Saturday, 17 January 2015

Poetic Devices

1. Rhyme

A Poem with a perfect rhyme
By Sylvia Chidi
If a poem could cost a dime
I will spend my ink and spend my time
Making the perfect rhyme

More than a million people may read it
Even if I have to sell it on credit
I will be the businesswoman with wit
Sit down! Think about it! 

A penny for the perfect sentence
A penny for a poem glaring with essence
A penny for writing about the present and past tense
A penny for describing a situation that is intense
A penny if I write truthfully without pretence
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme

If a poem could cost a pound
I will turn my life around
As I compose the perfect poetic sound
That rhymes against any background

My words will be sublime
Not just the perfect rhyme
They will be read both at teatime and during bedtime
My sentences will mature in their prime with time
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme

2. Alliteration

A Hunch

by Alan Loren
I had a horrible hunch
That got me going good
A feeling that felt freaky
Shall I share it, yes I should
I don’t like frightening stories
But when I got to school
My teacher told us terrible tales
Of goblins, ghosts and ghouls
I knew I should have stayed home
Stayed right there in my bed
Is this really something they should teach?
Is there nothing else instead?

by Ogden Nash
At midnight in the museum hall
The fossils gathered for a ball
There were no drums or saxophones,
But just the clatter of their bones,
A rolling, rattling, carefree circus
Of mammoth polkas and mazurkas.
Pterodactyls and brontosauruses
Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses.
Amid the mastodontic wassail
I caught the eye of one small fossil.
"Cheer up, sad world," he said, and winked-
"It's kind of fun to be extinct."
by Brenda Joyce Garacci
Peering through the drape
Of my synthetic cell,
How I long to escape
This manufactured hell.

Like a bruised, little bird
Too confused to fly, 
I’m trapped, in a word,
So confined am I.

A captive, collared lion
Alone in its pen,
I’m pacin’ and dyin’
In a manmade den.

For an eagle was not meant
To be locked in a cage,
Its life to be spent
Like a picture on a page.

And when a mighty lion,
In truth, is but a cat,  
It will spend its time tryin’
To be greater than that.
5. Hyperbole


by Shel Silverstein
 "I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue -
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke -
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my spine is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is -
what? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is ... Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"  

By Elaine George

She sleeps in her rose wood bed, 
under a blanket of velvet red;
 old and alone and forgotten,
 she dreams of the love 
she once had.

 Once again she recalls his caress 
on the curve of her hips and her breast as
 he moved his bow on the strings of her soul,
 playing her sound 'til his passion was spent.

 They traveled the whole world over,
 to every city and town;
 the maestro, his bow and violin,
 bringing each curtain down.

He died in a cry of sweet refrain,
 clutching her strings to his heart;
 as he fell to the floor in a final encore,
 tearing her world apart. 

 So she sleeps in her rose wood bed,
 under a blanket of velvet red;
 her strings still filled with the song of her soul,
 etched by the maestro 
that loved her 
so long ago!


A Diamond in the Rough
by Anonymous

The flower still stood in the midst of the storm;
 its petals still fresh and divinely clasped together.

The winds and rains couldn't stop buds to blossom,
 though being in a hostile weather. 

It was a plant brought down from the heavens by divinity,
 to proof the existence of manifestation of invisible invincibility.

We all have the flower deep within; 
that is waiting to glow like the Sun..... 

8. Metaphor
By Sandra M. Haight

                                       Inspiration, where do you go when
                                         you leave and your dry, barren 
                                     riverbed causes blinding dust storms 
                                      in my mind? Do you evaporate into 
                                         mist, become a gray dense fog 
                                      lying heavily in the air, intangible… 

                                            floating like a cloud, ever 
                                     changing shapes? Are you carried 
                                           by the wind, held hostage 
                                          to feed another storm when
                                    lightening strikes and your deluge 

                                                once again swells the 
                                                river to overflowing, 
                                              racing free and wild, 
                                                  reaching out beyond 
                                                     all boundaries? 

                                             If so, storm of inspiration 
                                              please deliver unto me 
                                                      your monster 
                                                      category five 


9 and 10. Imagery/ Free verse 

By Anonymous

When nature takes a turn for the worst 
grumbling rumble shake 
great balls of fire falling
 in her tears, black snowfalls.

 Burning smell of sulphur
rolling down the mountains 


they salute death rivers of flames 
the chariots of Hell's fire.

Crying infants wailing out 
embraced in their mothers arms
 held together with fathers
 They roared to the Gods for help
 falling silver ashes remains

 Imagining God had forsaken them
 as the skies disappeared from
 their eyes falling into the
 darkening death vision 

Their universe plunged into darkness
Victims they felt death falling upon them

A deadly feeling they are the children
 cursed by the damned volcano

No where to run 
No where to hide.

They stop and the black ash swallows them 
like a carpet of night 
forever gone

but always remembered in hearts

the fall of a great city of living history 

truly will live forever in the 

archives of time. 

12. Rhythm

Beat of the poem.

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