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.
Did Shakespeare ever fall in love?
A rose by any other name would
stink as sweet!
What would Y'eshua say if indeed
Magdalene was his favorite disciple?
What miracles would he impress her
with
So as to savor her forbidden apple?
O woman!
Is that why god made you last of all
nature's enviable beauty?
If before he said let there be light
You were the first thing his devine
eyes saw
I bet creation would have been a
different theory altogether.
If love at first sight was a figure of
speech
Then I swear I love you like a
metaphor
And your smile is a typo
They meant to say a simile
I will kiss your face like a blank page
And my lips will be the tip of my
pencil
Drawing drooling hieroglyphs like
the hand of god
Inscribing Ten Commandments of
Love
On the tablets of your breasts
Because my name is Moses
A stammerer on a voyage to save a
lonely soul
From the shackles of cynicism
On love affairs.
I would love to laugh while making
rough love to you
On the dark floor of my solitude cell
Where torn pages of amatuerish
poems lay as a carpet
Because you are my words:
Maybe your face is the sky
And your eyes are the stars
Maybe your laughter is a symphony
Of a million harps from a million
virgin angels
I have written about love a million
times
And still you remain elusive
A mystery
Are you an acrostic;
So each letter tells your tale?
Maybe a couplet or limerick?
Are you a sonnet? Or a ballad? Or a
metre without a rhyme?
Maybe you are a mere syllable I
mumble at every sudden ******.
Your body is a symmetry of regular
ryhthm
Consumate from five to seven
And back to five
Haiku:
Japanese poets should build a
pedestal for you
And all lustful lads
Should come and slink the slank at
your feet
Indeed lady,
Your gait and pride and smell of
shaven armpits and eyeballs might
make a eunuch have an ********
And that to me
Is amorous injustice!
Tell me,
What can a scribe do?
When all I write about is human
weakness
And wickedness?
When writing to me is an escape
from adjectives I can't utter over a
cup of coffee?
To me,
The strand of your hair alone
Deserves atleast umpteenth stanzas
of praise
A prerequisite.
If I say I love you
Will you giggle at my palpability?
Why bore you with parables
When all you yearn for is a touch
And forever?
I will say no more.
Poem written near a Cemetery 1 of 2
On 13th February 2012
While moving near the walls of a cemetery,
I saw the glimpse
Of a bunch of some tiny wild flowers,
Blooming in the golden Sunlight falling on them,
They were waving their simile,
With every gush of wind,
On the monument of a deserted grave.
For me it was a new and exciting experience,
To enter in that cemetery of eighteenth century,
What had brought me to that spot,
Where those wild flowers were still smiling,
Remains a mystery
Every time, I think and rethink.
I saw hundreds of monuments and tombs,
After entering in that preserved cemetery,
Some were telling the story,
Of the grandeurs of its dwellers,
While others were there,
Standing without a crown or a story.
The grave on which, I saw those flowers,
Was not showing an appealing face,
Age had withered its luster and charms,
And time had left its marks on its face.
Being in the last line of that cemetery
It was waiting in the long queue,
For some kith and kin of Sophia Ress,
May come some day and
The face of that noble soul’s grave,
May once again obtain its lost glory and grace.
There I found those lonely wild tiny flowers,
Still blooming and smiling and dancing,
With every gush of wind,
Telling silently a beautiful story of its dweller,
As if, they were paying their homage,
While remembering her lost songs and images.
In the morning hours of the Autumn,
The tree leaves were falling,
Everywhere on the ground,
And some were even falling on me,
Either to tell the universal truth,
Of the inevitable departure of everyone’s one day
Or perhaps to accompany me,
In that graveyard of all those,
Who were totally strangers for me.
After watching that grave and
Appreciating those tiny flowers,
I explored each and every tomb and monuments,
Standing in the memory of those British,
Who had lived a royal life during those days,
When they lived here and ruled my country,
For a very long time.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 18th Feb. 2012 concluded in Part 2
Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
"Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr.
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly
Attached wife and a devoted Mother.......
*Image of Paradox of a Mindfoolness.
Irreconcilable Paradox
The midnight sun casts about clear shadows amidst a
twilight noon, 'tis yesterday.
The windy gale brews, astir none to wake the quietude,
America's Guy Fawkes Day.
Watched I the beautiful orange sunset rise up above the
rolling hills flat opened field.
