Hope Metaphor Poems | Examples

These Hope Metaphor poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Hope. These are the best examples of Metaphor Hope poems written by international poets.


Hesitation my friend lets die together

Hesitation greets me like a neighbor
Boring its eyes into my skull with a friendly smile
It has no face and no skin
It doesn’t even have eyes

The morning air is hot and solid
Like water but thicker
My hands are sweaty and covered in blisters
And my legs, do not respond

The air of dirty mornings
Shifts in scent
Till the sour tang of violence
Is hanging to interrupt

My soft bones of hesitation
Listen to be called out
For a violent lie
With violent intentions
Are never good for volatile patients

So I did grasp a hope of string
Around my neck did marry me
Such intimate things
To carry me
Away with hesitation and me.
© Zoe Crout  Create an image from this poem.


When the time is ripe

The world is crazy,
believe me or not—
it knows neither good nor bad,
only flows forward,
shaping wonders
for you to see.

A meal needs its patience:
chop, fry, stir,
each in its turn—
only then
can you taste its truth.

So too with life:
blended as you seek it,
revealed only
in its season.

Everything takes time,
wrapped in its own package.
Do not blame time—
stay open,
for it will come
when the moment is ripe.

Quicksand

On a silent journey,
I walked into the forest.
Within the dark,
A silhouette crept me out.

Suddenly I stumbled
And fell into a quicksand pit.
A cry for help—
No one to hear.

The more I struggled,
It pulled me deeper and deeper.
When I couldn’t breathe anymore,
I gave up the fight.

Slowly, it released me,
Letting me float.
Desperate and crazed,
I tried to swim with force—
Only to sink again.

So I stayed calm.
I did not cry.
I tried my best
To reach the shore.

Slowly, gently,
I rolled myself free,
Breathing a sigh of relief.

And I realized:
Sometimes all I need
Is to do my best—
And wait for time.

In chaos I found calm,
In silence I found strength.

Through the dark forest I walked on,
Until the sun came down,
Lighting my path anew.

GOD IS EVERYTHING





the universe,
the air,
nature,
thought,
the void,
the full,
the eternal,
the whole,
creation,
existence,
non-existence
the before,
the after,
matter,
antimatter,
spirit,
the ethereal
the pre-life,
life,
the afterlife
good,
peace
omniscience
omnipotence
omnipresence!
I cannot proclaim more than this now
I lack greater vision and light than I hope for in God
more feeling and wisdom...

Sunflower Farm : verse

 
a trillion petals magnetise my tender Heart

racing past farm workers in morning dew

Sun embellishes yellow song 

crazed by mesmerising muse

saffron they slap an early chill gold

seeds swallow empty hopes sold


Premium MemberIN AND OF BOTCHED SOWN UNAWARENESS

IN AND OF BOTCHED SOWN UNAWARENESS

Just unlock your mind,
And let its waves freely flow:
Frothing awareness:-
I thought you needed my help;
Me, loving unaware:

How unfortunate,
My mental awareness botched;
My mind blindsided:
Triumphant love shadowing
Forgiveness being denied:-

We reap what we sow.
To reap love, you must sow it:
Life’s divine wisdom:-
How could I have sown hate?!
Please God, reveal it to me:-

Ready and waiting,
Like a young ripe banana
Picked for love’s pudding,
Sage forgiveness faithfully
Waits, mixing in love’s pudding:-

Premium MemberCrape Myrtles in August

The bark peels back like old skin—
Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls
Of what we shed to live. August
Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice
Rising in the noon glare,
Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns
Itself with Myrtle fire. Still—

I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek
Against its flaking flesh, feel
The pulse beneath—magenta,
White, pink, the deep red
Of what I've never
Bled for anyone.

Each blossom a small fist
Opening with the muted pop
Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin
As the lies I've told myself
About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun
Has made this tree what survival
Looks like: stubborn—

Beautiful, built for the burning
Seasons that strip us
To what we are. Winter comes,
And I am learning
How to be naked—
These mottled limbs

My teachers, conductors' hands
Mid-gesture, never finished
With their fierce music
Of staying alive. Of reaching
Up through the killing
Cold, brittle air ringing
With the clink of frozen twigs toward something

Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know
Lives in the light returning.

Premium MemberDAWNING ANOTHER DAY

DAWNING ANOTHER DAY     

Like sunshine of day,
Again, I have my dawning;
Glory to God:-
May divine wisdom and guidance
Lead me in labors of love.

In this day’s sojourn,
May I be a sower of
Determination: 
Cultivating hope and faith
In conquering all evils:-

Use me today God,
In making this thankful day
One to be be glad in:
A day of overcoming
All trials and tribulations:-

Premium MemberIN THESE BABYLONIAN TIMES

IN THESE BABYLONIAN TIMES  PS
(A Palming Allegorical Rendering)

With elephant ears,
And the keenness of giraffes,
Let’s become as owls:
Divine wisdom and guidance,
Eagle-winging us justice:-

In our life’s nature,
Trials and tribulations come:
So does conquering:-
In Babylonian times,
Seek your new Jerusalms:-

Jesus rode an ass,
We now have one riding us:
Time to buck him off:-
Leaving no palms to catch him,
Let’s burn away oppression:-

With ashes of hope,
Let’s anoint liberation
And coming justice:-
Let us get to palm swapping
Injustice from our pathway:-

Ever be mindful,
God helps those who help themselves:
Wisdom in their palms:-
Having empath palms is bad;
Not seeking to fill them, worse:-





We’ve overcome worse
Sodom’s and Gomorrah’s trials;
Wisdom guiding us:
Necessary means revealed;
Injustice palm-slapped away:-

Despair wallowing 
In apathetic dismay,
Is self defeating:-
With palms of wisdom guiding,
Let’s be self liberating.:-

Premium MemberGoing With The Flow

Some thoughts on the subject of going with the flow.
Some different viewpoints that you may want to know.
Don’t fight against the current it knows where it should go.
It avoids the obstacles dashing to and fro.

