The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: metaphor

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Annual Report

1 July 2024 /

Poetry by William Swarts

Exaggerate old metaphor, expand it
out of all proportion, over-inflate
the usual occasion: each tulip is
a microphone broadcasting the season,
every daffodil a brash loudspeaker
trumpeting a processional for the sun.
Now a glory of color covers the earth,
stridently smothers the hush of grass
growing green and too abundantly
while spring waxes the way to winter.

William Swarts is the author of “Harmonies Unheard,” “Strickland Plains and Other Poems” and “Treehouse of the Mind.” He won First Prize in the Litchfield Review‘s annual Poetry Contest. He studied with Bolligen Prize-winner David Ignatow at the 92nd Street YM-YWHA Poetry Center in New York City.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

Feeding Time

3 October 2023 /

Poetry by Stephen J. Cribari

I hang my poems on the kitchen wall, each one
A balanced meal providing nourishment
From the artist’s pallet of essential food groups:
Danger, beauty, wisdom, insight, rage.

I say I hang these poems as my defense
Against obscurity but truth be told
I’m peckish. I’m just providing for myself.
I nibble here and there and snack and munch
On feelings and thoughts, on metaphor and rhyme,
The fiber and oats and hay and supplements
Of the controlled diet unique to this animal.

My poems: feed buckets hanging in the stall
Of a horse that would bolt given half a chance.

Stephen J Cribari has been writing poetry for over sixty years. In a parallel life he was a criminal defense attorney and law professor. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

gray house with fireplace surrounded by grass under white and gray cloudy sky
Photo by Sebastian Sørensen on Pexels.com

The House

20 April 2023 /

Poetry by G. Milton

The house, like my childhood, abandoned.
Withered, worn, and saddened.
The broken door hangs by its rusty hinges.
Once mighty, now only cringes.

The windows, like my dreams, shattered.
Shiny shards of glass tossed and scattered.
The ragged steps creak and sway
buckling under the stress of another torrid day.

The roof, like my life, dilapidated and leaking.
Much like the tears I’m constantly weeping.
The paint just peels and fades away.
Once vibrant, now, only a somber gray.

The foundation, like my soul, buckled and cracked.
Trembling like a kitten being attacked.
Once strong, stubborn, and sturdy.
Now, broken, weakened, and dirty.

The house, like me, has been through it all.
Beaten, battered, ready to fall.
Although we dread the next inevitable storm,
inside us both, it is still inviting and warm.

G. Milton is a part time writer and full-time grandparent.

photo of river with calm waters
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

Benthic:

3 March 2022 /

Definition- the flora and fauna found on the bottom, or in the bottom sediments, of a sea, lake, or other body of water

Poetry by Johanna Tollefson

Then a realization— Underwater plants need sunlight to breath,
                                                   just like any other plant. You might think

this is a metaphor, but it’s just a fact. A fact like in her fantasies,
they are both fish. Fish have fish problems. Every day is swim
                                                 or swim away. You might think

this is a metaphor, but it’s the truth. The ultra-violet rays of the sun
spear through waterbodies. Waterbodies is the correct term for all bodies
                                                of water, saline or fresh. Flowers and fish

are both easily killed off by phytoplankton. Phytoplankton accumulates,
grows thick in silty water, they are microscopic. In the scope of things
                                              what else is the absence of sun but the end?

What else is beginning but a breath of fresh air and you the fish? This is benthic
living— A root in the mud soil. A fish to clean the water air. A sun to breath
                                             light. And you, a metaphor for a rock at the bottom of a pond.

Johanna Tollefson is a writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, currently getting her MFA from Minn State, Mankato. She is new to the Midwest, hailing from Idaho and Oregon, but is settling into the long winters and humid summers. She loves all things sensory and is also growing a recipe resume which she loves to use on guests.

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