Leaving my umbrella sorted at home, danced I out into
the deluged rain spots yield.
Ambling I briskly stood alone in a crowd, as a quandary
cleared ere me from behind.
Menacing maintaining all matters determined found I at
a total loss to ideas sublime.
Brooding of the things I yet can do yesterday, I hurried
along to finalize nothing else.
In my rush to the airport, boards I, a train that went the
other way past fields of elms.
My new schedule should get me to my appointment in
the nick of time, one day late.
Know I will get that new job for 'tis the first time work I
there as of prior' year to date.
Been unemployed for straight five years, works I out and
in exclusively hands-on daily.
My legs are stronger as a direct cause of that makes me
feel sick for I am e'er healthy.
Speaking on health, the car insurance is fully paid but
wonders I, much is still owed.
On the subject of owing, our daughter's graduation day is
today, four candles a-glowed.
The court speaking, arrangement rose criminal charges
the prosecution, never violets.
Friends and I went to a drive-in, saw an old film just cast,
our Model-T's all on autopilots.
In the end, we all walked out as unconditional strangers,
familiarities sensed a oneness.
E.g.; If hail treasures of an emptied chest wouldst naught
crusheth e'er emphatic dream.
Thence bandied wordings lay straightforwardly ere wee
tilt scale rove archaic extreme.
The farcical tale wove abstractly, yet absolutes resolved
parodies sage distinctiveness.
2022 February 15
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 10
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 March 02
*NOTE: I've portrayed the extremities of paradoxes distinctive values as self-defining based on its own merits, my placement via its close proximity to its opposite, validifies that point, whereto, abstracts become absolutes distinguishing their individualism.
A poetry
is a collection
of words that expresses
author's emotion or idea
sometimes with as specific rhythm or rhyme
Poet uses a figure of speech
that makes a comparison
between two things
that are basically different
but something in common
The metaphor does not use
the words 'like' or 'as'
But some poetry has words 'like' or 'as'
that is called a simile
The two poetic techniques are almost always there, but not seen
Poetry is a feeling that author wants the reader
to understand
Sometimes a heart breaking arrow shattering
or even joyful sunny day like when you were born
Poetry is a gift that everyone can write
People use poetry in novels and narratives
Some lines have animals, objects or human qualities
The words fill the page with imagery
to give feelings
Describing the plain into special words
It uses the five senses
So that the readers can touch and taste
Readers can smell
Readers can see
Readers can hear
Poems are like crumbs of a cookie
All you just have to do
Is to select the right words
And make the reader sense
Feel the feelings that you've put into
It's like stars
They sing with heart
They try to send you a message
About their experiences
How they've felt in the sticky situations
Some poets uses words
that aren't in the dictionary
Those words might be sound words
Explosion sounds maybe spelled, "BOOM!" or "MEOW"
Those words are called onomatopoeia
Some poems are so still without them
It makes the poet feel not right
They feel like something is missing
That's what poets think about
Reading it over and find out what's missing to deliver
When poets give an animal, object, idea, or human qualities
That's called a personification
When words dances into your mind
Imagining the worded movements
Sometimes it's just so easy that you miss them
Some poems have alliteration
The fist consonant sound is repeated
In several words
In the same line of a poem like
Something slid solemnly stood
Poetry is a great kind of writing
If you're the kind of person
Who doesn't like that much writing
You might fall for this writing
Because this kind of writing you need time
Poetry is a great kind of writing
If you're the kind of person
Who loves to express your feelings
You might like this kind of writing
Because this kind of writing you need heart
It's not hard to see or tell this world of ours
Isn't the same as it used to be. Granted, it has
Never been perfect, but I've seen better days
I've become numb to a cavalcade of bad news
That saturate the television, social media
The radio, the newspapers.
I see our world changing with my own eyes
Every day, and not for the better. Sometimes I feel
As if I'm dreaming, but it's not a dream. It's reality
It's like I went to sleep one fine day, and woke up
To a world gone mad. A world, like crumbs
Falling off bread being sliced
What happened to the state of civility? What happened
To the nature of our social fabric? What is happening
To our country?
I'm so sick of Liar-In-Chief Donald Trump spewing
Hundreds of lies every day, further breaking
His unbreakable record of falsehoods. But why stop there?
