Long Metaphoric Poems
Long Metaphoric Poems. Below are the most popular long Metaphoric by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metaphoric poems by poem length and keyword.
Wings cut, flesh torn, eyes burned and blind
Heart so weary borne upon a life, some say, unkind.
Time will come and go, knowledge gained or lost;
Rivers change their flow; summers die in frost
All that’s proud and full of fury in each person’s story
Sunk beneath the fathoms of depressions veil.
We humans sought to reawaken, but did fail.
I will write a word or two about a pear that clings
Frosty morning air anew, as summer wanes.
When autumn sings I shall turn the other cheek,
Jot some mental notes and such then turn to sneak a peek,
Were it not for noise, I would not glance back
Nor halt to hear the frantic fray; to enter then this play.
Character cast, twice remove; something by each side to prove.
Lyrically lay with lantern lit, composing each and all of it
In metaphoric style; lost of wit, but never wile;
I fracture to repeat, upturned sockets sweet.
Sumptuous undertaking of loved and all beloved;
Splendor in the Eye for taking all whom I may meet.
Hoping to move and by them all be moved.
No trouble here, noble poets burning.
Turn back to the fires you're tending.
And all that you’re unlearning.
Pass up the gauntlet to those returning
No more yearning; no more ending.
Satisfied to write the wilting flowers praise;
Documenting endlessly, natures endless days.
Casual observer thus inclined
To take up simple pen - of simple mind;
Talk of flowers and butterflies flying
Then maybe the flutter of wings
Will drown the sound of dying
Each voice sings..
Confession Seeks Forgiveness – I Do Not
I will not confess, nor beg forgiveness,
for the sins of others, unrepentant,
nor succumb to “Inquisition’s” game,
accept their scars in Jesus’ name.
Confession would relieve them of
their guilt as they stand in mocking
pose of staff and quilt.
I will write in metaphoric hell of
living in a demon crusted shell,
hearing only roaring of the beast
denying me my right to living’s feast,
carrying the weight of living death
tortured by the scent of whiskey’d breath.
Catharsis, the confession of the soul,
leaves me empty - never feeling whole,
frees me from rage’s pain streaked grip
the demons of the past escaping crypt.
Hate and violence turned upon the self
a loneliness that anger cannot quell,
an innocence long locked in private hell.
Confession seeks forgiveness, I do not.
Writing let me voice the things I thought,
spew the venom of a vile and putrid stench
that I’ve lived with from that day - and ever since.
Thus have I learned to live in guarded space
in endeavor to show only freedom’s face
to smooth the ever present strain
the somehow they might see my hidden pain.
I seek not absolution for their sin
but the destruction of unholy liars den
where they hide the children’s souls they stole
under flowing robes and crowns of mitered gold.
8/31/2014
W hen a wedding took place
A t Cana in Galilee
T he mother of Jesus said to Him
E very wineskin is empty
R emember the story from long ago
I nto the ceremonial pots* water was poured
N ot wine but just plain water to wash hands and feet
T o clean away the dirt(sin) of the world
O ut came wine(His blood) a New Covenant
W ine to cleanse away all sin
I nto the ceremonial pots* water
N ew wine, great wine, the best wine came out
E ternal love, grace, salvation _Eternal Life came in
Ceremonial Pots were pots that contained water
for washing away the dirt of the world or the
sin that the Jewish people came in contact _
Remember Jesus washing their feet..
The water = the law
The Wine= allegory or metaphoric language to speak of His shedding of His blood on Calvary or of drinking His Blood at the Passove
or in our communion of today...
I can eat like a pig,
As well as, drink like a fish.
I can piss like a racehorse,
Or even bark like a dog-.
In my youth, I could run like the wind,
And at times, sting like a bee.
Yet if I float like a butterfly,
I might be driving like ol' granny.
Now if I scream like a schoolgirl,
I might be fearful of an angry God.
But if I whine like a stubborn mule,
I could end up on the wrong end of a cattle-prod.
