Rhyme History Poems | Examples
These Rhyme History poems are examples of History poems about Rhyme. These are the best examples of History Rhyme poems written by international poets.
Where South China waters churn heavy and wide,
A widow rose up with the ocean's own tide.
No emperor’s decree could govern her hand,
She ruled forty thousand across sea and land.
Her laws were of iron, her word absolute—
No plunder unshared, and no thief with his loot.
With hundreds of junks bearing canvas of red,
The empires of Europe beheld her with dread.
The Qing and the Portuguese launched their attack,
Yet her fleet in the bay drove the battle-line back.
She outfought the crown and she outmaneuvered the state,
Till they offered her peace at the emperor's gate.
She surrendered her sails, but retained all her gold,
A pirate supreme who grew peaceful and old.
Though dynasties crumbled and admirals fell,
The terror of Canton lives on in the swell.
WHY AMERICAN COLONIES WERE LOST a lyrical local guide by US PoetrySoup poet is
Massey's outstanding sonnet poetry piece (second of the series) penned in the cross genre 'literary poetics ' follows in the footsteps of ground - breakingauthor Martin Gray,but extending it structurally ,beyond iambic trimeter ,thus bringing into play both rhyme&sonnet syllabics.
A 160 page poem with15 chapters ,each with a historic background intro) The poem has the dual bonus of being for loversof the combination of both poetry&history .
Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon
ordered marinara with parmesan.
When he finished up his plate,
he burped and hopped a southbound freight.
Writing history can be a crime,
when you insist that it must rhyme.
The bridge
to the future
a song
Living in the past
can only last
~ So long
Why the Irish Sing and Dance
by Frank Daub
Which the merrier – a speech or song?
One moves men to freedom
the other dances the soul along.
If they could, the Irish would
Transport their freedom to all the world.
From Parnell’s fire and flame
To Pearce’s sacramental offerings seldom heard.
Yet it is their music, the dreamer’s lively feet at dance,
That makes them known best.
Its poems set to music that brings the good unrest.
Then why their gift of blarney?
Why their speeches set to life?
They’ve made their songs their army,
to combat tears and strife.
The Irish are not selfish, and radiate from sea to sea,
The message that their music makes?
Every freedom fighter
Free.
When you think of places that are sad,
you might think of the Germans in Stalingrad,
or you may consider, too,
Napolean, leading the French, at Waterloo,
but, by far, the saddest place around,
for a hundred years, is Mudville town,
the place where Casey at the bat
failed, as his mighty swing fell flat.
Casey made excuses. Folks said, "Save your breath",
and mighty Casey drank himself to death.
Flowers in Mudville, they say, never bloom.
Children grow up in misery and gloom.
Yet, as all hope is disappearing,
lately, I have been hearing,
about a strapping young prospect,
the one standing there on deck.
Do you think he can make Mudville smile?
Will he strike out or hit the ball a mile?
Helen's was the face that launched a thousand ships -
so wrote Christopher Marlow
to explain what spurred their haste to take that trip;
but, I would like to ask him though,
this poet and playwright, wise and knowing -
which way were they going?
The pop of the fastball into the catcher’s mitt
The catcher’s snap throw to third
The crack of the bat from a great hit
Snap, crack(le) and pop were part of baseball first
The Paiute tribes, before they fell*,
were known to use, masterfully well,
copious pumice and obsidian,
found on the alpine meridian,
where the Long Valley Caldera blew to hell.
* "fell" might not be the right word. A little Internet research tells me that one of the Paiute tribes, the "Bishop Paiute Tribe" has a reservation near Bishop California, near the Mammoth Lakes area, where I collected pumice and obsidian as a child.
O, Muse divine! guide thou my soul and pen,
inspire me to divine song and rhythm,
to sing tales of Greek gods and thewy men,
now carved in ancient, history-bending prism.
Grant me Apollo's sky-searing chariot,
so like a scorching sun that sears the earth,
I may ascend to heights of poet's fame,
in Mount Parnassus's sacred, watery hearth.
But if divine impulse thou must withhold,
then may my measure's rhyme not be forsaken,
and instead may thy grace for me unfold,
so words of gold and gems be not untaken.
O Muse! Let me drink from the Pierian springs,
so thy sweet strains might move both gods and kings.
The year, 1491
just ahead of 1492
The year before Columbus
sailed the ocean blue
Imagine a world before
America was known
One year before stodgy loyal royals
encountered the planet’s first freedom zone
July 25, 2026
Entry in 1491 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
it is only an iceberg one of the underlings said
captain of this ship knew most would be dead
He had not wanted to eliminate all of those boats
but the promoters thought this beast would always float
only an iceberg, and the ship disappeared into the sea
with fifteen hundred people lost in the bowels of history
on her maiden voyage, this glorious vessel went down
For a disaster in history, the Titanic wears the crown
I'm going through a lover's quarrel.
The universe is fighting with me.
I'm trying to get the knowledge,
Thinking about my destiny.
Already figured it out, not trying to disrespect my family.
Caught between the life cycle of who I'm really trying to be.
Knowledge is the only way to live; that's all that matters to me.
But the force is so strong that I'm losing mentally.
I'm arguing with the universe that's stuck inside of me.
It's trying to elevate me to a place to live out eternity.
The elevation is stuck between one and seven.
The lower numbers are hell, and the higher numbers are heaven.
All I'm trying to do is get back my lost history.
How did we lose
the Straits of Hormuz
We listened to Saudi Arabia
A country all sand
struck up the band
‘Twas jealous of Mesopotamia*
_______________________________________
*Mesopotamia, today Iran and Iraq,
was home to the Tigris and Euphrates
Rivers, through which flowed interna-
tional commerce back then.
I lay dying, badly gored,
slain by Kahn and the Golden Horde,
only to come back as a fly
in the Palace of Versaille.
I went down in the Johnstown Flood.
I'm history's little thingamabub.
I always end up in a bloody mess,
never a button on Liz Taylor's dress.