Friday, February 09, 2007

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.


Blogger sarahc said...

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.

Sat Feb 10, 08:54:00 PM  
Blogger Madisonm said...

"One Mother, Leave Room for Cream"

But at times, scorching
Can burn
But can also comfort

But at times, unpredictable
Can spill
But can also contain together

But at times, nauseating
Can infuriate
But can also please

But at times, bitter
Can bore stiff
But can also excite

But at times, stomach-churning
Can worsen
But can also enliven

But at times, deceiving
Can be hated
But never hates."

I dont know if I did this poem exactly right, but this is a try!

Sun Feb 11, 01:15:00 PM  
Blogger alexd said...

-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

Sun Feb 11, 02:29:00 PM  
Blogger danh said...

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.

Sun Feb 11, 05:50:00 PM  
Blogger danh said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

Sun Feb 11, 05:50:00 PM  
Blogger karib said...

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.

Sun Feb 11, 05:55:00 PM  
Blogger karib said...

I just realized I used the word bright twice in a row. I'll need to fix that.

Sun Feb 11, 05:56:00 PM  
Blogger karib said...

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.

Sun Feb 11, 05:59:00 PM  
Blogger briang said...

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?
She is my mom.

I's deep.

Sun Feb 11, 06:32:00 PM  
Blogger AnnaD said...

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.

Sun Feb 11, 08:01:00 PM  
Blogger saram said...

This is my metaphor 2 poem with out the 'like' in them. I know I will need to fix it later, but is that all we do? Or do we write a big long poem? Can someone get back to me on that?

My Mom is the ocean, incredibly beautiful.
My Mom is the water, magnificent and wonderful.
My Mom is the seashells, hidden treasures waiting to be found.
My Mom is the seashore, fun to be around.
My Mom is the big huge waves, scary when their mad.
My Mom is the ripples, soothing after a day that was bad.

Sun Feb 11, 08:15:00 PM  
Blogger christa s said...

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.

Sun Feb 11, 08:46:00 PM  
Blogger Lane C. said...

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.

My mother makes a point of systematically interogating me about gymnastics practice. Rather annoying.

Sun Feb 11, 09:16:00 PM  
Blogger EmilyH said...

I think i did this 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.

Sun Feb 11, 09:33:00 PM  
Blogger elyse h said...

I wrote it this way for metaphor poem 2 so i just rewrote that one and here's metaphor poem 3

She fits the scene of my life perfectly
She is the Flames of my fire
Red, orange, and yellow flames of the flowers she has planted in our garden
She is the light breeze that keeps the fire going even once the fire truck arrives and tries everything in its power to extinguish the everlasting fire
The end of the flame is nonexistent
You can see it in our blue eyes
Our smiles during blue skies
And the rest of our lives
That until I take my last breath
My mom will never let the fire reach death

Mon Feb 12, 08:38:00 AM  
Blogger KathrynT said...

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.

Mon Feb 12, 03:55:00 PM  
Blogger ADRIANA G said...

madison--I loved your poem, I think I know exactly what you are talking about! I liked the comparisons. They made total sense, but it was something I never would have thought of. You might want to change the last line of the second stanza a little bit. I thought the title was great.

Kathryn, your poem is great. The rhyme and structure sounds really good. You might want to think of another word to use besides light. I noticed it was in there twice.

Mon Feb 12, 04:14:00 PM  
Blogger alexm said...

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.

Mon Feb 12, 04:49:00 PM  
Blogger EmilyL said...

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.

Mon Feb 12, 05:54:00 PM  
Blogger paigen said...

Brian, I really liked your poem. It was nice how you kept it simple and you let the reader guess what you were thinking during the whole poem. Good job!

Tue Feb 13, 04:36:00 PM  
Blogger chelseah said...

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

Tue Feb 13, 09:57:00 PM  

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