"metaphoric" poems
.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
be found.
It's a book shelved high that wants to
be read.
It's the freest of all birds caged but
unbound...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
colours.
It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
translate its thoughts.
But it can see through the eyes of
painters...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
of musical harmony.
It doesn't follow the conventions of
genres.
But it sings its voice loud without
restrictions of melody...
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
It's an exploding universe, that merges
back into galaxies.
It's a sought after painting, that boasts
of unfathomable beauty.
It's an everlasting song, that echoes
within the poet that embodies...
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
Conjunctions creak, the adverbs ache,
nouns bear more than they can take.
Verbs are screaming for Ben-Gay
while pronouns atrophy away.
Adjectives have lost their bite,
possessives just give up the fight.
The subject's upset, naught agrees,
which weakens metaphoric knees.
Contractions all together moan;
the objects better left alone.
Ah, life is at a frightful stage
when poets and their poems age.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
i hope you get into medical school
so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday
i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks
but never the self control stop eating them
i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings
i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers
i hope your children are loved and cared for
but have their hearts broken by mine
i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party
i hope you always wake well rested
3 hours late for work
i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain
and catch metaphoric pneumonia
i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport
i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning
i hope all your book pages stick together
i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on
i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water
i hope you always find the words to say
but never the right time to say them
i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado
i hope all your dinners are directly impacted
by the fickle nature of a toaster oven
i hope your curiosity gets the better of you
and you find out what cat food tastes like
i hope your favorite band breaks up
and you miss their kick *** reunion tour
i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv
i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed
because nothing would make my ghost happier to know
that you were forced to find out after literally everyone else that
i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me
while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you
read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Sanctuary is here; hiding in plain sight
Bedimmed beings step into the light
Stumble upon you may; hear us you might
All is welcome; no guard dogs that bite
Step inside, matters not armed or unarmed
Come as you are; steady or alarmed
Sip and drink from our collective fountains
Rest your eyes on our self painted mountains
Come on close and meet us all
Under shady trees or beyond the knoll
Some of us don masks or hide behind names
Some come naked but we're all one and the same
See our lives, spun from heavy layered bales
Woven intricate telling fantastic tales
Weavings we let fly, to catch each other's fables and stories
We admire them for what they are and the seed each carries
Be aware... Should you not understand
We may bear similar signatures but wear different brands
We, the people, trade in euphemisms
Broken sentences and long forgotten idioms
We are weavers, dreamers and scribes
Pouring here the outside world we imbibe
We are unguarded hearts speaking in metaphoric tongues
We provide safe haven for bruised souls with punctured lungs
So welcome traveler, shed your load
You might like it here in our coveted abode
Revel in the monochromatic sights you see
Where freedom of thought is revered in this here Sanctuary...
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
She was like quantum physics
Entanglement with each other
The collapse of thoughts depending on the best possible answer
Metaphoric of its position with an arrow
Camouflage like a shadow
With wheels like bone marrow
The demon that brings torment
The wolf in sheep clothing without consent
Lilith in a differnet form that drains men that makes her uniform
The things that makes you brain storm
Victims of her demise, things that makes her rise.
Things that brings you a surpise.
The rose that stays in its soil that requires water to bloom.
The woman with fangs in the tomb that brings you doom.
The witch with a broom that seeks for a groom.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
This Distant Light
by Walid Khazindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitterly cold,
winter clings to the naked trees.
If only you would free
the bright sparrows
from your fingertips
and release a smile―that shy, tentative smile―
from the imprisoned anguish I see.
Sing! Can we not sing
as if we were warm, hand-in-hand,
sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun?
Can you not always remain this way,
stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie?
Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant
since this distant light is our sole consolation ...
this imperiled flame, which from the beginning
has constantly flickered,
in danger of going out.
Come to me, closer and closer.
I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.
And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.
