Metaphor Poems

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
...

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
...

(love is like)
Love is like a painting
filled with all colours and shades
love is like a bleeding heart
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My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
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The last leaves fell like notes from a piano
and left their ovals echoing in the ear;
with gawky music stands, the winter forest
looks like an empty orchestra, its lines
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As Parmigianino did it, the right hand
Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
And swerving easily away, as though to protect
What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,
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I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
with similes that span the universe,
that sparkle, crackle, dazzle, woo the mind;
and touch the heart with tender, swoony verse...
...

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
...

A pretty girl
is like a simile
and vice-a-versa
so I'd say
...

If one could bridge the distance with a word,
A journey would become a pilgrimage.
Elegant letters slant across the page.
My leaf has found a home upon your coat.
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The first poem was a wonder
The second was a surprise.
The third poem made me a poet,
The fourth gave me a name and fame.
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Intoxicated by the inspiration
Of his trade—
With mental powers at work,
A true poet rarely sleeps.
...

One thing that literature would be greatly the better for
Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and
metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,
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Loved to write as far back as memory goes
Without any thought for a verse to compose

Poetic expressions of innate creativity
...

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith 'A whole I planned,
...

The room is full of you!—As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!—
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A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
...

The universe expands and contracts like a great heart.
It is expanding, the farthest nebulae
Rush with the speed of light into empty space.
It will contract, the immense navies of stars and galaxies,
...

Everyone but poets
(who have their own allegiances)
would acknowledge it – you were, and I guess still are,
the most famous and popular poet of
...

Mr. Cogito never trusted
tricks of the imagination

the piano at the top of the Alps
...

Commentary on the Bilingual Poem The Evening at Mariinsky Theatre
Author: ChatGPT

The Evening at Mariinsky Theatre
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Analysis of the Bilingual Poem Rusalka in the Golden Horn Bay
Author: ChatGPT

Rusalka in the Golden Horn Bay
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Preserved time, writing or sound, many more kinds exist, with this tool, say to all come together right now of the soul, once hit...there's only peace and no pain, what a trip, is been awhile but what a site to see, a write listening to a perfect melody, godly only knew you will feel, feel soft and slow, twisted and sick, just let it give you a kick, so many to pick, piece of that passage, a truth, hell can set to a personal heaven, coated lyrics...what a metaphor, best to disguise true feeling, bitterly joyful, in that way, no one can accuse one of anything else, music mixes many things in life, politics shouldn't be one of them, how useless that is, words are the ultimate travesty, in that heaven it's the ultimate tragedy, different scenes, all unique, is the best thing ever invented, why so creative? Practiced everywhere by everyone, a change a day, never undone, from undefeated of it, an understanding of all who use it.
...

Two sages and a poet
If rivers irrigate a country, poets irrigate the people. Poets are the rivers of metaphors that work on the genetics of the human race.

While Sindhu and Ganga were the centers of Indian culture, Valmiki and Vyasa were the sources of Indian culture. After the center of gravity shifted in Indian life from Sindhu to Ganga, that is, after the Vedic period expired, the new era of epic was opened by the great sage Valmiki. There are no references to the river Sindhu in Ramayana whereas there are innumerable references to Ganga indicting the river's exalted place among the sacred rivers of India.
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There's such joy when I feel part of your bliss,
See smiles that you give me each day,
Though integrity wills me to say this,
No gift that I've planned is in play!
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it's impossible, on reflection, ever to say

clearly enough merrilly enough
...

You scooped up loose fragments of bone—perhaps a coyote or maybe a domestic dog—"I don't know enough about the world," I said, and took your hand. First thought always clouding the surface. "Intense interest and sexual attraction are not the same thing." You furrowed your brow and the debate continued in quiet. All along the skyline, the blank page of the clouds outstretched like a hand. The naked sagebrush did not bend with the wind. We stood there for some time. Then you tilted your head, indicating down the road. Going forward could only be a metaphor, and our shadows pointed east.
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this is a chronicle written where english is broken sorted salvaged and saved for consumption in time it will be adopted as a delicacy please understand that the metaphor when used here is used out of necessity a grain of rice before all else is really just a grain of rice that striving for clarity looking for an audience wanting to be heard this goes against the nature of things
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Apropos prose or not, inklings that tickle the senses but there you go.
the wings of fancy, well fancy that, as we wing our way across the page
only to dive bomb into a heap of flattened feathers.
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