Three Figures of Speech
Bellowing so soundlessly at distant, solar moons,
we're squatters in a cold, palatial slum;
shipwrecked in a landlocked harbour; desiccated blooms
whose newly-ancient parts exceed their sum.
No roominess within these vacant rooms,
a want of absence in their vacuum.
A stippled pike looks like a pike,
string just resembles 'string':
no discrete thing is truly 'like'
another discrete thing.
(iii) Mixed Metaphors
Though counting our blessings
we know life is cheap,
a three-legged gift-horse
which looks but won't leap-
we bite on the bullet
and never say 'die'
whilst banana skins fall
out of clear, blue skies.
If you have any comments on this poem, Kevin Saving would be pleased to hear from you.