Metaphor Wind Poems | Examples
These Metaphor Wind poems are examples of Wind poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Wind Metaphor poems written by international poets.
pause to hear a storm
listen to its vast noises
admire its voices
winds that blew in infamy
crackled as romantic fires
state huts wade through muck
spiders and newborns pancaked
trouble from the breeze
it stretched over our tall walls
but into their tenements
furious horses
unimagined violence
warfare wind wallops
nests shaken out by breezes
some people gather again
Metaphor and simile have been with the human race for thousands of years. This is my English translation of an excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem estimated to be around 4,000 years old:
Excerpt from "Dialogue of a Misanthrope with his Soul"
(ancient Egyptian poem circa 2000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death lies before me:
like a sick man’s recovery,
like entering a garden after an interminable illness.
Death lies before me:
like the fragrance of myrrh,
like sitting beneath a billowing sail with a favorable wind.
Death lies before me:
like swimming in the course of a stream,
like a man’s return from the slave-galley to freedom.
Death lies before me:
like the sky when it clears,
like a man's longing to see his home after countless years of captivity.
Keywords/Tags: Egyptian, translation, dialogue, dialog, misanthrope, soul, death, illness, sick, sickness, recovery from, myrrh, sail, wind, freedom, sky, captivity, slave, slavery, soulmate
I wake—
each dawn
a slender promise
shoulders gilded,
by hesitant sun.
The world, wide as longing
real as the air I breathe—
crests of mountains waiting
horizons keeping their counsel.
My heart, uncertain…. ventures
like a melodic wind carried on—
searching for a sign
where wonder grows wild within.
Between the strums of my old guitar
and laughter in morning dew
I surrender:
each note of yesteryear
kindles today’s quiet lesson
A single osprey rises—
a brushstroke across blue morning
its wings folding around me.
The summit is not a distant peak—
but something brightening inside
Love lays a quiet hand
on places still becoming
healing as patient
as a meadow’s slow green showing
Each blade a testimony
to what endures.
From deep inside me,
between the first prayer
and the stillness after waking,
I find myself turning—
in the rhythm of becoming
the quiet rhyme
of being.
So I walk—
with songs for company
promises for courage
letting the day reveal its poem
one grateful step
where hunger and holiness
are the same ground.
She thinned to vapour, blue as longing's edge,
while we searched skywards, calling her lost name.
Wind replied in whispers no one could catch–
just hollow notes strung on a frayed thread.
Now dusk repeats her gesture: palms upturned,
spilling light where her shadow once poured.
We drink the rain, still tasting her farewell.
SERENITY
Hate's up in the air;
naturing winds of peace blowing:
Hate snuffed out by love:-
The clouds are swirling in the wind,
Unique designs appear within.
An artist’s brush could be the air,
For many forms are found up there.
Look up there, it’s a swimming whale,
‘Twill quickly change with the next gale.
It seems so strange to change so much,
It makes it hard to keep in touch.
There’s a ship with the flag raised high,
It slowly fades as it drifts by.
A dragon flies upon the mast,
With raging winds, it will not last.
One way to live with all this change,
Enjoy each form when it’s in range.
Then like a child with a new toy,
Each change will bring with it more joy.
Don’t allow fear to have its way,
Change will come with every new day.
Giving us a chance to mature,
A better chance to feel secure.
The case of lynching vs suicide
A black man
Hangs
Lifeless
Silent
Eerie
The only sound
Is the wind thrashing around
As it surrounds
The black man
Screaming loud
Trying to get the man to make a sound
The wind howled
In pain
In agony
Watching as the whole town
Laughing like he was some kind of clown
The police never showed
In the report they'll label it as a suicide
For them case closed
Why they were part of the show
They think they'll clean up the mess tomorrow
And because they had all the power
They had the upper hand in this matter
They also had control so it didn't matter if they were murderers
Especially if their victims were black
No one would care if they were attacked
Except the black community
And the worst part is they couldn't have a funeral
Because they didn't just kill him, after they also burned his body
Even in death he had no autonomy
They stole the right to say goodbye from the family
And just like his body
They burned his story
"Lingering leaves of gold
frolic in the autumn wind,"
Swept up by bygone breezes,
already collapsing
before they begin,
As disillusionment clouds an overtired soul—
Misplaced and irretrievable
To a society that ravenously
disembowels empathy,
Twists and mangles trust
until it becomes unrecognizably disfigured,
Leaving the carcass to be plucked by bone-thin vultures,
Fed by culture’s apathetic, parasitic narcissism,
Under the boiling, pre-winter sun.
Their win, has its wind
Slap-blowing in our faces:
A musky-trump wind,
Blowing, blasting bigotry,
Slapping justice in the face:-
at the table next to me
rereading the menu blowing
a very hungry wind
Planes streaking the skies...
Waving trees blinking the sun...
Kids soar paper planes...
Beneath the ancient boughs
Stories of ages pass
The copse of cedars stand silent
As the wind sighs, whispers hidden secrets of time
Their shadows waltz in the sun
A play of light and dark
The truths they veil in their green leaves
Of memories, lost and found
A rhythmic hymn of earth and sky.
You shift the autumn breeze, again,
you creep into the wind.
To crawl beneath my skin, again,
as winter's chill seeps in.
Your absence fills the air, again,
and wraps my world with ice.
It taunts and toys with time, again—
It stretches sleepless nights.
My layers fail to shield, again,
against the coming breeze.
And I am left exposed, again,
to every gust it breathes.
I'm captured by the cold, again—
I drift with winter wind,
A blow that brings me back, and then
I watch you fade, again.
Cradling every scar,
Singing each pain to the wind,
Till I owned my song.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….”
Robert,
You let the split remain unresolved,
and while we stand in awe,
staring at your crossroads
etched in gold and shadow,
do you ever wonder
what lay beyond the path
you did not take?
Even though you say,
“I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Did the road arch upward,
an unfamiliar melody on the wind?
Or did it tumble into brambles,
a half-forgotten warning?
Even now I see your boots----
Mud-caked, maple-tinged-----
pausing at the edge.
Here’s my advice, if you allow it:
Don’t linger too long
in the pondering.
Step once more
into the thicket, the gravel,
the unknown blaze of paths.
And when your pen hesitates,
push it further
to sketch the forest where both trails end-----
or perhaps where they entwine,
branches brushing like old friends.
Some questions don’t need answers,
but oh, how they crave
a different kind of wandering.
Regarding Robert Frost’s famous poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.