Long Simile Poems
Long Simile Poems. Below are the most popular long Simile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Simile poems by poem length and keyword.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses,
dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my ritual trek to work,
with a hearty ample gusto and potent verve,
metal pointer to destination a micro mirror on surround,
stoic indicator of known direction that upright,
ubiquitous unique urban stylish compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur,
at its fresh and fragrant mint spring zenith,
and those surging throngs who sashay in brisk step,
rimmed patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point,
that fixed point usher, informative ally,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad,
safe in the knowledge of doorstep arrival,
and in tandem with some spotless day,
heroic toil in constant bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails,
to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on fervent foot slog,
pitfall strewn road of sheer expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid,
detail for me on daily route without waver, to muse, reflect, enthuse on chapter ripe simile,
terse life token for the yet to be completed cycle, where analogy is typified but oft so misconstrued, coincidence, happenstance by foot or by wheel, skewed secret elemental scheme at dim veil core, tip, counsel, auspice, yardstick, beyond outer limit
FIT AS A FIDDLE
I used to be fit as a fiddle
When I was in my prime.
I could run the London Marathon
In a perfectly reasonable time.
I would play five sets of tennis,
Then dance throughout the night
And still be at the local gym
Before it was even light.
My body was slim and wiry;
They called me a fitness freak.
And all the prettiest girls in town,
Admired my fine physique.
But all of that was long ago,
These days I’m uninspired.
Just watching the London Marathon,
Leaves me feeling tired.
Yes, I used to fit as a fiddle,
Slim and full of grace.
But now, alas, my figure
Resembles a double-bass
5th August 2022
Simile Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Hilo Poet
Chips and Salsa (22 Feb 2019)
Life could be better, but easily worse.
Sometimes I feel blessed, other times cursed.
As I get older, I look back and see—
Life’s mostly better, when you are with me.
Sometimes we argue, but don’t really fight.
I know you love me, so it’s all right.
You know I love you, so it’s plain to see--
Life’s clearly better when you are with me.
If you should leave me, don’t know what I’d do.
My life’s completely invested in you.
I’ve gotta keep you, wherever I go
Life’s surely better together, you know.
I’m moving forward, but keep looking back.
Anything missing? Anything lack?
With hindsight vision, I look back and see,
Life’s been always better when you were with me.
We’re like chips and salsa, with some cilantro inside (kinda feisty).
We’re like chips and salsa – with jalapenos inside (kinda spicy).
We go together, obviously; I hope, forever, that you’ll stay with me.
We’re like chips and salsa, with guacamole one the side (really tasty).
the unconscious
a source of images&actions
in disguise&gestures
interpreted
with
simile&metaphor
of
libidinal desire
of the unsound
made loud
opened
out of view
id&ego
expanded
frustrated freed
impulses exposed
as
universal symbols
from
the repository of memory
in
the fiction
of dream&myth
transitioned
into the realm
of reality
enigmas &illusions
magnified
made
manifest
again
Winter finally moves his lumpen sluggish weight,
Spring is like a shy dryad shivering in his arms
Wind's whippets droop to trifling whine
Sullen rain hisses to a grizzle.
tiny fruit buds swell enough to moisten lips.
First daffodil maidens preen, bright faces so fair!
Chattering swallows check granite grey mortared mansion.
Duck naps snug, beak a chest --- gull floats overhead.
Longer days mean I must leave my snuggly, sleepy daze,
slightly more light; work energies reappear
poetry is laid aside in favour of trimming trees
seething solar heating sound, signals dimly smiling sun.
seed packets eagerly spread out – What to plant this season?
Suddenly, more bees aflight – our crops will be alright!
Another cycle begins!
1) Anthropomorphism 2) Simile 3) Metaphor 4) onomatopoeia
5)Synaesthesia 6) Personification 7) Sensory Imagery
8) Ellipsis 9) Homophone 10) Caesura 11) Pun
12) Alliteration 13) Rhetorical Question 14)Internal Rhyme
15) Truism
Written 20th August for Line Gautier Contest - A Litany of Poetic Devices
lovely Line is a lady who
lingers in deep thought-
her style shines with wit;
a simile or two with a touch of personification in
free verse poems,
shares the freedom to embrace her
muse as if she never embraced before-
leads others into the abyss of her mind’s eye reaching
depths never before allowed-
for her words wisp me o’er a sun kissed cloud
sweet Sandy’s muse bleeds solitude-
she sways the trees in the
breeze of sorrow in front
of me and all i want to do is…
hug her forever
for she feels the kind of pain only the strong feel,
and her strength shines in each poem written;
her style is as beautiful as the eventide sun setting
in the western sky,
for her words make me want to cry
my style seems different, yet similar to few;
my metaphors make melancholy proud,
finding the time for internal rhyme,
making meter much more sweeter-
each day I write as if it was the last,
every syllable noted is full
of the kind of emotional fury only
my soul can write with
harvesting a haibun of hope,
always feeding my parchment echoes of
affection and adorning amour
yet
i endure the burden of wearing a muse of woe-
anguish runs through my veins and my
words run awry with alliteration and
personification
for my words fill my soul with inspiration
THREE GIFTED POETS SHINING IN POETRY'S LIGHT,
ARE AN ENCOURAGEMENT TO ALL WHO WRITE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1.) Line Gauthier
2.) Sandra Adams
3.) Me :)
12.19.19
You've Got Style Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
After the end of World War One
The world said Scotland shipbuilding is done,
No longer would anyone pay their bills
For lowland coal and cotton mills.
