Memory Metaphor Poems | Examples
These Memory Metaphor poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Memory. These are the best examples of Metaphor Memory poems written by international poets.
The ledger reads:
a plethora of umbrellas—
though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
Six bowls of ripe fruit rotting simultaneously,
four calendars all agreeing to be ignored.
Noise catalogued:
dogs barking at metaphors,
telephones dreaming of purpose,
the surplus of answers
none of us asked for.
On the opposite shelf:
a paucity of receipts for kindness,
one cracked mirror,
a prayer half-mouthed then abandoned.
They say memory is selective—
but it always chooses the same omissions.
In audit we trust:
to weigh the overgrown
against the almost-forgotten.
And if balance exists,
it does so behind glass,
marked “for display only.”
the pink heart shaped glass bottle
lets the morning light through
where it prisms on the ebony dressing table top
devoid of the faux perfume it contained
all those Christmases ago
in pride of place next to the atomizer
with its red tassel containing the perfume I favour
I suspected it was bought at the corner shop
dusted off with love and care
and wrapped with more Scotch tape than paper
protecting the unadorned surface of the glass bottle
its stopper thoughtfully encased in some plastic substance
now brittle with the passing of time
unstopping the bottle and with it
the imagined sillage lingers at memory’s edge
transporting me back
to the innocence of the formative years
the sky was the limit
the shifting prisms of victories and failures
the scent of Life
A Memory
A crimson tulip, soft and bright,
Unfurls to greet the morning light,
A fragrant kiss from the soft breeze,
But dawn's sweet beauty can't be seized
For soon its petals gently fall,
A memory pitched on the wall.
Mist is deliberate veil
Just to notice
If the eyes risk
Entering to meet
To greet and embrace
The face wearing
A dotted lace
Mulling to reveal
Knotted thoughts
Those plots
Of dense stories
Ivories of memory
Glory of the sun
We used to build up
From the point of
The startup
Until the plates and cups
Would get satiated
And the golden dust
of the pulverized sun
Would turn into
The moon of contentment
I know my dear
That won't happen
Because you're hesitant
At the very entrance
Of the mystery
Ignoring the filigree beyond
Waiting to dawn
______________
12 September 2025
From my Hillview home beside the Ruby Gate,
I watched the blood moon rise,
its red fire spilling across the Bay of Bengal.
The sea turned into a vast mirror of flame,
the mountains stood hushed,
their green shoulders brushed by crimson light.
Karnaphuli flowed like a molten ribbon,
carrying whispers of old songs to the shore.
Not alone on the hill,
I felt the city breathing beneath me,
yet only the moon kept me company.
Its scarlet face leaned close,
as if the heavens bent toward Chittagong.
In that hour,
I was both witness and keeper of the glow.
And with my brother Shimul by my side,
We sealed the night in memory, unforgettable and wide
She is the mural painted on barrio walls,
stories in her curves, rhythm in her calls.
Colors of abuela, the fire of the street,
a masterpiece rising where cultures meet.
But art needs a frame — firm hands, steady eyes,
men who don’t compete but safeguard the prize.
A frame holds the story, keeps memory tight,
protects from the weather, the dust, and the night.
Alone she’s the art, brilliance untamed—
but her power shines louder ’cause he is the frame.
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
The first act sets the scene
Romantic and serene
In the second act it is revealed
The conflict there that was concealed
Count to three, it's there to see
The act that brings finality...