Walid Khazindar was born in Gaza City. He is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Arabic, translation, Arab, Palestine, Palestinian, Gaza, distant, light, flame, fire, autumn, winter, trees, birds, sparrows, fingertips, smile, sing, shade, sun, fire, darkness, hand, hands, snow
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 4:24 AM UTC
The long hours of the night highlight our inner insecurities
Relating to the change slowly disappearing in a clanking machine
My stomache burns
I didn't suggest to pay this, indebted to the alcohol
No filter to the lewd humorous words we speak
As we cruise away from the wild eyed life, bits of lint collect on the drivers glass
The mistakes and embarrassment blinds our minds
A push of a button, watching the grey fluff slide down the wind shield
Turning into a tumble **** rolling down the loneliest highway
No commitment to the grief
The clouds smother the brown smudged mountains
A white submissive canvas, I see
My metaphoric future becomes one with the peeks
My heart weeps as they come back into view
The world once teaching me, is now background beauty
Where shall this car take me
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
OH!
What feeling compares to the warmth inside these bones
when I awake at Dawn to a still house,
and comfortable bustle awaits
There is none!
no other mornings compare to such
what with floating voices and metaphoric hugs
a sunday to its monday; disparate
and i'd make the hours stretch if i could
like a Dough prepared for
round laughter
to be enjoyed with glasses of
tall bliss
every Eye i meet glimmers
Glimmers!
with amity to spare
and the Earth around is brimming
Brimming!
with wonder I cannot describe to you
in words
an ode
to sundays worth living for
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
the complicated patterns here
that i've drawn into the snow
feel like a labyrinth
look like a puzzle
and i'm trying to find the answer
before the pieces melt away
and even though i know i have the time
this cold will stay, it's only december
i still feel like the moon's hands
are ticking, beckoning me
forward, telling a story
where i speed through the next few months
and arrive at that fork in the road
the numbers don't add up
there is too much here
too many words, too many pauses
too many buried feelings
and possible causes
of probable scenes that play out
in my head
and the figures just don't work
pencil after pencil
lead, graphite and ink
crumpled paper, metaphoric cinders
and this is when i realize
i have never been good at math
and now it's finally catching up to me
as i try to add
you and me
together
and the equation just doesn't work out
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
lust is pink
dark and cloudy
casual in its appearance
beautiful in its persistence
as those reddish waves crash upon my shore
lust is soft
clear and winding
round the bark-less trunk of my torso
rustling the leaves of my hair
as my roots begin to stir
lust is loud
quiet but growing
symphonic in its metaphoric
crescendo to the top of the page
lick my thumb, flick back to previous sheets
and try to figure out where the music started
lust is music
slow reggae from a stereo in the morning
heavy metal blaring from a passing car in the afternoon
turntable cranking out Sinatra in the evening
tape deck cracking and splitting the indie rock
that curls around us at night
lust is strange
wistful and insistent
tugging at the corners of my jacket
as i remove the layers that protect my jawline
so you can taste the soft skin there
scarf unwinding, falling to the grass
and the cold flees from our shoulders
frightened by our moving hands
exploring the obstacles across our bodies
lust is here
obvious, apparent
even to me
in my awkward awareness of the raindrops
blistering my warm skin
and lust becomes silent
as we swallow the sound of the tension between us
put the words to our lips and bite
in your mouth i find four letters
l u s t
and i take them from you
m i n e
give them back
lust is generous
and so am i
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.
on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.
and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.
