirror of the cosmos
reflects our roots in the dark soil,
yet we’re ordained to be alchemists,
make our own gold,
as we reach for the stars.
The Nature of Reality,
Or limitless sphere of space
Manifest in all possible experience,
Is by nature beyond experience
Since in this space there is ultimately
Nothing to grasp, and no grasper.
Sure, we can describe it,
But that is based on either hearsay
Or a direct realization beyond description,
Like trying to describe honey
To someone who has never known sweetness.
With the kicker being that we
Have always been the honeybee.
And so people talk, poets sing, and sages
Converse with the wind or simply grin.
The effect is everyone
Ends up hearing what they want to hear,
Each of us only able to hear
What we are ready to hear,
And even then we may only be ready for a hint
Of what will one day be obvious.
The Nature of Reality
Is unchanging, and so is always
What it has and will be,
And yet we change within this empty sphere,
Like a caterpillar, consuming voraciously
Until we are ready for our metamorphosis.
(9/27/25)
i embraced my felicity as if hope was my was fate-
~ the fate i yearned for when youth was all i had ~
now i see the yesterdays are much more than just a nude desultory
hourglass bleeding evocative transgressions
(sins of the father revealed; me fearing love)
for i used to dwell in a beguiled nest- (actually, multiple nests last year)
and those evanescent moments creep like apparitions haunting my
sensitive essence;
fruitless branches curled to make a home for me, but no warmth was felt-
day after day, i tried my best to defeat those visceral ravens i tackled just
to prove to myself i am worthy of a safe and comforting home
(a home where my fledglings rest without worry)
for there is no time to justify what i did not do;
no sky to fly away from what I could not rescue-
i remember those nests from last year-
where the medallion Maple blades
redeemed a plethora of my poor intentions…
and the barren branches made me weak
for i NEVER found a faithful tree…
sturdy enough to keep hold of me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 6, 2019
Craig Cornish
Last Years Nests Contest
The quote is from William Shakespeare's play, Hamlet,
spoken by Hamlet in Act 3, Scene 1.
"To be or not to be, that is the question."
But, what's the explanation of- to be?
Hopes for more than only one suggestion;
and so, I offer this which pleases me.
To be is that one choice tween life and death,
not only of the flesh but of the mind.
And choosing life is being with our breath;
and feeding thought creates life well-defined.
Yet, some may say that life's not just to be,
and brush off any joys it holds within;
to shut their minds to blackness others see
no matter in the ground or 'neath the skin.
Some say great life just happens on its own-
those highs and lows exist beyond our will;
that happenstance determines path alone-
in what we'll end up feeling- pang or thrill.
The choice is yours: with hope, it is to be;
the opposite negates life's grander prize.
Must live life to its fullest guarantee;
block not- just be, no need to compromise.