Parents Personification Poems | Examples
These Parents Personification poems are examples of Personification poems about Parents. These are the best examples of Personification Parents poems written by international poets.
the fork thought the knife and spoon were against her
A conspiracy was in the works, their mission impure
She used her ring finger and accused them of a conspiracy
The spoon pointedly ignored her and stirred up his green tea
The knife was not as wise as the spoon and argued most of the day
It seemed to give them satisfaction said the spoon named Gray.
They are used to arguing, it is their way to be romantic he thought.
He had heard his parents scraping and hissing since he was a tot.
From early on, I have known
That she is a gift from God.
I have always wanted every fiber
of my being to be satiated with her.
Dare to give her a fighting chance,
and she will cause you to dance,
energizing you to thrive and advance,
causing our lives to be greatly enhanced.
She will serve you with her whole heart.
She's a loyal friend and will stand by you to the end.
She is very passionate but also highly sensitive.
She is well-equipped to assist you in your destiny.
Never forcefully get in your way, but she will always
stay if you desire and need her. She is never
intimidated by hi-tech or modernization; nor does
she feel inferior to convoluted sophistication.
They were not blessed with houses and lands to leave me,
but my parents and grandmother gifted me with her
and insisted that I never let go of her. I will therefore
leave plenty of her to my descendants. I tell you,
she has become a rare commodity in our modern society.
Moreover, like all precious things, her rarity makes her
all the more desirable. So, my friend, from the depths of
my heart, I beg of you. GIVE COMMON SENSE A CHANCE.
if history were to write itself
its big feet it would not pen
the big mouth it would seal
its dim eyes it would brighten
and the relatives all millionaires
the parents angels and saints
homestead golden and marble
clumsy hand ever to hide
with its heart restless surely
everything could be perfect
with nothing not admirable
I feel proud of my heritage, love being an oak.
We are majestic, but not haughty.
Nurturing, but in an aloof, comfortable way.
I am a haven for robins, squirrels, and a multitude of bugs.
They wander my trunk, enjoying their day.
My crevices keep them safe from raindrops and storms.
I feel them hunker down, and I smile, glad I can help.
My parents reside in this forest, not far from me.
Dad has a multitude of limbs that have fallen.
One came down during a lightning strike last October.
We thought we would lose him, but only a left arm.
Mom is busy listening to the songbirds; she specializes in cardinals.
When a red flash darts past, I know he is heading toward mom.
Dad has had an infestation of crows lately; after the arm incident.
Their incessant caws drove me wild until I recruited a hoot owl.
The hoot owl frightened them away in record time.
We are part of a heritage of wonderful, nurturing, loving oaks.
Guardians of the forest, not far from a gurgling moving brook.
Nestled at our feet are trusting mushrooms, violets and moss.
Our specialty is meditation; please stop by and enjoy our silence.
The rose bud
The soft petals
Clad between the sepals
Oblivious to daily dismals
Drops of water dribbled
Gliding soflty off the sepals
Not a single drop
Reaching the smooth petals.
Sweet Little Rose
She was protected likewise
by her beloved parents
Shielded was she of difficulties
Not a single hardship did she encounter
They were deviated vehemently
By this armour called Parents!
The rose bud had bloomed
Into a beautiful flower
The sepals had curled downwards
All the same supporting the rose.
The rains came again
How the droplets
Landed ruthlessly on the petals!
Poor rose flower was drenched!
Little Rose blossomed
Into a lovely maiden
Her parents were bent with age
Yet upholded their Rose.
Challenges arose again
How they bore down
Upon Sweet Rose
Poor Rose was burdened!
I am a baby eagle
and I have these things called wings
so I can fly and glide and float
or so I am told . . .
early each morning my parents leave the nest
and swoop and drift on wind currents
among mountain cliffs
down and then high up, then down and down
calling to each other and to the sky
and they are soon joined by their friends
I watch- flapping my wings but go no where
mother says I am too little yet
but mother I want to glide 'cause I am a eagle
oh, it must feel so wonderful to feel the air and wind
to have it take you away, away into the blue sky
in my cliff nest I dream that I am the strongest eagle
and that I fly the highest and have the best call
one day, one day I will show them that I am a bird
but right now mother has brought me breakfast
so I open my beak and gulp
__________________________
July 24, 2020
Poetry/Personification/Mountain Hawk Eagle
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1271-255-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, I Am A Bird
sponsor, Tania Kitchin
First Place
I am your shoulder
I am your comfortable shoulder
Your pillow to rest you’re head on
Yes, ooh yes, come to rest
You are welcome to cry
You are welcome to sneeze
You are welcome to let go
You are not crazy
Surrender your exhaustion off
Let the fatigue disappeared
Refresh up, your earn it
I am your shoulder, your comforter.
I have no tears to shed
What is done,, it is done
I have no mercy to give
Words that leave the lips
Cannot be rectified
I wrote it
To tell my story
To share my experiences
To honour my upbringing
To feel my constant pain
To cherish my parents
It is meant to be written
I have no shame of myself
What have been created, it is created
I have no friends
Only those I love
And it is the love that will last forever
Dear Mom and Dad, it's me, your son;
Out of my brothers, I'm the handsome one.
