Sunday, 18 January 2015

Poetic devices


Thinking of You

I'm thinking of you
With joy and pleasure,
Remembering times
I'll always treasure.

When I think of you,
My heart is light;
You're a special person,
A sheer delight.

Thoughts of you cheer me up
Whenever I'm blue;
I'm always happy
When I think of you.

I think of you often,
In the fondest way;
I cherish you more
Than I ever could say.

By Joanna Fuchs


Slippery Sloppery 

A slippery sloppery slipping snail Slithered slimed and slid on the floor Feeling hurried harried hungry and helpless As starlings screeched spiraled and saw That slippery sloppery slipping snail Who slithered slimed and slid on the floor A fluttering of feathers fell frighteningly fast Meant that slippery sloppery slipping snail Who slithered slimed and slid 
was no more.
By David Williams



Crack! Crack!
The fire crackles under the stars.
Sizzle! Sizzle!
The water sizzles above the fire.
Crunch! Crunch!
The campers crunching on potato chips.
Click! Clack! Click! Clack!
The tent poles clicking and clacking together.
Rustle! Rustle!
As we prepare our sleeping bags to go to sleep.
Chirp! Chirp!
The crickets say, “good-night”.

By unkown

Friends are like chocolate cake
You can never have too many.
Chocolate cake is like heaven -
Always amazing you with each taste or feeling.
Chocolate cake is like life with so many different pieces.
Chocolate cake is like happiness, you can never get enough of it.
By unknown


What Am I?

I’m bigger than the entire earth
More powerful than the sea
Though a million, billion have tried
Not one could ever stop me.
I control each person with my hand
and hold up fleets of ships.
I can make them bend to my will
with one word from my lips.
I’m the greatest power in the world
in this entire nation.
No one should ever try to stop
a child’s imagination.

By unknown


If Dogs Could Talk by Denise Rodgers

If dogs could talk, what they would say
would simply take your breath away.
Like: I don't want to see your knees.
Or: Pass a bit of roast beef, please.
When dawning sun shines in the east
they'd say: It's time for morning's feast.
When silent, still and somewhat broodish,
their minds are simply on your food dish.

Some might speak with British accent,
sniffing one another's back scent.
Some might lisp and some might stammer,
some would have atrocious grammar.
Some would chitchat, some would twaddle.
Some would rush and some would dawdle.
Curling on your soft bed nightly,
most would say: Good night,
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler’s journey is done;
The sun symbolizes life in William Blake’s “Ah Sunflower”
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler’s journey is done;
By unknown


I am one of many
Small branches of a broken tree
Always looking to the ones above
For guidance, strength and security.
One little branch trying
To keep the others from breaking away
Who will fall?
And who will stay?
Now I stand alone
Looking at the earth through the rain
And I see the broken branches I knew
Scattered about me in pain.
There are those who have taken an axe
To the root of our very foundation
And who have passed this destruction
Down to every new generation.
If I could take that axe
I would toss it deep into the sea
Never to return again
To harm the generations that follow me.
I am one of many
But alone I will go
And plant the new seeds
Where a beautiful tree will grow.
By unknown


The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
By T.S. Eliot

Free verse

After the Sea-Ship by Walt Whitman 

After the Sea-Ship—after the whistling winds;
After the white-gray sails, taut to their spars and ropes,
Below, a myriad, myriad waves, hastening, lifting up their necks, 
Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship: 
Waves of the ocean, bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,
Waves, undulating waves—liquid, uneven, emulous waves,
Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves, 
Where the great Vessel, sailing and tacking, displaced the surface;

'Will there really be a morning? 
Is there such a thing as day? 
Could I see it from the mountains 
If I were as tall as they? 
Has it feet like water-lilies? 
Has it feathers like a bird? 
Is it brought from famous countries 
Of which I have never heard? 
Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! 
Oh, some wise man from the skies! 
Please to tell a little pilgrim 
Where the place called morning lies!'
By Emily Dickinson,

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