"synecdoches" poems - Hello Poetry

Let me write you a poem Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles A poem that will eloquently tell How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach Figuratively Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh It will drown you in allusions, In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives That will tell How you got caught in revolving doors And how I laughed. I hope you have seen the Spolarium Because the poem will use it to denote How I knew you were fine But I never knew you'd be so huge If you haven't, We can see it together The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda They will call it God's gift to Poetry Studied and deconstructed For the next few centuries It was found taped under a desk they will say And they will scour the world to find That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem Let me write you that poem So that when they find you Only the greatest people on this planet Will read it to you.

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May 15, 2013

May 15, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC

rlavr

The [Greatest] Poem

Let me write you a poem Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles A poem that will eloquently tell How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach Figuratively Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh It will drown you in allusions, In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives That will tell How you got caught in revolving doors And how I laughed. I hope you have seen the Spolarium Because the poem will use it to denote How I knew you were fine But I never knew you'd be so huge If you haven't, We can see it together The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda They will call it God's gift to Poetry Studied and deconstructed For the next few centuries It was found taped under a desk they will say And they will scour the world to find That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem Let me write you that poem So that when they find you Only the greatest people on this planet Will read it to you.

29

gossamers of golden silk enriched with salt-water luster sea-foam pebbles nestled between warm sand freckles gracing sunset skin with a jolt i wake and wish silently to myself for someone to just put me out of my misery there's no serenity in sleep only an endless barrage of shifting mirages half-glimpsed through a looking-glass awaiting my every whimsical fear consciousness is a hoax a self-sustaining delusion premised on confusing anecdotes and misrepresented by inadequate synecdoches that fail to convey intended meaning it is not difficult to trace the illustration of truths that prove at once illusory and immediate deliberate attempts to assuage sentiment before it returns in full force terminate without consequence since affection drowned in ambivalence yet i somehow still lack the cognizance to be fully aware of my own subconscious

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Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC

pearsonbolt

jolt

gossamers of golden silk enriched with salt-water luster sea-foam pebbles nestled between warm sand freckles gracing sunset skin with a jolt i wake and wish silently to myself for someone to just put me out of my misery there's no serenity in sleep only an endless barrage of shifting mirages half-glimpsed through a looking-glass awaiting my every whimsical fear consciousness is a hoax a self-sustaining delusion premised on confusing anecdotes and misrepresented by inadequate synecdoches that fail to convey intended meaning it is not difficult to trace the illustration of truths that prove at once illusory and immediate deliberate attempts to assuage sentiment before it returns in full force terminate without consequence since affection drowned in ambivalence yet i somehow still lack the cognizance to be fully aware of my own subconscious

33

My secrets are metaphors. The words are artfully arranged in alliteration Or cautiously halted in Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves. My secrets are anaphoric. They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen. Sometimes they are synecdoches, Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again. My secrets are anecdotes. They write about themselves through personification. This poem juxtaposes itself; I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.

0

Mar 27, 2019

Mar 27, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC

jmedra2

Secrecy

My secrets are metaphors. The words are artfully arranged in alliteration Or cautiously halted in Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves. My secrets are anaphoric. They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen. Sometimes they are synecdoches, Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again. My secrets are anecdotes. They write about themselves through personification. This poem juxtaposes itself; I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.

12

I, tired synecdoches For exhausted sadness. I, fragmented animus, (……….)Stilled air in a mutiny, (……….)Sent afloat from mine eye. I, aimless bounty Missing bligh. (……….)I, nimble crumbs, (……….)Too mouldy and dry To be scraped off the floor Into bins, out of sight. I, Too perilless, Too stagnant To die. (I, tired)

0

Apr 9, 2018

Apr 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC

TomAlanQuest

I

I, tired synecdoches For exhausted sadness. I, fragmented animus, (……….)Stilled air in a mutiny, (……….)Sent afloat from mine eye. I, aimless bounty Missing bligh. (……….)I, nimble crumbs, (……….)Too mouldy and dry To be scraped off the floor Into bins, out of sight. I, Too perilless, Too stagnant To die. (I, tired)

16