Long Metaphor Poems
Long Metaphor Poems. Below are the most popular long Metaphor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metaphor poems by poem length and keyword.
Given that under the Mars-specific support system
I am allowed a home
I will look to making more bowls of sea
Less foam
Tired here as I am of four closing walls
I would look for space
Obviously under a shadow of a grace
Resembling your face
My brain starves for lack of oxygen
I would seek more plants
From your fondling hands
At my window
Moving to and fro
Swaying and floating in the air
Debonair
Exhausted from the societal inequality
I would ask for proportion
In the size and shape of life
Your love in all strife
No knife around
But if the same humans settle in Mars too
With your handsome features my love
Will they spare you?
_________________________________________
May 10, 2016
Submission for Life on Mars – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Davey
I finished writing in my head
And dashed to typing, but alas
I dropped the text, it fell unsaid
Crashed down in bits, just like a vase
Words on the floor in random order
Glint in the sunny summer day
They melt like ice, and so get broader
Spread out every which way
Some quickly rot, but some are fresh
Like fruits in autumnal decline
Big nouns shine with burning flesh
Verbs, ill-begotten, spill like wine
Visceral fear ties with hope
The purpose of this bond is missing
Hopes hang themselves on silken rope
And fears flopped in bits and pieces
Words on the floor, goodbye, my dears
I have to clean the room today
Swipe off that pile of hopes and fears -
They weren’t needed anyway.
LET’S KEEP OUR LIBERATING CUPS OVERFLOWING
(Apropos Of Ancestral Cup And Saucer Ways)
It has been said that justice
Is getting what you deserve:
The gift of grace, given priceless,
Flowing from God’s sacred reserve:-
Curiously, I asked Papa one day,
Why does he drink his coffee from the cup?
Always pouring mine into his saucer;
And here is what, to me, he had to say:
“Son, it's like God’s warm overflowing grace
Being poured out into your saucer’s space;
And this loving being poured out to you,
I pray, one day, your cup will overflow too:-
It’s amazing, the parable way the ancestors knew,
How to literally, pour out deep stuff to you and me;
Like how Nana, on hot stuff, always coolingly blew,
And never gave us tough stuff before she had a chew:-
Now, into today’s massive and painful political times,
We need to be pouring out combative wisdom and guidance
To our youths in dealing with today’s oppressive political crimes;
So that their courage and liberation strategies are in abundance:-
Indeed, let us continue to pour out from the liberating cup
Of our ancestors who had less to fill the saucers of you and me,
So that we would have more to pour out to our youths growing up,
That they may ever sip from liberating saucers, fighting to win liberty:-
One crystal flower swelled in a garden,
standing with pride and beauty all day,
Bees tried to steal her nectar and taste.
One day, somebody's hand cut her stem,
this crystal flower stolen and taken away.
Each petal was scattered on the ground,
sparkling dimly, breathless and tired.
Days went by and all flowers bloomed.
A new day of spring burst with hope.
One morning, a gardener went to visit,
found scattered crystals covered in mud.
He picked each piece 'til he'd found each one,
brought them all home and polished.
He patiently glued every broken line,
until a new crystal flower arose.
His hands found a new paradise.
Though once was broken,
now stands purity and grace.
**5th Place Winner In Nette Onclaud's Contest: METAPHOR: CRYSTAL
Entry for: METAPHOR: Crystal Free Poetry Contest
of Nette Onclaud
written by:Aiyah De Torres
03/14/2014
Second Language: English
Cool, they describe you
Yet your energy is vigorous, enduring
Short, compact waves of intense photon packages
Dancing on the retina in steady, fluid rhythm
A clear language of light, translated to the synapses
As a pleasing, enigmatic dialect of compelling emotion
Tiny molecules of air scatter, wide, Sol's shorter undulations
To paint the heavens as a baby's eyes ...
More wavers of luminosity, pressed close by physics
Kiss the waters of the earth, and are breathed back to the sky
Turning rills, rapids, repositories, to shades that shame the azures
Humanity's wiles and works, are all framed in the complexion of the moon
And should a distant race of beings ever marvel at our planet
It will be for its exquisite swirls of majestic blue
A dazzling, resplendent marble
Pride of creation.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Blue" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Strand Select W Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
—The Affliction of Abundance—
The ocean thirsteth, though her fathomless deeps contain
Enough of water to drown kingdoms, yet cannot slake
the thirst that salt, her ancient curse, doth breed again
within the very flood no drought could ever take;
for what should quench her is condemned to be
the brine she bears—and therefore cannot drink the sea.
The flame devoureth timber, drawing into its core
the resin, sap, and heartwood of the forest as it feeds;
yet every bough surrendered through its incandescent door
leaves in the fire a hunger fiercer than its needs;
till what should exhaust the appetite of flame
becomes the very fuel whereby it renews its claim.
