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?
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?
3.Onomatopoiea
Fossils 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."
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."
4.Simile
GREATER THAN THAT
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.
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
Sick
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!"
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!"
6.Personification
Violin
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!
7.Symbolism
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
CREATIVE INSPIRATION
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
hurricane
9 and 10. Imagery/ Free verse
Pompeii
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
Molten
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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