you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
To the top of all the world
To the tasteless underworld
To the center of your heart, oh Cleopatra is the only one you loved
To the demonstrated smile
To the lonely love child
Destination desolation, tell me when you reach the brink of life
Just a picture on your wall
That's nice, what a metaphoric fall
Typically, I was a validation on your sleeve
Oh what an indication
To the center of the pain
Through your tattered window pane
To the middle of your heart
Resolutions and lovers in the kitchen
Love is clueless and destiny is wishing
This is my heart, it's on the line, Selene
This is not what I expect, this is not what I expect
I can see it in your tears and now they're crowning me, the Caesar
Typically, I was a validation on your sleeve
Oh what an indication
To the center of the pain
Through your tattered window pane
To the middle of your heart
Resolutions and lovers in the kitchen
Love is clueless and destiny is wishing
This is my heart, it's on the line, Selene
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
I love to stare at clouds
Not because of the fact that they can be
Whatever suits me
When you stare at them
My love for clouds is because they are
Such a cliche metaphoric version of me
Clouds are made up of little things
Always running from their past
But eventually they will make life hell
With words of rain they spit onto you
Strike you down with lightening
Only then do they realize what damage
And despair
They had caused the innocent
And much like me the clouds
Disappear into the thin air
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
"A one-way ticket to space, please."
"These coins can’t get you anywhere"
I poured my silver lined heart
on the desk
"Ma’am this is all I have"
“I am afraid that is not enough"
I plucked my crystal tears
drew the rubies in my veins
I picked out my pearly eyes
they rolled like silk into her hands
"Enjoy your trip"
But
As I stood on the observation deck
Before the inky canvas
freckled with glistening stars
I realised
I had no
Eyes to see
hearts to please
Not even a tear to weep
Just a vessel
With a metaphoric soul
And a one-way ticket to space.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
The moody morning sky, covering my palette again
white, green, yellow, zinc white and red
the ev'ning planet, spinning on, the rains in vain
my lover's blue came in, ev'ryone drops dead.
While gazing at the movements, perplexed and cool
white turns black, ruby red in brownish mess, the fool
where is he, where is he my metaphoric lover,
acentric he moves on with the blackest cover
The dark green trees are gazing at I
why are there deepsea blue clouds, treading forth, why?
I lose trees out of sight, gone is the lovely emerald light
now almost night, all blackest diamonds sleep tight.
Awfully sleepy, my mind is heady, my passion blurred,
when I gave up, I see beauty, how absurd !
My most magical moon right on the spot,
is a most beautiful fluorescent biggest dot
hypnotizing….
heaven-high on the home firmament.
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
If you look at everything a little sideways
You would be amazed at the intricate connections between everything in this life.
Everything is poetry, just as poetry is everything.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
Stretch me out and count me like clouds
Say she is vapour
Venom, velvet and vermouth
With hair of hazelnut rapture
Clutch the moments, clutch the moonbeams
Clutch the stretched out skies of cloud and mustard gas sunset
Sing she is a child of trauma
Supressed in the name of breathing
Violence in the name of skin
And she is venom, velvet and vermouth
She was born to pink salt lakes in the low country
With ruby pomegranate eyes
And hair of hazelnut rapture
Girl with the soul of a thousand pilgrim journeys
Girl with the soul of a blackberry bush
Girl with the soul of olive trees and sheep meat and oven bread in the fire country
Human smiles
And other dark things of value
She lies like velvet
She lies in the name of supressing traumas
In the name of breathing
She bleeds like a billion stars bleed vapour
She is venom and vermouth
With hair of hazelnut rapture
She is the sum of a thousand pilgrim journeys
The prayer of holy rivers in the canyon country
The smoke of incense burned by sages
The scars of bodies burned by crusaders in mustard gas chambers
Goddess of Nuclear energies
Red-eyed like ruby pomegranates
Like the dewy cauldron of morning
When tenuous steps lead bodies down the path of executionary revolution
To boarders, frontiers, walls of white-skin scar tissue
Sing songs of Babylon in the free country
Clutch the moments
Clutch your breaths and hold them in broken palms
Clutch the tides and teach them
Breach your rib-cage, unstitch and return the borrowed bones
Melt the metaphoric thrones
Breathe backwards in the name of unsupressing traumas
In the name of truth
Stretch me out and count me like clouds
Girl of angel-breath ambition
Soul of blackberry bush and smile of splintered terracotta tile
Sing your songs
Say she is vapour
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
The embers blushed before the caressing eyes
of my new lover reaching out to snuggle against
the flickering light of welcoming warmth
naked and close
the room smelt of subtle wood chips and ash
roasted coffee beans and aftershave lotion
sexuality.