The moon, dispensing argent through the sleeping land,
doth pour her borrowed splendour over vale and stone,
yet keeps within herself—where no terrestrial hand
may reach—the lightless kingdom she must call her own;
thus all the world receives the radiance she gives—
yet what she cannot shine upon is where she lives.
The wound, once closed, retains beneath the skin
the iron's ancient memory, though flesh hath grown
across the breach through which the violence entered in,
and time, that boasts it healeth all, hath only shown
how what the flesh seals over may yet remain—
the proof that what was broken had the strength to live again.
I remember when it was a horrid beast did descend to this God forsaken hell to drag me screaming high into the sky, and then the beast spoke to me: "Now you see the town below, a vast expanse dwindles so... And what was phantom? Who could know? And what is vision? What revision? And what a dream by who I came to prophesy? And who could know the so-and-so of miracles? And how should I divine by the twinkle of mine eye, a prison made in ignorance and fear, casting lot and laying blame, avoiding terror and the shame of shadows summoned in to fill a loss? And what is vision? Why revision? And what a dream by who I came? And who to be the Oracle, dressed in phantoms garb? And who would know the so-and-so to summon up some miracle? And what the rot that seeps in soil? What the cause for the toil? And who the tears have fallen for? And why the weeping? Why the fear? Why the fear mortal man? Now answer Me! Or I will let you Fall!"
And so I spoke my heart and mind, clawing in the clay: "I miss them all, that tender hell, and wish them well, their burden and its' weight. Nor would I want to add a lot, to the sorrows made by pain and loss. And I would thank my lot, should it be I should return to bear my burden with the damned, clawing at the clay. So as it is, in how you lifted me, from the mud below, I will lift their stupid heads, from the muck to see the sky a vast expanse. And if they can't, I kiss them 'pon their crown as they bring their sorrows down, 'to the River Styxx, chewing at the mud... like a cow with its' cud, bullish and docile. So set me down to my plane! Demon? Wraith? Sorrowful bird? And I will live my lot, better now. And thank you for the terror you have wrought. Stupid prick. Stupid prick."
*note poem 18 is from a series of prosepoems titled "TheSCOWL.
CONCEPTS AND THEMES
THEY OVERWHELMED HER WITH
SCETCHY DETAIL'S
SOME WERE WONDERFUL THOUGHTFUL CONCEPTS
SOME WERE LESS AND UNDER IMAGATIVE
THEY WERE ALL PRESENTED
TO HER, THEY NEVER ASKED WAS SHE OVERWHELMED
SOME THOUGHT THAT SHE WAS TRYING TO BE THE "BIGFISH"
IN THIS LITTLE POND
SHE WAS PALCING HERSELF AMONG
THOSE SHE LOOKED DOWN UPON
WE ASKED WOULD HER PRESENCE HERE OVERLOOK
AFFORDS OF THOSE ALREADY THERE
THEIR LABORS TO BE VAIN AND HER'S SUCCESSFUL
MIGHT HER BUILDING A REPUTATION
UNDERMINE THE REPUTATIONS OF THOSE AROUND HER
THAN WITH INTRUCTION
TO THOSE WHO LABORS UNDER HER
MIGHT THEY TURN THEIR NOSE
TO WHAT THEY ARE
TO BE SEEN AS GREATER THEN THOSE
THEY RIVAL AGAINST
SHE SIMPLY IGNORED THESE WORDS
AND SAID
" THE RICE IS CHEAPER THAN THE SAFFORN:
TOGETHER THEY ARE EQUALLY EXPENSIVE
"MIGHT THESE SANDS BE FOOTING FOR
THE FERTILE GROUNDS THAT ARE PROMISED"
I write most and best,
with wind blowing
in me,
wine in the glass, but
no toxic and no
expectations...
Simple and complex,
so comes walks up
writing...
Without honors and flatteries,
chasing a target
distant...
My poor poetry
it is without fuss and without
subterfuges... climb up
slopes and ramps, and
sometimes it thrills the blind
and deaf...
Poetry that hits hard
cheers me up and warms me up when
I feel half dead...
So hot it is, until the
the cold warms.... and if
no audience appears
it is not scared and there is no
cease...
While writing,
cars on the street honk,
mosquitoes suck
my blood and phrases... and
in the silence of the room
hundreds of ghosts
applaud...
Do not go gentle into that good night
of darkness, blight, and disease;
rage, rage against the hour of midnight—please,
with all of your might
until I am at ease!
Do not go gentle into that good night
of solemn, irrevocable sleep;
rage, rage against the wooing of the permanent Deep!
Come to me and to the light—
or else I shall bitterly weep!
Do not go gentle into that good night
of the ebb of your power;
rage, rage against the withering of your beautiful flower!
Deny eternal rest its right
to come before that fateful hour!
Do not go gentle into that good night
that takes you before the day's done;
rage, rage against the gradual dying of your sun!
Before the end's almost within sight,
fight, fight, so life's still defiantly won!