Another simple quote becomes our fuel for today’s prompt. The age old conundrum between the concepts of similes and metaphors. To refresh:

A simile is a figure of speech in which two unlike things are explicitly compared, as in “she is like a rose.”, “The thick fog is like pea soup.”**

In comparison, a metaphor is a figure of speech in which a term or phrase is applied to something to which it is not literally applicable in order to suggest a resemblance, as in “A mighty fortress is our God.”, “The fog is thick pea soup.”.**
To throw a monkey wrench into it, a mixed metaphor is the use in the same expression of two or more metaphors that are incongruous or illogical when combined, as in “The president will put the ship of state on its feet.”.**
** All definitions are from
The quote to trigger your response:
“Summer, like a kiss, trembles when it first arrives.” ~ Marty Rubin
Come up with a few summer metaphors or similies and put one (some) into your poem.



    A loving heart is to be held,
    not tightly, but like a small bird.
    Gently, tenderly – barely closing around it.

    It cannot be held forever,
    love is a treasure that must be sent into the world.
    A love smothered, languishes. Given away, it returns to you.

    They say, if you love something, set it free.
    It will return if it was meant to be.
    If not, then you both are free.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


    The thunder storm violently rages
    as the lightning flash illuminates,
    littering the horizon with brilliance;
    it’s impact is vividly haunting.
    The rain like a rivulet runs,
    a remote pool of lifeless tears
    in search of one sad, but willing heart.
    Tears are the price paid for love lost.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


    The weary time of year once more is here.
    Despite the Queen Anne’s lace and chicory,
    Earth longs for autumn and its frosted cheer,

    for grass no longer shimmers, and the deer
    have sought the shade beneath the thickest tree;
    the weary time of year once more is here,

    bringing with it a languid atmosphere
    of muggy days and nights, when sweat runs free.
    Earth longs for autumn and its frosted cheer,

    seeking relief from summer’s sultry sneer
    that withers leaves and renders them debris;
    the weary time of year once more is here,

    the time when summertime is sharp and sere,
    and hope is worn, and one can plainly see:
    Earth longs for autumn and its frosted cheer.

    I envy deer; they know not care nor fear
    beneath the maple’s sheltering canopy.
    The weary time of year once more is here;
    Earth longs for autumn and its frosted cheer.

    • We had some of this sweltering heat in hte past week and i began to understand the weariness of summer, but here in southern Ontario the feels like 40 days don’t last too long…we’re back to 20C with a high of 27 fore-casted today:)
      This poem is filled with sultry, pining imagery. gorgeous!


    When the hotplate of summer sizzles
    on the gridiron of one more July,
    we lift our bare feet across the sand,
    then, like lemmings, race toward water’s edge,
    and plunge warm bodies into the shocking cold.

    Above the winking solar eye, we splash
    cupped hands and frog feet to the raucous sounds
    of laughing young castle builders on the beach.
    Overhead, cawing seagulls take terns to the heights,
    leading them like Pied Pipers toward blue heavens.

    I jot into my pad for later in the day:
    “Summer is a precious brilliant stone
    worn on the ring finger of Time’s waving hand.”



    This morning summer climbed my porch like a yellow cat, warm and lazy…

    Summer morning climbs over the hill
    To sit on my porch like a yellow cat
    Licking its paws
    Before it slips through the underbrush
    To become part of
    The World That Was

    Little girl laughs; Leaps, limber and lithe
    Through a blue and gold afternoon of
    Summer art
    Before she slips from ribbons and curls
    Scattering mementos that mother folds
    And holds in her heart

    Summer dusk is like a melting pot
    Basting the rise and fall of Time’s
    Latest foray
    Before it too falls prey to the reaching way
    Of midnight’s melding, the shaky gelding
    Stands, then gallops away

    Day of Destiny

    Eastern horizon stretches and yawns as the
    summer day stretches out like an endless winding highway
    begging to be explored.
    Mockingbirds awaken nature while the aroma of
    dripping coffee tantalizes man from slumber.
    Clocks slow their hands as the day slowly emerges,
    a bud beginning to blossom into its surreal profusion.
    Eventually the sun slowly sinks into its bed
    but the moon bursts forth to signal its nightcap
    A toast to the day of an avenue well journeyed.


    When one can not
    find an exit in the fog,
    one might stop,
    sit in meditation,
    in quiet contemplation.
    In doing so, one can
    discover unexpected moments
    with a beauty all their own.
    To survive the fog,
    one must be willing
    to become oneself,
    to trust.
    Like a blind dog, running
    headlong into the dark,
    one must accept whatever comes,
    including the brilliant phosphorescence
    of a new way of seeing the world.
    To escape the pea soup
    of not knowing,
    simply make room for everything,
    joy, grief, misery, relief.
    As a spider weaving a web,
    starting from nothing,
    first grasp the difference
    between silence
    and simply being quiet.

  8. This won’t hold its formatting like on my blog, but you’ll get the idea, I think.


    I watched
            fugitive clouds
                         chased across the sky.
                                                The wind
                                                was arresting.

    ©Misky 2016

    Summer Simiphores

    Like a newborn kitten it stumbles in
    Warming like an oven readying to bake
    Low at first like a summer breeze
    Then steadily rising as the tides at noon

    Suddenly and unannounced it peaks
    Like a mountainside rushing from the fog
    And we all panic with sweat like downpours
    Begging for the coolness of autumn
    To envelop us with cloaks of relief

    Then, as quickly as it stumbled in
    A blanket of snow covers the ground
    Dust like at first, then drifting in the wind
    Like a desert turned frosty and white

    Just when we adjusted to the heat and
    The complaints, like the cold, disappeared
    Someone turned off the oven and then
    Like scavengers we hunt for winter attire

    But don’t worry
    Like green grass and hot nights
    Summer will saunter in once more
    To some like a bad dream
    But to me like blessed relief

    © Earl Parsons

  10. Mountain Hike

    Like moles we crawl out in darkness to beat the heat.
    We ascend the mountains like goats looking for pasture.
    By the time we get to the switchbacks
    we’re moving like sloths, very tired sloths.
    We arrive at the lake
    and lie on the grass like beached whales.
    We gulp down our lunches like starving dogs.
    Then we slowly rise like lazy cats
    reluctantly ending their naps.
    Then we shuffle down like migrating penguins.
    Finally, in the truck, our muscles screech like owls.

  11. Summer

    Summer is like a sweet syrupy popsicle
    melting under the sun
    in puddles of July days that run
    she trickles
    into August and soon will be gone,
    dried, shriveled, monochrome shades of fawn,
    evaporating into the air
    without a care
    to reappear again next year.

  12. Pingback: This Poem is a Thunderstorm | Metaphors and Smiles

  13. Pingback: This Poem is a Pond | Metaphors and Smiles

  14. Sizzle, Sizzle–No Drizzle

    I am plumb wore out, I tell ya.
    That heat is gonna leave me
    a henhouse fulla fried chickens.
    Yessir! Why it’s so hot,
    that glass of iced tea I jes poured
    done brewed itself into hot tea.
    See here, if we don’t git some rain
    soon, I’m a’feared they gonna find
    a big dried prune lyin’ on the floor
    ‘stead of a man. I tell ya, Sam,
    my sweat is sweatin’. Yessir,
    I am plumb wore out.

Comments are closed.