She was radiant in her skin tone
so exposed to accentuated curves
carving the fireside flame
into a furnace of wantonness. Uninhibited.
The snow outside cocooned the cabin
into a nest of togetherness.
I found here basking on a bar stool
eyes cast deep in thought on a gin and tonic
contemplation of dejection.
" He found another woman"
" Oh yeah, I just found my own woman!"
We giggled into the glass.
"Take me home to the mountains
of your mind and share with me your
meteoric rise to a metaphoric magical kingdom
where poets live and dream!'
" I have a furnace waiting for you"
" Lets go !"
Very short introduction to ecstasy.
Two days later
I dropped her off mid-city
near a replica of the Statue of Liberty
in a shopping window full of
picture postcards.
I had enough stored in the memory bank
to write a whole new dash of fireplace poems.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
The atoms that make up
The outermost layer of my skin
Repel yours the least
In some sort of metaphoric nuclear fusion
Though we may not release photons
With each touch
And we're not quite travelling fast enough
To create such an explosive reaction
In a physical sense
It seems that you still turn
my mass
into energy
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Luminescent is the way.
Where there were voices
that spoke in riddles.
Where there were mountains
who watched your cold shoulder.
Where there was life
and death was innate,
but patient.
You used to love the way she drove
you into the ground.
None the wiser to the inadequacy
of sleeping through.
She spoke to you,
her breath on your neck.
How many sheep must you count,
before the Shepard loses,
Loses patience.
Where there are voices,
There is spit,
Where there is life,
There are lungs.
Where you are,
is never the culmination,
You can never seek ******
For the moment you reach,
and finally take hold,
Whats to come will be for naught.
She is your goddess,
Let the ashes of dream
guide anew the light.
Take her block by block,
Or fly like humans can,
watch her whole, watch her becoming.
Burning shall be your dreams of fire.
Soot can be cleaned.
But a rag to reveal
That your city stands tall,
The peak grew and the skyline
represents the wind’s metaphoric lust.
She holds forever your patience,
why not, if only for laughs,
see if the wait is worth it.
❦
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Say baby, can I be your slave?
I've got to admit girl, your the **** girl
And I am digging you like a grave
Now do they call you daughter to the Spinning Pulsar
Or maybe Queen of 10,000 Moons, Sister to the distant yet
Rising star
Is your name Yemaya? Oh hell nah, it's got to be Oshun
Ooh is that a smile me put on your face child?
Wide as a field of jasmine and clover
Talk that talk honey, walk that walk money
High on legs that'll spite Jehovah
**** who am I
It's not important
But they call me brother to the night
And right now I am the blues in your left thigh
Trying to become the funk in your right
Who am I? 'll be whoever you say
But right now I'm the sight ***** hunter
Blindly pursuing you as my prey
And I just want to give you injections of
Sublime erections and get you to dance to my rhythm
Make you dream archtypes
Of black angels in flight
Upon wings of distorted, contorted metaphoric ****
Come on slim, **** your man, I ain't worried about him
It's you who I want to step to my scene
Cause rather than deal with the fallacy
Of this dry *** reality
I'd rather dance and romance your sweet *** in a wet dream
Who am I, well they all call me
Brother to the night and right now I am
The blues in your left thigh, trying to be the funk in your right
Is that alright?
by: Larenz Tate
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
She was a noun--
No.
She is adjective.
Yes.
Like a simile,
A metaphor with a rhyme.
And her hair, curly as a rhyme
In the afternoon rhyme.
Her descriptive lips puff adjective
On the verb cigarette.
While a thin silk metaphoric dress
Hangs lazily from her *******
Like an echoing simile...
Word by word, I verb her.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 2:46 PM UTC