2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

For today’s prompt, write a metaphor poem. That is, write a poem built around a metaphor. Remember: Metaphors actually take on another object (like “I am a Tree” or “I am a Rock“). This is not to be confused with similes, which are like metaphors (for instance, “I am like a tree” or “I am like a rock”), but not quite. Dig? If so, then you are a shovel or spade or bulldozer. Now poem the heck out of metaphors today.

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Re-create Your Poetry!

Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!

In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.

Click to continue.

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Here’s my attempt at a Metaphor Poem:

“i am a bell”

i am a bell ready to ring
with just a touch for you i’ll sing

throughout the day into the night
ringing for you with all my might

but when you leave me on a shelf
i collect dust all by myself

so tie me to a piece of thread
& i’ll ring wherever i’m led

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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He is a bell.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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224 thoughts on “2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

  1. CJohnson

    METAPHOR

    I do not want to be
    A simile
    I do not want to be like something
    I do not want to be an ellipses
    Dragging on
    Pausing
    Confused
    I wanted to be
    A metaphor
    Solid
    Sure

  2. BDP

    “Spring Entering”

    What happens after the last snowstorm of winter?
    Spring enters, shy at first, a grinning lost friend.
    Except sometimes the illegit relative jotted on our Bible
    frontispiece—that’s who walks in the door. Anything,
    dear lord, but more family drama, though finally,
    what’s another seat at the picnic table? Children
    best know how to usher summer, running, glancing back
    to their parents, destination, the lakeside playground
    with sandy beach, beyond that, the soothing purple
    of a pine forest along the opposite shore. Catching fish
    from the wooden rowboat and releasing them. Falling
    in love with lingering twilight and the single bird
    that speaks its mind just as dark drops. A century
    transpires during heat-we-hope-will-never-end: fun
    multiplies each day into many. A perennial nineteen,
    the way we adults feel. How long since we were cautioned
    a kiss leads to something stronger, though we already knew,
    back when. Don’t say nothing’s forever. We’ve buried
    the truth that autumn will bring down its ornery ax—
    again and again. If we can’t let go, then one huge snow, hard.
    Never mind. Spring will knock once more, some time ahead.

    —B Peters

    Endwords from Richard Hugo, “Brief History,” Making Certain It Goes On

  3. sincerescribe

    Lantern Acrostic

    Lighting the path of others with my word—
    Always, I hope to change those who have heard.
    Notice my fire while hiking through the dark—
    This is my aim—help them to leave a mark.
    Entering and exiting life’s dense woods—
    Reflecting love, I lead them to the goods.
    Need I remember to burn midnight oil?

  4. pipersfancy

    What I Want to Say

    My table wobbles when I write
    and I cannot keep my words from
    sliding to and fro before they
    fall completely off the page
    and bounce—marbles on the floor.

    You watch with pursed lips when I write.
    Sometimes you take my pencil as if
    your hand knows what I want to write.
    It only proves that you can write.

    Your table doesn’t wobble like mine does.
    You probably don’t realize my frustration
    with having a body generate its own earthquake
    every time I want to share a thought.

    If only you could show me,
    help me steady this damn table,
    without that look on your face
    that tells me I’ll never be much of a writer
    and, perhaps you’re right.
    But, you will never get to read
    the love songs I write for my dog.

  5. azkbc

    I am a book.

    The title changes
    from day to day
    as do the contents.
    Sometimes I’m poetry,
    Sometimes prose.
    I’ve been a mystery

    Some days
    I’m a book of happiness
    full of laughter
    and stories
    I’m ready to share
    because few know them

    Some days I’m a book of sadness
    of events gone by, of twists
    and turns that went the wrong way
    or never came at all.
    It’s best to share sadness
    to help it go away.

    This book
    drifts in clouds,
    the cover closed
    revealing nothing
    of what’s inside
    until you open it.

    Admonitions to be gentle
    with this book
    fall on unhearing ears
    in the noise of the day.