The resolution or... dissolution
There's a solution for ev'rything
Sometimes it's sweet, sometimes it stings
Sometimes it's bitter, sometimes sweet
But that's what makes the play complete
Though we leave the stage it won't leave us
And like the note left in the dust
No longer there for all to see
It's now etched in our memory
It goes the way that all things go
Coming to rest down in your soul
Some you recall while some grow small
But down there you will find them all
Or... one day when you're not looking
They'll find you
They'll find you, that's how it's played
The game of life, the bed you've made
Ev'ry wrinkle ev'ry speck
Upon your soul it will reflect
There for all the world to see
The way you played is the way you'll be
Remembered as the curtain falls
As long as anyone recalls
Placed First in Standard Contest
Specular Fugue
Sponsor : Suzette Richards
_____________
watching passivity in activity
sad, sombrely sad
memories from womb rise and fall
little miracles of remembrance
holding the hands of Fate we wait
Wheels of Fortune revolves, race stagnates
we do not cry, hankerchiefs dry
timeless we watch, clock ticking
clock glancing, mindful of time
unseen cry, tissues wet lie around
loss centres, race proceeds
there is no Fate, only Self-determination
every forgetting is a miracle
uterine amnesia ~ stumbling and ascending
sombre joy replicates in silence
active we look away, passive and still
I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
My thoughts walk barefoot on gravel roads—aching, slow, and scattershot.
My mind drifts like dusk in worn linen—frayed, faded, and folding in on itself.
My mind, grown tired of its tidy metaphors, slumps like a clerk at closing hour—unnoticed, necessary, numb.
My brain, vast as prairie land at sunset, lies fallow—dreaming the hush between thunderclaps.
My brain has taken the quiet path through woods not quite snowy nor lovely—just worn, and wondering where it last turned.
My brain, a lantern gutted of oil, flickers faintly beneath the architecture of centuries—it remembers too much.
My brain, a parched cathedral steeped in sermons long forgotten, weighs the dust in its own procession.
My brain, a faded lyre, trembles with thoughts too tender to hold—each one a ghost of once-bright song.
My brain, like Arthur's helm at gloaming, rests—dented by thought, dulled by long crusade.
My brain, a theater haunted by a thousand borrowed tongues, performs rituals where intention once stood.
Its voice speaks as though the soul were sharp as steel—blunt not by age, but by silence.
Copyright © 2018 by Mickey Grubb
(Verse 1)
This empty room still hums your favorite song,
Sunlight cuts the dust where your laugh belonged.
I trace the cracks in every worn-out tile,
Searching for your shadow one more mile.
(Chorus)
**I can still feel you like a phantom limb—**
A ghost in every room, under my skin.
This house is just a cage of might-have-beens...
*I reach for you, but all I touch is wind.*
(Verse 2)
Your coffee cup’s a fossil on the shelf,
I talk to it like I talk to myself.
That sweater in the closet still holds heat,
Smells of rain and old dreams, bittersweet.
(Chorus)
**I can still feel you like a phantom limb—**
A ghost in every room, under my skin.
This house is just a cage of might-have-beens...
*I reach for you, but all I touch is wind.*
(Bridge)
The neighbors say, *"You should turn the page..."*
But how do I quit a ghost I still stage?
These walls rehearse the echo of your name—
A silent fire only you could tame.
(Outro Chorus)
**I can still feel you like a phantom limb...**
*(Whispered, fading)*
*...All I touch is wind.*
My soles press soft
into sidewalks. I leave
a trail of graphite steps
They etch out my first sentence—
a diary in crayon, a novel in margins
Time sharpens the graphite steps
I stroll through my city growing younger
White tiles paved over the dirt path I loved
but look: beneath the cracks, faintly traced,
ghosts of my graphite steps
Size 5 kneels where a bluebell once bloomed
Size 16 lingers at the turn when love grew bitter
Size 20 steps slow, the graphite darkens—
a crossroad still warm with roads unchosen
I walk my city, the mirages flicker
between streetlights and soft recollections
the wind stirs a hushed whisper...
my graphite steps lift into the air
She knocks on my rib cage
seeking access to my heart again
The knock—the pounding pestle—
taunts, its echo won’t stand to be ignored
I hold my knees and cover my ears
as if that’ll keep my walls untampered
I let my flesh wrap me whole—
so tight I might suffocate,
but I cannot breathe outside this
prison, no—this haven
She’s still here at my door,
holding flowers too vibrant in color—
the amber petals too lifeless for summer
Her indifferent smile, gentle and fair,
yet brings chill to my bones exposed in June air
My teeth knock against each other
tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—
I want to scream for her to leave
but the only voice made out
was the repeating beat of horror
She’ll eventually enter,
one way or another—
Winter takes up a room in my chest
always waiting to host her.