Rhyme Poets Poems | Examples
These Rhyme Poets poems are examples of Poets poems about Rhyme. These are the best examples of Poets Rhyme poems written by international poets.
Not too many fellow poets read my lines anymore
I’m either rather predictable or a total bore
So, I’ve read the tea leaves; I’ve got to change
My mental approach I need to rearrange
Instead of couplets, should I write sonnets?
Or on every rhyme, put more spin on it?
I’m not sure, but something’s got to give
~ unless with a handful of readers I’m content to live
Gotta get the kinks out of his keyboard
warm up well before he performs
Like a fencer plays with the tip of his sword
sets his fingers to fly like a unicorn ...
Ah, but that's simple: it’s a pianist, you say
poets don’t speed along their way
Consider this, though, my newfound friend ~
poets race their thoughts as they round the bend
If l had to hand-pick fifteen poets from Poetry Soup
To meet and a share day
I know exactly who l would pick
Without doubt and straight away
We are all drawn to different personalities
Solely from the words we pen
Connections made , thoughts shared
We now have a poetry friend
The poets l would pick are varied
From different walks of life
Different cultures , different ages
Conversation and humour would be rife
Yet, when the day ended ….l wonder
Would l pick the same fifteen again
Or would l walk away thinking
Really?….what an absolute pain!
Soon to be replaced by AI
Some poets curse
Others yearn for
the 'good old days'
of wracking our brains
for just the right metaphor
or the perfect simile
So. I plead guilty to writing facsimiles
~ ‘cos NONE of the above applies to me
William Shakespeare - what makes him so hot?
Because he can talk fancy and I cannot?
Because he wears ruffles and a feathered cap?
Because he put the English stage on the map?
Trust me sweetie, I could quickly dispatch
William Shakespeare in an arm-wrestling match.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Never used an umbrella
He dodged raindrops
Like a criminal flees cops
Wiggling like a bowl of jello
Some are soft and sweet
Others….well….a bit sharper
Colder…edged in frost
There are those that
Turn up the heat
Slowly simmering
The subtlety of satire
Softening the edges
Of the boldly bawdy limerick
There are those that dance
To that different drummer
Scattered alliterative groups
Counting meter’s coup
On a hesitant rhyme.
Ranters, rambling on the
Borders of repetition
Stung by the brevity
Of a well-placed Senryu.
And still the Bard holds favor
As time, in changing costume
Alters allegorical allegiances
Cold youth rebelling
‘gainst the yellowed page
Numerical wizards
Seeking arithmetic advantage
Lover’s dreaming of lust’s long faded scent
Scribbling in strained distress
Whistling amid the gravestones
Of silenced poets
like in an ice cream shoppe or confectionery
a poet’s selection’s necessary
couplet or rhyme, lyrical chime
sonnet or ode, peach ala mode
fonts galore and shapes
like raspberry dreamscapes
symbolism in imagery, or
metaphor continuously
begin with the ending
end with the beginning
which person – 1st, 2nd , 4th, 3rd,
animal, human, fish or bird
infinite assortment, endless variety
~ remember not to leave out levity
But who will free the poetry
Of its endless binding history
In doing so free you and me
To write as if we’re truly free
Of meters lockstep droning march
Of lifeless linen, too much starch
Tongues twisted by alliteration
Trains of words leaving the station
But who will free the poetry
Still locked within the who of me
Until I shout – “just let it be”
For poetry’s always been free
Its forms a method to a means
Ekphrasis words creating scenes
Of city streets in tattered jeans
Fairy tales of rescued Queens
So, fill the page with loving’s rage
A gentle breeze on windblown sage
Release the Kraken of the mind
Rescue the poet left behind
So, just what is poetry?
An endless attempt to rhyme with orange?
A forever searching of the soul for meaning?
An idyll fantasy a-dance with alliteration’s riffs?
An individual search for “our” Holy Grail
Perhaps, a distant song
Forever playing in our heads,
Sung softly ‘neath the murmur of the day.
Pitons driven into the stony crust of life.
A mud puddle inviting us to make mud pies
Rekindle the joy of soft pliable words
Shaping a moment to ponder
Poetry’s resonant question
“who makes the best mud pies”
Poetry soup admin I do commend
no poetry division do you recommend
There seems to be some poets who think they're upper class
Me a pleb who's down below think the idea of division is a farce
Some poems that are posted
I cannot make head nor tail
In a class I term esoteric
Does this mean as a poet
my poetry attempts deserve to fail
For me the point of posting poems
whatever form I've written the reader understands
Who would be the referees to decide what poems meet a standard
The decision by the Poetry Soup admin I do clap my hands
Poetry is meant to inspire the reader
to give his heart wings
help him think thoughts deeper
So, why is it in trying
to elevate the reader so
the poet his own well-being foregoes
As I sit up and lay in my bed
Poetry comes to my mind in my head
I write them down without hesitation
They calm my soul like frequent meditation
I love to read them after they are written
Because I shock myself with the words as they become sentences
People say you're talented, and that might be true
Their just words from my head, and it a great view
I can't believe it sometimes, the finishing touch seem so real
Some people don't like to read them, some make a big deal
But it's not all about what anyone thinks
This just brings joy to my heart, because I try to represent
There is a Poe and raven no one knew
They were deeply in cahoots, these two
Telltale heart was unknown by Poe
But raven had a mind of glow
His ideas were stolen by his master
Poe’s mind was slick like alabaster
In the night he would urge raven awake
For his own sake, for his own sake
For raven was the brilliant poet in fact
Few know this, but I found an artifact
A diary of raven that holds the truth of this
Poe stole raven’s ideas, knowing they were bliss
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.” — Allen Ginsberg”
What drives them to put pen to paper?
To be famous is that their caper?
The world to change?
Tell a story so strange?
Is it a more personal flaw?
Drawn the short straw?
Life made them feel dismay?
They have to live this way....
Prone to despair
Pull out their hair?
Caught in a landslide
Can't escape the ride...
They can analyse
Maybe even surprise
Put words to their feelings
They may even do healings
A pen you did choose
Your ideas more than clues
Why does a poet write
Because they can..... alright