  6. Jrentler

    Ralli rilius

    seeded where suns
    scarce & acid seeps

    so easy to rip free
    on a southern breeze

    calling forth
    the saplings brave

    to touch down
    elsewhere

    roots spread not deep
    but weave with others

    till the sky is reached
    by all

  7. Linda Hatton

    I Am a Mermaid

    But I don’t live
    in the sea.
    I flower from May
    to September
    when I add
    a sweet touch
    of color
    to your garden.
    Those who
    have cultivated me
    call me
    a forget-me-not.
    I’m easy to grow,
    reliable, too—
    you can count on me
    to bloom and add cheer
    to your life
    when you’re feeling blue.

  8. grcran

    I Am George Lucas

    I am not a Stair Way
    I am a Star War
    Metaphors be with you
    I’ll look you in the jedi
    Give you (pop)corn to chewie
    But I ain’t goin’ over to the darth side
    So call me evader, if you want
    I know it’s only sci & fi
    But I like it

    gpr crane

  9. Sara McNulty

    Cast

    I am a plaster cast,
    and fit snugly,
    molding to the contours of an injured
    arm or leg. I tend to shed while wet
    creating somewhat of a mess. Best to cover me with
    a large baggie for
    showers or baths.
    Thanks for following my directions. Get well soon!

  10. Nancy Posey

    I Am a Metaphor

    Not content to be like something else,
    to behave as another not like me,
    I am a metaphor.

    I teach the unknown, placing it just so,
    beside the known, pointing out
    just how much they are alike.

    I set up a blind date between the familiar
    and the unfamiliar, hoping
    what little they have in common
    takes hold.

    I am a metaphor, direct
    in finding connections, aware
    that word play is not play at all.

  11. julie e.

    SWEET OR SALTY
    Do you
    remember when we first met
    and I was your bowl of frosting
    smooth and creamy, delightfully sweet
    a complement to your devil’s food mood–
    I was your balance.
    Perfection.
    But
    somehow in time
    I became your box of salt
    existing only to season your life
    to bring out the flavors of your interests
    your friends your desires your work your play
    while at the same time
    solely to blame for your high blood pressure.
    So
    before my heart
    became jerky, I left
    You quickly finding a new bowl of
    frosting.

  12. Melanie

    The Match

    He is a match
    the last in the box
    all others spent and carefully gathered

    heart parched and withered
    soul scorched and shrivelled
    Fuel assembles at His feet

    those too long unchallenged fear
    something fresh, something new
    something not them…so

    they strike the match and
    the flame dies
    they think it’s ended…but

    heart blazes bright
    soul burns unquenchable
    fuel catches flame

    not the end they looked for
    but a new beginning
    Eden opens its gate

  13. drwasy

    Viewfinder

    The camera clicks
    what comes into focus
    first: the filled sink,

    the woman beside
    the counter, bathrobe
    tied loose, zooms to

    a breast in silhouette,
    the hand clutches a knife,
    carrots and onions splayed

    on a board, then pulls back to
    man by door, watches
    the woman, shakes

    his head and mouth opens,
    then closes, camera zooms
    to the knife slicing

    through vegetables,
    bathrobe drawn
    bight, face hidden

    in shadows, jaw
    pulsing in time
    to the knife.

  14. Matt

    I am
    the blank Word Document
    mocking you
    with every blink of my cursor.
    I am
    the pen that refuses to move
    across the page.
    I am
    the sound of crickets
    that echo in your brainpan
    when you tell your significant other
    that you’re writing poetry.
    I am
    every person that has crossed your path
    asking you what your Plan B is.

    You are
    The Bride, back from the dead
    spitting blood at your attackers.
    You are
    the sound of your
    steeling resolve and unwavering belief
    that poetry is a good thing.
    You are
    the spent pages and empty pen cartridges.
    You are Command + S.

    You are
    You will be
    ok.

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