At times, I show the patience of a saint,
Or being impetuous as a child with new fingerpaint.
And if I continue this way and act like a child,
I'll avoid those aging pitfalls, and run in the wild.
Enervated and energized after cold shower
the perfect tonic to gin body though o'clock
wee hours August thirty one two thousand
nineteen - natural buzz to stave off relished
sleep, thus refueled with zest able to chop
chop thru printed material (dictionary seat
of pants newpage turner with a-z characters)
and no crock, but refreshing douse of chill
kept mien ole body electric able to dial back
feeling akin to soap bar man tiredness life
came to buoy quite some hours with joy de
vivre vigor analogous to morning dove (or as
if submerged smooth as ivory into Irish Spring),
until... bubbliness peaked than plunged yours
truly into fast shuteye descent lulled into land
o' dreams courtesy double fan tussy "white
noise," until I awoke with a start, (albeit heavy
grogginess clinging fast - thick spidery whirled
wide cob webbed glommed threads) unable to
offset toe tilly stark realization bare little feet
(plaintively oinking higglety pigglety) felt like
ice cubes, whereby skimpy blanket inadequate
to allow, enable, and provide adequate quality
sleep, hence inspiration piqued to attempt cob
bullying poem gifted (thank you watermelon
pickle) despite raggedy state, not optimal state
string words together rendering sense and cents
ability birthing feeble attempt to sweat out small
medium thoughts lodged within fifty plus shades
gray atrophied matter - begetting literary stillborn
whereby intensive care unit medical team resorted
to heroic measures applying revolutionary punk
chew weighted equilibrium until state of the art
poetic license intervention wrought sudden jaw
dropping miracle – whipped courtesy last ditch
Shakespearean divine resuscitation, (plus all the
king's men and all the king's horses) rendered
dead as a doornail absolute zero metaphoric
lifeless limp bizkit verse, neither lickety split
rhyme nor reason could explain tectonic shift
witnessing pluperfect (donned with little non hex
pence booties) manifestation vital signs, but
metered metrical blue feet in toto - oz needed
close monitoring to ward off 10,000 maniacs.
I was gratefully listening
to a theologian musician
repeat a rabbinic tradition
of four levels of resonant soul:
individual (egosystemic),
communal (local),
social (cultural, national identity)
global (Earth,ecosystemic).
A mature musician,
like a wise theologian,
sees these four soul identities
as circular
double-binding octaves,
mutually informing up
and down,
in
and out.
As EarthMother's original staging womb
organically recreates
using the fractal language of DNA inscription,
prediction,
predication,
to recreate yet another individual soul,
as BrahmanEarth outside soul
is to AtmanEgo inside spirit
of dynamic resonance,
preferring regeneration as positive
as more power-indwelling
than degeneration as negative.
So, it was jarring
when this musical theologian
referred to human bodies
as machines,
rather than organisms.
Machines seem to be left-brain dominant
power reductions
as compared with
Left with Right-balancing organisms.
For robotic machines,
punishing or rewarding communities,
leviathan bureaucratic
autocratic societies,
lifeless planetary spheres,
power is either on or off,
energy is positive or negative.
For living organisms,
individual through holonically Earth-wombed,
power is both regenerative
and degenerative,
positive and negative;
Not digitally governed by our either/or switch
but analogically healed, developed
and wounded, decomposing
with both/and holistic interdependent consciousness.
Human nature
sounds like a robotic analogy
and hopelessly predictable,
dully rational
as a LeftBrain dominant machine.
Humane nature/spirits
feel organically metaphoric
polyphonic
polypathically rounded
theo/eco-logical music composed
and decomposed,
marvelously trans-rational
as left with right hemispheric balance,
rhythm, communal
pitch, cultural
resonance, EarthWomb global
Soul,
ZeroZone regenerative
more powerful than degenerative,
Yet organic cycles
and recycles,
purpose
and repurposes of life
decomposing death
require both
to recreate
recompose
recologize
recognize
theologize
musical soul
as powerful
resonant
both-thought/and-felt structure.