You've been gone for quite a while;
I'm glad you raised me when I was a child.
There are many things I want us to do,
But it just isn't the same without you.
I'll never forget what you always said:
"A still tongue keeps a wise head."
"Be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove."
There's nothing like a parent's love.
I'll always remember your smiles and laughs
Whenever I look at your photograph.
There are some things I don't understand,
But I'll leave it in God's unchanging hand.
Mom and Dad, I'll see you again:
You're in my heart from beginning to end.
Thanks for everything that you've taught me:
Love your son, Duane, and the Crichlow family.
I am a flower when you are two.
When you are four, you make headband chains out of me and my cousins.
At five, you are told I am a weed.
Death to me, say your parents.
You don’t care. You still love me.
You especially love the way you can
Blow my crown off in frilly, wispy white flakes after my yellow top turns old.
You secretly still love me when you grow up.
When you see me, you remember, but
We both know when you get out the
Weed killer, some of you still love me.
I am a cold, flat, black and white rectangle, rounded corners, no frills or curls.
No one could revere me more that thirteen-year-old higher thinking boys and girls,
Illustrious readers of U.F.O.’s, the paranormals, and E.S.P.
Ones who question their clari-normal selves, always seek out proof of life from me.
The absolute best environment ambiance for my most effective use is set up gypsy-like, cushy, and cozy.
Soft pillows, wavering candle making spooky shadows, smelling of lilac or equally wonderful well-loved posey.
The room should be relatively unlit, but you have to see my alphabet and numbers.
The hidden entities can make themselves known through whispers, or smells, not loudness or lumbers.
My beige heart-window pointer messages are often disjointed or a hundred percent totally misread.
Uh-oh. Here comes your mom. Everybody, move! Blow out the candle, and hide me quickly under the bed.
I may be a big deal at your pre-teen’s life’s point, but in your neck of the woods, parents see me and go immediately red.
I’m contraband, against their religion; except for Lazareth, they never want to know about the eager to be heard undead.
O' Mother Ghana
O' mother Ghana, how proud am i to be your grand son
My skin so black from the burn of the sun
For a woman to head a country shows your bravery
You won us our freedom from our colonial masters during the slavery
You are a brave African black beauty
Even at the age of sixty
Your red,yellow,green and black wrapper makes you look bold
How can you go hungry when you farm cocoa and mine gold
Despite your bravery,you are known world wide as a mother of peace
Whiles other parents are still struggling for peace
O' mother Ghana, embrace us with your warm loving heart
Your African cultures will forever dwell in our hearts
Gone were the days when those masters called you Gold Coast
Now you are an independent woman and with that you can boast
You first son the brave intellectual Dr. Kwame Nkrumah
And your handsome and beautiful grand children Kofi and Ama
You serve as with Banku with grinded pepper,Fufu with Groundnut soup and other delicious meals
We love you mother Ghana
May you live long O mother Ghana.
DEAR SILENT CHAIR
I always imagine how perfect you were created,
For life and for rest, you were made for many.
You carried no harm but yet, you’re treated without respect
All you do is sit around quietly, hoping for a friend but yet you experience a lot.
How cruel it will be to see you die a lonely death, without care or pity.
Without parents, you’re claimed by many and without a word your presence is always required.
Without struggle you lose your skin and without freedom you fight for rest.
I always wonder, will you ever fight back?
Will ever grow back your skin? Will you ever express your desire to know more?
You come with so much beauty but yet treated without honor
How happy i would be to see you smile with a family that loves you
How joyous i would sing to see you married
Oh silent chair, why so silent
Speak to me and let justice fight for you.
What child would sit so quiet and suffer this much loneliness.
You’re never alone, yet you reserve your words,
I fear you bring sorrow to yourself, like a sky filled with thunder.
we were adopted on the same morning
my father loved us, a love adoring
my brothers shared a gene name, Cabernet
sisters noble parents based on hearsay
my dad built a strong house of fine French oak
we stayed there for months until the walls spoke
Sauvignon muscular and the strongest
Franc dark and lean and can stay the longest
Merlot is too shy and soft as satin
me, Petit Verdot, was told to fatten
we left that house for a place very small
this was a time of character for all
life a blend of love and time but real
dad says it’s a Bordeaux surreal appeal
-updated July 2016-
She breathes
Each breath flowing deeper
To her roots and roofs
She breathes the tropical air
Each breath a proliferation of another being
To her thin muscles, in vim and vigor prolonging every being
She breathes in her light
Not afraid of any heights
Light and soft, qualities each carrying weight
She is the tree I grew up knowing
Touching, feeling, breathing
The bed I shared most of my childhood dreams with
The seats I shared with many dear friends
The fence that still decorates my parents' homestead
She breathes, she lives
She breathes only one symbol, life
August 21 2015