How should we see a person going with the flow?
They may be seen as lazy or even just slow.
Pitching the oars in the river, nothing to do.
Kickback in the boat and just see what will ensue.

Life requires joining our energy with others,
Let the current be our sisters and our brothers.
Tap into the consensus, set our goals anew.
Take a deeper look into other people’s view.

Acknowledge my thoughts are not better than the rest.
Accept the composite of the group’s thoughts are best.
Going with the flow is turning me into we,
Allows the current to be what it’s meant to be.
© Bill Baker  Create an image from this poem.

Premium MemberTO BASKING ON THE SHORES OF MY POETIC SEABED

TO BASKING ON THE SHORES OF MY POETIC SEABED

Lying here on the shores of the seabed of poetic creation,
May this flow of waving words stream joy, worthiness, and
Inspiration to the thirsty eyes they froth upon; hydrating them,
And energizing sad, weary souls with peace, love, and hope.

May such allegorical words overflow into waiting cups, 
To later be sipped by a deciphered understanding of minds
Hungry for awareness, truth, and guidance towards liberation:-
Indeed, may God pour out of my poetic cistern, his divine wisdom.

And for these frothing waves of words of peace and love,
I would be in dehydrating remission if I did not give praise
And thanks to my fellow blessed scribes who likewise
Continue to water my poetic seabed with nourishing grace:-

No mountains, Nor Coast

I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts
But I hope when I knock your door, Death, 
You would be a gracious host.

When I come to meet you Death,  
I hope you would be kind.
And shoulder to carry me,
None I'd need to find. 

I hope  when I lay there,
There would be people who would listen,
And there would be some titles,
With which I would be christened.

I hope there would be someone,
To whom our separation would cause swan-like despair.
But I hope there would be enough memories,
To ease the pain they would have to bear.

And when I sleep forevermore, 
There would be millions of days to cherish,
I hope there would be heights I had soared,  
Making my name impossible to perish.

Then when I come to knock your door, Death,  
You would be so kind,
That departing from my world, and greeting you
I wouldn't mind.

I don't desire mountains,
Nor do I desire coasts 
But when I knock your door, Death 
You would be a gracious host.

Premium Memberour platform had no newspapers, so i yelled at someone to throw one across the tracks

i need to know what's going on
we're barren over here, yet over there
look at them smugly reading the NEWS

'can you throw one over pal?'
he pretends not to hear me
and looks down the platform

he's pretending to see if his train is about to 
arrive, thomas and friends, and it won't be
here soon, so wind it in 

i give up and wonder why
platform 1, surely the pinnacle, 
has been abandoned of any recreation

although next to my son
is a miniscule glass bottle of whisky
which implies someone was having fun without me there

has peace been achieved?
has the new plastic waste initiative justified government intervention?
how many wickets do we need this morning? 

i yell these at the man over on platform 2
i am then taken away
and hope to be a headline in the morning

Pens of Praise

The factories no longer exhale fumes but fillers
Clanging steel is traded for selfie stick.
Whip is gone but the gaze remains.
Wage is still dingy and stale.
Accepted without questions.

When the labour was visible, we called it brutal.
Children with soot in lungs, blistered hands,
bodies bent before they grew.
Now the soot is scrubbed, hands are clean
but the bending of spine begins much earlier.

They are raised in pens of praise.
milked for their innocence like diary calves
hooked to the teat of validation.
They don't toil but trend.
Sweat has replaced sponsored smiles.
The mines are gone but digging continues.

Rafflesia has been renamed Rose
and the stench smells like aspiration
bottled, branded
and sold as hope.

Law shields the body not the soul,
factories can be condemned not studios.
A worker is trudged; a creator performs.
And performance is the wound taught to pirouette.

Fists won't rise nor will ink spill,
as the table is set too neatly
and the chairs are too soft.

Even after a century
money still has grandfather rights.
Sitting at the head of every table,
blessing the hunger and
deciding who eats.

Premium MemberTO BEING HERE ON THIS GLORIOUS DAY

TO BEING HERE ON THIS GLORIOUS DAY

Because you are in it,
This is a blessed day
To enjoy and be glad in:-

While some have been called in,
You have been given another day
To be an instrument of His Peace
And a daily reflector of His Love:-

Despite the painful challenges,
This day will confront you with,
Healing grace and divine wisdom
Shall guide you in conquering ways:-

Thus, in living hope and faith,
You must enjoy this day and fulfill it
With labors of love to others and self:
Living and reflecting His Enlightenment:-

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