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 Dictionary.com
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.
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
HEART LIKE A SMALL BIRD
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
This brings to mind lyrics written by Oscar Hammerstein II, for a song that wasn’t used in The Sound of Music. Supposedly they are the last lyrics he wrote before he died:
A bell is no bell till you ring it
A song is no song till you sing it
And love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay
Love isn’t love… Till you give it away
I had no idea, Bill. Thanks for that!
wow! good to be back. Must stroll back through the garden soon lest I miss beauties like this shimmering bloom!
hah! nice
Happy you’re back, Janet. Your words will dance wonderfully with these prompts.
So much tenderness in those last lines.
A beautiful example here, Walt.
WHEN TEARS LIKE SUMMER RAINDROPS FALL
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
Pearls of great price, indeed. Lovely.
Once again, I thank you, Sir!
Tears are the price paid…ah, yes. how little we expect this when we are young! Beautiful poem, Walt.
well, it seems the ‘s’ on ‘tears’ evaded both of us;-)
Aha! So it seems! But I can fix mine! 😉
…and yours!
🙂 thank-you! It’s nice to have friends in high places.
Poignant and beautiful. Walt, you paint word pictures like a Michaelangelo with amazing brushstrokes of beauty.
So nice of you to say, Iris! I am humbled by such kindness!
Even the title is a poem!
LATE AUGUST
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!
I agree with Janet… lovely poem and you used two of my favorite blooms, Queen Anne’s lace and chicory.
Perfect form on this, William. I love, ‘summer’s sultry sneer’
SUMMER IS A PRECIOUS STONE
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.”
#
I can see you taking that pad out of your pocket… lovely last lines.
Wow! The last line is a metaphor with beautiful imagery. Favorite line of the week. This should be an advertisement for summer.
Lovely
That ending should be in a book of summer quotes. What a gorgeous image!
Memento
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
“Scattering mementos that mother folds
And holds in her heart” I have a few of those to ponder over – sweet
‘midnight’s melding’ – beautiful, Janet! Glad you are back.
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.
A wonderful toast to the day, Iris.
Thanks
What better nightcap to have!
Sitting
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.
“grasp the difference
between silence
and simply being quiet.” Oh, wow, I love that
Great play on words.
Sorry, Misky, that was for you
When people learn there really is a difference, their lives will have greater comfort.
This won’t hold its formatting like on my blog, but you’ll get the idea, I think.
Clouds
I watched
fugitive clouds
chased across the sky.
The wind
was arresting.
.
©Misky 2016
See comment above
Okay. 😉
Clever, Misk!
Thank you!
Thanks for fixing the formatting, Walt (or Sara).
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
Actually, I live in Florida, so we never have drifting snow down here. But I still remember growing up in Northern Maine. Brrrrrr.
It has been soooo hot here in WV it almost makes me long for a snowstorm.
Love this one, Earl. ‘scavengers hunting for winter attire’ – Also made me think of scurrying animals seeking shelter.
Like burning embers
The asphalt scorches bare flesh
Glad I wear sneakers
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.
That sounds exhausting but worth it.
Wow! You used this prompt so well.
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.
Perfection Debi…love the way you used the running and trickling! 🙂
‘monochrome shades of fawn’ – Lovely image, Debi.
Thanks
“monochrome shades of fawn” Amazing and unique description. Summer and popsicles speak to the little girl in me. Well done, Debi
[…] – AN ENTERTAINING SUMMER – DAY #26: SUMMER SIMILES […]
[…] – AN ENTERTAINING SUMMER – DAY #26: SUMMER SIMILES […]
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.
my sweat is sweatin…. now that is hot