But, when we started singing together
I knew
for sure
he, as we,
feels more and better
as metaphoric musicians
than analogical machines.
Bulgarian Kukeri honors ancestral ways at annual feasts
Descendants don wooden masks and faces of bird or beasts
Filled with metaphoric meaning, meant to inspire fertility
Also purposely pointing out a young man’s oncoming virility.
There are many reasons for Kukeri which diverts the evil eye.
Location and region enter into the discrepancies of the where and why.
As the dancers invite good in while they chase negativity out.
Fantastical masks and elaborate costumes dancing round about.
Bells ringing the truth of the Kukeri customs in Bulgaria style.
Come stand by me, you can see them for a country mile.
Invoking fertility of animals, people, as well as a popular crop.
This is an ancient Bulgarian custom that surely will never stop.
I am located in a park, where I am contemplating adjacent trees.
One tree in particular has caught my attention.
With each thought I feel ever more at one with this tree.
How can I contemplate trees without becoming one?
Just think what happened to Narcissus, who turned into a daffodil.
Or the nymph Daphne, who became a laurel tree.
What's so bad about being a tree anyway?
Is not it a good thing to put down roots?
But what about the loss of mobility that would follow?
Trees have carefree lives, though.
No taxes, rushing to work, paying bills.
On the other hand in my present state
I need not worry about woodworm, acid rain, being pruned,
woodpeckers or serving the needs of leg-lifting dogs.
And family affairs? Hmm.. Do I want my kids to be nuts?
It's all very well to branch out - in metaphoric terms, that is.
Oh, that board meeting! It’s time to go.
Hey, my limbs are stiff.
I can’t move my trunk. My fingers are green.
Silly thought, no one turns into a tree these days!
Aaaaahhhhh!
Swish, swish. Rustle rustle..
Distant Light
by Walid Khazindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitterly cold,
winter clings to the naked trees.
If only you would free
the bright sparrows
from your fingertips
and release a smile—that shy, tentative smile—
from the imprisoned anguish I see.
Sing! Can we not sing
as if we were warm, hand-in-hand,
sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun?
Can you not always remain this way,
stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie?
Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant
since this distant light is our sole consolation ...
this imperiled flame, which from the beginning
has constantly flickered,
in danger of going out.
Come to me, closer and closer.
I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.
And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.
Walid Khazindar was born in Gaza City. He is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Arabic, translation, Arab spring, Palestine, Palestinian, Gaza, distant, light, flame, fire, autumn, winter, tree, trees, birds, sparrows, fingertips, smile, sing, shade, sun, fire, darkness, hand, hands, snow
Left:
What I have been suggesting...
Right:
You may call your reasoning "suggestion"
but that makes your voice no less urgent,
intrusive,
explicit as an analogy
suggests metaphoric interdependence.
Left:
What I might support--
We all live in and on double-binding Earth
double-binary mindscaped
and body-acting
motion suffering and pleasured natures
ego-identified,
And, right-hemisphere spirits of regenerate DNA strings and webs,
primal attachments
and pre- and re-attachments,
trusts
and mistrusts
and distrusts
and active restoring retrusts;
Double-binary bilaterals
like Yang power and Yintegrity,
like One known and Zero felt
like Ego being and EcoPolitical becoming,
like Resilient win/lose dissonance and Resonant win/win confluence,
like PolyPath egos toward PolyPhonic eco-muses,
like complex Polynomials regenerating not(not) MultiCultural His/HerStory,
like Horizontal equations and DeepVertical intersectionality,
like 3D Atoms and 4D spiraling WaveLinears,
like Space spheres and BiLateral Time global networks,
like InFormation unfinishably alive
and ExFlowation phishing life and death co-arisings.
Right:
[Warm co-passionate co-presence,
active listening,
responsive hope,
curiously immortal courage...]
Are we safer together than apart?
Do we mutually matter?
Are we still actively whom EarthTribes
are win/win becoming integrity?