Metaphor 3
We are almost done with metaphors!
"Write a poem which, though it is a description of the object or scene (from Metaphor 2) is really about your parent."- Use metaphors only.
I know we are pushing the limits here kids, but I know you can do this! Let's work on this together. Good luck, and remember, all I am asking you to do is TRY.
posted by annes @ 8:13 AM
16 Comments:
I don't know if this is good or not, but here is my poem:
Jazzy Mom
Jazz festivals are fun.
My mother is fun too.
She helps me with my homework,
And music does that too.
My mother is the trumpeter, the trombone, and the bass,
She is the sax and piano, and the cowbell that is blasting into space!
She’s always in the forefront, but also in the back,
She give support when it is needed, but can be on the attack.
My mother keeps my life in beat, as I follow her cowbell,
Without, I am lost, but she can be a marvell.
My mother is the conductor; she tells us what to do,
And when to do what to be done, and how to tie our shoe.
She is the band that keeps me up,
She is the music, and should win the world cup,
My mother is a good singer, and can sing the same jazz tunes,
As any band in the whole world, and can make many fortunes.
My mother is as sweet as cupcakes that make me think of jazz,
My mother is the kind of person with not much spazz,
She is the instruments of the band, ‘cause when hit just right with light,
She sparkles as the jazzy thingamabobs do when they stand inside at night,
I love my mother as my jazz,
She makes me feel at home,
Whenever I am far from there, her tunes quell my homesick syndrome.
So, there it is, I hope it's good.
-I was not in class, so I don't know exactly how to write this poem.
-This is what I have...
My Mom
A plasma membrane
Maintaining homeostasis
Inside our home
It keeps bad stuff out
And lets good stuff in
Ya... this is the best I could do. I hope it's good enough.
Snow and Sleet
It is smooth, it is soft.
It is white, in two ways.
It came to this earth like everything else.
It is organic matter.
It breathes and lives.
It is cold and warm at the same time.
It watches over me in the winter.
It warm when it is cold outside.
It is as gentle as it gets.
It can freeze me at times, but never to death.
It is harsh in certain conditions, but rightly so.
It can be manipulated, but the results can be quite cold.
It coats my life with its icy surface.
It dwells in mountains and plains alike.
It changes the land in profound ways.
It never gets tired of warming my cold heart.
It is my mother.
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I'm not the best poet in the world so this is going to be interesting. We're hoping my mom doesn't read this because I don't think she would like to be compared to a pool. Here goes...
My Mom is the Pool
My mom is the water, smooth and soothing;
My mom is the deck, strong and hard;
My mom is the towel, warm and inviting,
My mom is the coach, encouraging and always on guard;
My mom is the flags, high and tight;
My mom is the cap, bright and colorful;
My mom is the race, competitive bright;
My mom is the strategy, complex and masterful.
I just realized I used the word bright twice in a row. I'll need to fix that.
Here is stanza 2 version 2.0. Maybe this one will make sense.
My mom is the flags, high and tight;
My mom is the cap, creative and colorful;
My mom is the race, competitive and bright;
My mom is the strategy, complex and masterful.
Ok here we go, Metaphor 3. By the way, some of you people who never post your poetry need to post. No one cares, but I would like to see some other people posting rather than the same old people every time.
Tuning My Parents (Part II)
She is always there for me.
She plays a lovely song.
She is an assortment of genre.
She possesses a reflective finish.
She electrifies the room.
She is acoustic at heart.
She is tuned just right.
She is a manifold of culture.
She warms my soul.
She provides escape.
She allows me to express myself.
She has no wrong answer.
She is made of wood; flammable yet potent.
She creates a beautiful sound.
She unites people.
She enchants people.
She is a guitar?
No.
She is my mom.
I know...it's deep.
Wow, these have all been really good! This poem is SUCH a stretch, but at least we're all trying, right?
I kind of played around with the structure in this one. So, here's the best I could do:
“A Warrior”
A mother is a warrior,
Proud, brave and strong.
She's a courageous soldier,
Fighting against all wrong.
She fights to raise
Her children in her days
And give them the best of her love.
She fights the fights
And sees the sights
Of these wars so very hard.
She loses in some
But the good times come
In victories that outweigh the rest.
Yes, a mother is a warrior
And her children are her charge.
And never will you see
A person’s heart be quite as large.
Sara- I think that you did your poem right. All we had to do was use metaphors to compare our parents to something without using like or as. But I think we were allowed to change our poem a bit...I don't think it had to be just our metaphor poem 2 without "like" or "as".
Ok, here's my metaphor poem 3 about my dad:
A glowing sphere steadily rises,
Enveloping with its warm embrace.
A gentle smile that reaches his eyes
My father, the sun, fills the space.
He cradles the lives of each precious child,
His gaze resting on the paths they take,
Radiating tender rays strong yet mild,
My father’s heart spills over for his children’s sake.
Deep within his burning core,
Love blazes beyond understanding
He constantly strives to offer more
His presence unobtrusively demanding.
The light in the sky is with us yet,
Prodding with a sunlit finger
But when it is time for the sun to set,
He knows he must let us go, and cannot linger.
The interogater turns the light upon the suspect.
He repeats the questions til he get's the right enters.
He is mindless as to whether they are true or not.
He pokes and prods to find what he wants and pushes for more.
The next time it's the same.
It's always the same.
And the same answers given.
Pointless.
My mother makes a point of systematically interogating me about gymnastics practice. Rather annoying.
I think i did this right...it is pretty much the same as my part 2 poem, but oh well?
My mom is our piano
She can sit silently,
But when asked can make
Any tragedy a musical
Her wisdom is as old the piano,
It well surpasses her age
Maybe not grand and glamorous,
But rich in her blessings
The structure of our family,
She’s been there for me all my life
As essential to our home as a spark is to a fire
The incredible woman can seem out of touch, but she is never out of tune
Her voice has sung me to sleep more times that I can count
She is my release, my relaxation therapy,
She can play any part you can imagine,
Never without a song in her heart,
My Mother.
She is the moon shining low.
She is the street, leading to and fro;
With all the drivers, passing go.
She is the many city lights, all aglow.
She is the stars, providing light.
She is the street lamp, burning bright.
She is the homes, locked up tight.
She is the police, ridding of fright.
My mother is the city at night.
so this looks hard.
I'm still not really sure what to do.
Anyways, here goes.
My mom is the vendor, and she is
The people clamoring to be a part.
She is the restaurants, theaters,
The shops and markets.
She is the street that gets walked upon,
On occasion.
Denver's 16th Street is really my mom.
that was weird. I never really thought of it that way.
But then again, my mom isn't a guitar, with no offense to Brian.
:)
)
Kari, I really like your poem. The structure is good and it has a nice rhythm.
Madison, the title of your poem is intriguing and makes me want to read more.
Sarah C., You did a good job of moving from metaphor one to metaphor three.
My mother is the whole outdoors-
Fresh and inviting
She is the snow-
Clean with deep pockets
My mother is the skis-
Firm in her beliefs, smooth in her thoughts
She is the beginning, intermediate, and advanced run-
A complicated woman
She is the convergence of all the runs-
A warm place to land
My mother is the ski mountain-
A bit challenging, a lot of fun
And ultimately-
What motivates me to try all it has to offer
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