Fifty thousand Scots per year
Boarded ships with immigrant fears,
The roaring twenties was not just fashion
But Atlantic jet-streams and cheap ticket rations.
Great Grandpa Fleming whose name is John
Considered himself a proud Scottish son,
Answered the British army call
Became a drone in the Kaiser's war.
But after John Fleming blew his last bugle
It wasn't enough to be just frugal,
The lack of income took its toll
So he sailed away to the immigrants roll.
Scotland's loss was Australia's gain
The bleeding talent was Scotland's pain,
The proud Glaswegian with daughter in arms
Became children of the Southern stars.
They bought with them the seed of life
So men like me can live and laugh,
So remember those of Scottish appearances
And benefits gained from the Glasgow clearances.
Note : In the 1920's, 50,000 Scots per year left the ports at Glasgow and
Greenock for Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the USA. After WW1,
many mills, mines and shipbuilding companies closed down. The world
didn't need Scottish resources because The war was over and Scotland
didn't invest in upgrading capital equipment. The biggest loss was the
cargo - it's people !. My great grandfather, a Shipbuilder, was one of
them. He carried my grandmother in his arms to the ship.
I have called those times, "The Glasgow clearances" as a simile to the
highland clearances.
My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.
Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.
My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.
My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail.
My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.
The life of a cursor is not an easy one.
It could turn into any shape depending the command of the user but
Sometimes it decides to take matters into it's own hands and to do as it pleases and refuses to work
In the end it is only an artificial intelligence
With an end of life undecided.
Our life as compared to the cursor is full of vitality.
We do things on whim depending on our mood
We do things as instructed because we've got no choice than to obey
Sometimes we decide to go our own way ;
Different from what we are supposed to do
In the end we have a limit
We are no robots
Why then do we stress ourselves out and not enjoy life?
Life without some flexibility and happiness
Is like the life of a blinking cursor on the computer screen
Dull and without vitality.
Dark Raven
In the beginning
there was hope ...
there was hope
in the beginning
Soaring like an eagle shepherding the doves
Then man became
a king ...
became a king
in his portending
Soaring like a falcon preying on the doves
Until pride became
his lord ...
became his lord
in the undoing
Falling into darkness from salvation high above
In his self-inflicted
fate ...
inflicted fate
his reign was ending
Falling a dark raven through the light of Heaven’s love
**
Finding Your Base
First
Last
And always
— pick your arena
**
Lost In The Throes
To me
it’s about imagery
damn the torpedoes ...
damn the line structure
poems or prose
To me
it’s the metaphor
damning the simile ...
damning the grammar
— lost in the throes
**
Manus Ad Manus
The hand that opens widest
— rocks the cradle
**
Boomerang
Debating yourself
a losers folly
Debating yourself
— new spit in the wind
**
My Honor
You might be
my ally
But you’re not
on my side
A formal
arrangement
An unmarried
bride
You say
you are loyal
In liege
to the same
But when push
comes to shove
My honor
— you’ll claim
**
Right Always Right
Can anything get done
without being autocratic
Can anything happen
when subject to vote
Did Our Lord become savior
by being democratic
Right always right
— never crossing the moat
**
Playing The Odds
Dotting the I’s
all Hell freezes over
Crossing the T’s
tomorrow is gone
Hedging your bets
the wolf edges closer
Playing the odds
— the right and the wrong
**
By Its Grace
I always said
I’d know
when it was time
for my last poem
And choosing
perfect rhyme
I would leave
forever knowing
The world
a better place
a warm embrace
with letters showing
That time
has set me free
and by its grace
— my aura glowing
**
Heads In The Sand
Our country has become
a nation of cowards
Valuing safety
over what’s right
Festering blindly
foes are emboldened
Our heads in the sand
— embracing the night