Since his presidency, racism, xenophobia
Fear-mongering, corruption, foreign and domestic
Terrorism all surged exponentially
Under his watch, police brutality is at an all-time high
What is the world coming to when our "President"
Sides with foreign cold-blooded dictators
Over America's intelligence agencies?
What is wrong with that picture? This nation, this world
We're living in just isn't the same as it used to be
More and more African-Americans are ending up
Dead at the hands of trigger-happy police officers
More and more celebrities are falling from grace
Many emerging as sexual predators since
The inception of the "MeToo Movement"
Oh, and let's not forget about the Catholic priests!
The never-ending wars in Iraq and Afghanistan
Continue to claim the lives of American soldiers
Needlessly. When will our heroes finally come home?
What happened to the political climate?
It has grown so toxic. Washington politicians
Are failing to do the job the American people
Elected them to do.
The GOP has become the party of Trump
A so-called leader who stays up all night
Tweeting more nonsensical lies, who continually fan
The flames of division, continually assault
Freedom of the press, calling a legitimate investigation
Of Russia's meddling in America's election process
A "Hoax" and "Witch Hunt." But we all know better, don't we?
I wish I could go back to sleep and wake up
To the way the world used to be...
Poem Of The Day on 12/03/2018
The Coming…
(Mood Variations…)
The long hot summer yields to the arrival
of the cooling fall.
Despite the coming treat to survival
towering trees proudly stand firm and tall.
Sticky, sweaty, steamy nights
have now all gone;
giving way to the cool ebony breeze.
Horny frogs and crickets
no longer sing their eerie song;
squirrels organize
their cupboards in the trees;
and ivory towers grow on
graves of fall’s fallen leaves.
In the early evenings’ misty wine
sun of change set the close of day,
leaving hued shadows to sway
on the footprints of changing time.
The angels of the sky have flown far away;
leaving a strange peace to seek out another day
to find sanctuary in caverns of hope.
Seasoned lives prepare for what winter nature will send their way;
as echoes of rain mock the variations like a cruel joke.
Strange how nature’s circadian rhythms
bring about change: yet the more things change,
the more they stay in the same range.
No one saw the ambiguity of the coming strange schis
Dawn seemed to have struggled this morning---
Returning from her nocturnal journey,
She slowly stretched, yawned, and arose
To the appointed occasion
Sending dim, golden rays piercing through
Shades of lazy grey clouds
The whistling wind wails, whooshing through the trees
And winding around corners
Bring awakening alarms that hands cannot stop
Nor ears can ignore
The weight of sleep lifted; the window shades of dark orbs
Open to the set time
Oblivious to the exact moment of designed closure, only
Aware of the here and now;
Thanksgiving is offered for one more day of struggle:
To be free of the shackling mind games they play,
We prepare to fight another day.
Only God could have made this chosen day
We cherish
To teach the children the liberating way
That they not perish
In the ongoing struggle to be totally free
Culturally, politically---
And economically be.
Closing in on an all-time high, wars remain in vogue:
Peace has been vetoed
Military-industrial complexes are the nation’s money lode
There is no other road.
At the conference table, negotiations continue
To collect dust
And the compromise remains us.
You know, it is rather difficult to discuss mental health
The simile of the racing thoughts is a swift flight
Swift, and Intrepid like an Arabian horse,
Sometimes, too hard to decipher, even.
I face the past,
and I talk.
and I keep talking about many, many issues
And you heard me there, silently.
Then, you whispered into my ears, “Un the lib.”
Did you utter the word, “Un the lib?”
Or, was it a call for another scapegoat,
with the name Andalib?
My understanding is getting clouded, and clouded enough.
Vulnerably, and abnormally.
But there is no problem.
Neighborhood concept runs into such difficulties, these days.
They are yawning and dribbling in so many places,
chilling effects...
With the metaphor of a prophetic narration
with so many broken chains, harder to trace even.
Understanding.
It whittles down to an empty bottle of pickles, decisively.
Never tried to forget “Un the lib” though,
Never tried too hard to break free, nonetheless.
Word abandons me along the way, cult of own whims too.
Let us come to the points,
Closer enough to the bullet points,
A poet’s life, bohemian, unpredictable
A very fine line to decipher between irrationality, insanity
Nothing more than this. Just this.
“Hallo, microphone testing, one, two, three, hallo?”
Nothing more than that,
not even a one liner.
