Tag Archives: metaphors

Ancient Discovery

Author’s note: this one has been sitting around in my drafts collecting dust. While I work on my next post, I thought I’d blow that dust into the wind.

Discovered by man anciently
Holds the anthropologist;
Robert Frost believes
The world will end with this.

Bono sings of one unquenchable,
While Billy Joel wails, “we didn’t start it,”
And Natalie acknowledges
This house is by it consumed.

Many have been notable,
Including Chicago and Rome,
Blame laid on the cow and the Christians.

Always accompanied by heat and light,
A tool to cook and sanitize,
A weapon to destroy.
Useful for filling urns,
Required for a pyre.

Often made a metaphor
For love and hate alike

Peter Garrett sings of beds acquainted with it,
As well as something
Twenty times as hot
As the hottest stuff in Gehanna.
But there may be some thing hotter still.

Copyright © 2023 H.K. Longmore

Out to Lunch

Allow me to set the stage:
The stage was set,
From strings to winds,
Percussion at their back.

Trombone scans the audience
Looking for familiar face;
Between strings and lights,
Sees none.

No matter,
Though life-changing it could be:
Now is time to focus,
Now is time to play.

Trombone shifts to euphonium;
Focus, his shadow.
Back to trombone,
Shadow maintained.

Applause over,
Ovations ended,
Instruments
Clear the stage.

Brain out to lunch, shadow stays;
Trombone turns to talk to tuba,
Then bid farewell until next time
The orchestras combine.

Leaving the stage,
To retrieve his shell,
Trombone's brain
Returns from lunch.

"By the way,"
Trombone brain says,
Replaying the recording made
While out to lunch,

"Someone called out,
'Nice job on the trombone!'
While you were talking to the tuba."
It may have been that familiar face.

Already gone from the stage,
And minutes passed,
Trombone
Picks up the pace.

Back on stage,
Putting instruments in case,
Trombone searches remaining audience,
Finds no familiar face.

Trombone leaves
To put all gear
In his car,
Then enters again

In search of that voice,
That face.

Crowd thinned,
It was clear,
The Complimenter
Had left.

Trombone replayed the compliment,
To identify the voice;
Memory obscured by delay
Before the replay.

Time steals clarity,
Memory morphs,
'Til Trombone remembers it
As if compliment was heard when spoken,

Leaving Trombone with the guilt
Of ignoring the Complimenter,
And the effect,
But not the intention.

© 2023 H.K. Longmore

Fetal

Curled up in a ball
Wrapped up in a hammock
Swaying in the salty breeze
Saline stained cheeks turn salty red
Red ball dips below the water line

Or, buried in the sand
Naught but head
Protrudes from mock grave
Sand a bearable weight of being
Brings calm to anxious limbs
Deepens once shallow breaths

Huddled ’round a 55 gallon drum
Fire burning low
Fingerless gloves the compulsory style
Company sells tragedy cheap
But Rails sing a compelling song
To be part of the wave

Buried in thoughts of death
Unbidden
He seeks new life

©2021 H.K. Longmore

Melody and Counter

It was years ago,
But I wish it were only yesterday.
You were there,
Yes, you were there.

Melody to my counter melody,
And encouragement
For my improvement,
As my part I could not play.

Time and songs,
Performances, recitals passed.
I found a way to remember,
To improve:

I’d retreat to the river,
To the bridge;
Where I would be heard,
With none to harmonize.

At rehearsal last,
Familiar piece in folder found—
Dusted off for Christmastime;
Still I had the counter.

Remembering my old struggle,
I began to fret;
You still had the melody,
But you were absent yet.

And you still had
The encouragement,
If only in my mind;
Your words, your melody I recalled.

I played alone
And played it well;
Praise for impromptu solo
I received.

Where thanks for praise should have flowed,
My tongue instead remarked
How incomplete I, counter melody,
Was without you, melody.

How incomplete I was without you.

© 2018 H.K. Longmore

Shroud

The mountain calls out,
Beckons me to come hither,
See through snowy veil.

Snowy veil reveals:
Scrub oak, aspen, evergreen;
Hides boulders and streams.

In valley below
Fire blazes in the night,
Turning shroud ash black.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

Kundera on Metaphors

[M]etaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.