Most Liked Allegory Poems (898)

There is a little vegetation
in the desert -
nothing consequential,
just some
nameless
unremarkable
shrubs
ordering the landscape
like infants
suckling
on an empty breast.

How I wish
instead
I could cover these
sterile sands
with life:
grass
and roots,
the slender stem
of the dandelion,
and the gifted
clover
(that eternal music
of my deeper self)

How I wish
instead
I could
spread my love
over these
hostile lands -
and like
the herald of a solstice
sow the seeds
of the harvest.

there it is
wasting in the sun:
a rotting whale.

the weeds grow around it like a disease,
around the drive shaft
and the wheel rotors,
and the old white-walls that hang there
like four withered stumps,
speaking of dust,
decay,
and terminal uselessness.

a swarm of bees have made their home
in the steering column

they buzz around
like a churchyard full of yammering old women,
arrogant and haughty
pointless in their projections
but vicious all the same.

they buzz around patrolling the dying demesne,
stinging
the unlucky passer-by,
like the old grease-smeared dog
who sniffs around
the unhinged door that grates in the wind,
looking for a place to piss.

no one knows when this old rusting car
was abandoned here,
amidst these slow movements of wreckage,
it just sits there,
wasting in the sun.

Taxidermy-
Not quite photography.

It’s just a little more visual than a framed image,
Some else takes the shot.
But the buck
Might not smile
before the bullet whizzes across the mist
in the early mornings open field.

Just a thought in a barber shop
with the relevant theme mounted around the walls.
Why not leave the animals faces the way
they were when they died?

The point is to make them look more ALIVE
and at peace with being
DECAPATATED.
Antlers crown symmetrically out and up,
the way an old tree looks bare in winter;
even in the comforts of indoor heating
and ergonomically seats-
There is a VERY cold shiver running up my spine.
As if I were staring that buck
right in his painless eyes
and black mussel
in the middle of his open field.

I wonder if the man that shot that dear
thought to himself,

" GEE, that looks like it really hurts!
I hope we can make'em look the way he was
a second ago- before I shot 'em,
so I don't feel so bad when I eat 'em."

I know he talks like that.
And that shiver has moved up to the thought of;
I hope that’s not the guy cutting my hair,
with the bear trap behind him
clean enough to have never been used.
the metaphor would be as big as a cargo ship's anchor.
And horns curled thicker than thumbnails
center a glaring vague acceptance
from a ram that could have just slipped off the mountain.
A whole family of pheasants,
horse tack, spurs (the pointy ones),
and a string of bullets for a revolver
I don't see anywhere
hang over the barber’s stall wall.

Ghosts don't even haunt
like a raccoon’s pelt streched flat over the waiting chairs,
and I'm in line to get my ears lowerd.
But I forgot what for,
because its my turn next
to sit in that leathery chair, rolling around to my reflection
with my head cocked to the side
and say with straight face....

" Yeah um,
can we take alittle more off the top this time?"

A single sail is bleaching brightly
Upon the waves caressing bland,
What seeks it in a stranger country?
Why did it leave its native strand?

When winds pipe high, load roar the billows
And with a crashing bends the mast,
It does not shun its luckless fortune,
Nor haste to port before the blast.

To-day the sea is clear as azure,
The sun shines gaily, faint the wind--
But it revolting, looks for tempest,
And dreams in storms its peace to find!


Mikhail Lermontov

Although this land is not my own,
I will remember its inland sea
and the waters that are so cold
the sand as white
as old bones, the pine trees
strangely red where the sun comes down.

I cannot say if it is our love,
or the day, that is ending.



Anna Akhmatova

no matter what they say,
no matter what they gossip...
no matter how i look,it's just me...
rather than to please everybody..
i'd rather choose to be simply me...

don't ask,don't judge..
cause i wanted to be just simply me,anyone
who opposes,that's not my problem cause
i just wanted to be the real me..

as peepers watch they share the love
with each new word unfurled
sweet tidings raining from above
before the gazing world

but do I pry, should I spy
on other hearts' words rendered?
that is to say, am I in the way?
for not to me, are they tendered

tasty pinch of another's soul
furtive peek into their room
lips moist, eavesdroppingly patrol
the joy others share, or gloom

ever the case, tis hard to erase
the pictures framed in my mind
but they little care, do the unaware
in search of their love, to find

George Washington
has never lied to me.
Not so sure 'bout
that cherry tree,
but when it comes to flippin a coin
he always gets to the point.
Toss-up
and-
catch the wisdom bestowed.
Simply call heads
"Yes" or tails
"no".

George Washington never
flipped a coin
with me in mind though.
Why does't he ever ask me
"Should we go to the bar later?"
Expresso or gas,
paper no-
Don't worry George,
no plastic on me.
Just infinite change in my
pocket.

Defining

What defines our lives as we walk through this wonderful and horrible world we live in
We see the banker as he walks his way through the day, inside his lonely stall
The cook as he dances his way through his kitchen, never alone, always in a rush and busy
There are some jobs to hard and to rough to think about, yet the daily life goes on.

With this, are we defined? Does it make us who we are? Or do we make it what it is?
The questions in this are endless indeed, but when truly asked, we find it is our heart
Where our heart is, what our heart wants, this, and this alone defines our existence
For where the heart is, there too does the mind find its roaming path bent and shaped

What of the lovers, lost in their embrace? And those that have watched their love cool?
Where then does that leave and lead, what road and path can that life lead down?
Or those that have lost their love, upon the road, or from their life, what of those?
From strife, or life, or dangers spate, or anger. Angst, or one of a million types

Yes, this too defines us, each and every moment; brings us to where we are and should be
How then do we match what we do and who we are and what we want with where we are?
This is the toughest part of all, the defining moment if you will of our lives and love
For in there, that is the intersection of what is with what could be, that defines where we are

Lifes Line

The blue of Melancholia strikes, where alone is like unto dusk, just before a storm passes on the plains... At times where the world seems to spin, caught in the tornadic turmoil that may eventually settle, but often lasts for days.

Ah, to have there someone close, to touch the heart, to mellow the color, making it the perfect blue that melds into the sea creating the circle and bringing order from the chaos; look where you may, the world is the same, the crisp blue of sky and sea a-distant.

To bring this forth, ah, to bring the quietude and calm, to find the peaceful eye of the hurricane, the calm above the storm. How, can you describe?

Caught in the melancholic muse, to write, to describe, but not to wend the way from whence the mood strikes, but to exist in timeless daze, adrift in the storm tossed world, praying for relief, to avoid the reef, to find the calming shore, alee from the windy surf.

Stuck, caught at the line of air and water, the world silences and still, caught upon the doldrums of fates becalmed wiles, waiting, breathing, perspiring, gasping at each sharp smack of wave upon the hull, becalmed upon the mists of life, lost amidst time and space.

Waiting for the line, to lead to life.