Please do return to your beloved dream.
Find your imagination in your beautiful enigmatic lover
You may fetch her, even from the farthest corner of a poem
And, please be sure that you may.
And you may do so, for me
On and on.
Is it too much of a task?
I saw you both, together, already.
Wandering around, streets imprinted you both.
Footsteps.
Muddy constellations.
Guided me through. Meticulous coldness.
May I perceive it
as a stigma?
As a cliché?
As a bubbly snow? Whistleblower?
crawling with the irrationality to linger more?
Perhaps, just so, because,
it never served me enough.
Or are there anything?
To digress with any of these?
Yes, it is better that way
Do return, please do so, earnestly.
And lame excuses are in abundance,
It will find me too, sooner or later, anyhow.
“Un the Lib,”
how far are you there, with your two cents?
Please don't screw this one up! Im sorry, Not another wor-Shut the whole up! I'm tired that of all the you say! I am not sorry, for the kindness and for the reflections, I have no one and nothing yes yes you tell me every day we all the world is ending but it's not its America with a lot of bots! Too much A.I and not enough love we get it, the day you have is only the day on your heart ! Some hurts and the world sit's there sipping their tea, That's ok you're drowning in open sea's but people are concerned with the people over sea's that have volunteered to be the eyes and ear's of the war that never cease to feel the hope they decided to give up in order to be seen as a hero or who have fallen prey to the lies that come for the ones controlling the pleads that have said on repeat.
The only problem is the invisible pain that is never treated, You take the tools given to you or thrown at you and make them into skill's or lessons, So tell me all the that's going wrong, tell me all the that I'm doing wrong! Point them out and shine your light, I hear that laughter and i see the stares, But i see the confusion in the eye's of those who don't get the joke. Go ahead and put my tears in your glass and make my life your entertaining for you, I wont choke on stage, I've been in this show for year, Not drama or sadness, Just me enjoying the view, Why are we sitting here? Because it's silent, Oh yeah this is a peaceful place. But this is an odd place, What's that noise? Why, that's our ride, Oh no need to get up. Just sit here with me and take this tea, This track it's beautiful, The sun just setting and you can hear the horn's. Oh no I laced that tea you couldn't move if you wanted to. What's that look for? Oh you thought the train was meant for us!? Oh no, this track as been abandoned for years..
Anyone can be here and enjoy the view, So lets chill, How can life just not get to you?. It's easy when you have been unmothered, unwanted, and unknown, Well you become numb and just not able to react in time for things after years of living you feel the pain of nothing, you stand on that edge of deep space and never think to jump but you just breath and just lay down. Because a bee can sting when you move, But when you stand still the unknown becomes unbothered.
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***
In this world, we encounter things in which we realize.
In this world, what lies within us, is only the facts of life.
Within this world, we are to overcome our fears and factualization.
And from within this world, I've have overcome the painful rifes:
My mother is like a psychiatric person who had stopped taking their medication
Because every time, she seems to be able to kill every day with her own self-frustration.
My father is like a hypocritical liar who cannot stick to one statement at a time
Because everything he says he will do to make everything better always just does the same
thing like my mother; another senseless crime.
My sister is like a prudent princess who has her ups and downs.
Because she is strong in what she believes in, along with the fact that she expects a lot out of
me and from all around.
My best friend is like a lost animal being driven away from the current of the sea,
Because she and I are no longer the best of friends we used to be.
My nephew is like the little angel that gave all his light to the earth
Because ever since he had shown his light, he had been called back Home to watch the
miracles rebirth.
My nephew's little brother is like a bundle of joy that constantly reminds me of his older
brother in respect and honor,
Because everything he did, every little laugh that came out of his little mouth, was as
inspiring as his older brother's voice that always pondered.
My friends are like those caffeine products that exceed excitement
Because every time I seem to have fallen down, they are always the ones to be my
enlightenment.
My enemies are like those prying voices that seem to try to break through my mind
Because with all their might they try to fill my life with echoing lies tend to become entwined.
My life is like a roller coaster that has its ups, downs, and also its broken stops from
dysfunction
Because of all the tragic twist and turns of events that are attracted to my distinction.
My reflection of my own self is like those lying mirrors found in a fun house, created to lie;
Because from things that I have been influenced with; lying comes very easily to me with no
one even bothering to ask why.