Rhythm and Rhyme Workshop

Workshop for poetry written in traditional forms.
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  • Ricardo Thripp (7/28/2014 1:45:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Chastity belts confine feminists from the rape tide rapist sexy stem
    With lesbian-fighting techniques Hillary F. Clinton could kill them
    through grab bags of shot-gun-pattern-spread-blood-tinged phlegm
    spattered on vinyl floors that trump linseed-oil-generated linoleum,
    reflective of war against Christians in an ancient Romano coliseum
    Give us the T.N.T. dynamite to transform a scream-fest into a grin
    and the resolve to rot juniper berries into some drink other than gin
    as the rabid means to render juniper berries into booze involves sin
    plus a trough, bath tub, barrel, basin or a rather large leak-proof bin
    that's no higher than the contusions on a dipsomaniac's scabby shin
    who prefers fish marinated in Finnish alcohol except the dorsal fin
    In '82 Alex de Jonge's 'Life and Times of Grigorii Rasputin' revealed
    that as a 20th century strannik Father Greg was no less easily killed
    by 4 bullets, a club and pastries that were potassium-cyanide-filled
    Nothing in Mother Russia comes, by way of reasoning, too easily
    as seasick drunks & diabetic Coptics lose consciousness queasily
    like pussy cat thieves by night & meaty monkey meat eaters by day
    famished for Oak Island's treasure now that F.D.R.'s out of the way
    pit-drilling must resume despite the nay-saying that nay-sayers say
    for New Scotland's island booty is booby-trapped on Mahone Bay
    which accounts for why every money man has had a shortened stay
    Red roses in a sausage grinder would not a woman's florist betray?
    Stiff the contracted, married man as he is the chump who will pay!
    Hurry princess as time's of the essence and you can not afford delay
    as domestic violence against domineering foreign types is the rage:
    among tomatoes who're almond-butter tan or Jayne Kennedy beige!
    There are imprecations that demand a magician yet preclude a sage
    from despoiling monk-written Hebrew scripture on a crinkled page
    in Cromwell's damned Drogheda south of King John's Carlingford
    to becoming Roman lion shit for sermonizing Jesus Christ is Lord
    as Lutheran Gospels meant nothing to the profiteers commanding
    Portuguese slave ships and the negro tribesmen they hustled aboard

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    • Mandolyn ... (7/28/2014 11:46:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      You ruined it. You could have said Portuguese slave ships, negroes And roman lion shit ...there. That's rhyme and rhythm.

  • Ricardo Thripp (7/27/2014 5:26:00 PM) Post reply

    THINGS THAT THIRD-YEAR COLLEGE STUDENTS KNOW: cigarette filters are not for smoking; 6 x 4 = 24; socks before shoes; seat down for women; underpants: front-side yellow, brown-side back; the 7 sacred uses of water are: (1) drinking (2) washing/ bathing (3) floating ships on (4) cooling (5) irrigation (6) extinguishing fires (7) drowning kittens

  • Ricardo Thripp (7/27/2014 8:51:00 AM) Post reply

    Shall we descend into the inequity of Denver airport's masonic pit?
    Yes, especially with heavy colons full of ill-crises-management shit
    The time to smoke cigarettes is now before tobacco prices increase,
    in line with opportunities availed to an uncle in company of a niece
    whose familial take is financial as her name appears on a new lease
    I would pee on albino gophers to make you happy my sweet thing
    or drown rodents with kerosene & make lunch of my wedding ring
    whilst delivering a plagiarized tirade on junior queer Michael King
    as what cannot be brought a wise man should not endeavor to bring
    via crippled rock dove sorely lacking its flap-happy, essential wing
    into Saturnine dusk minus the probability of 1 sexy avian T.B. fling
    as Washington’s obelisk is to the oval office like pong smacks ping
    Once nightmares cease the placental mind is receptive to dreaming
    After terror night the astonished id suds like creamy curds foaming
    in the basin robbed by Nestlé of lake water in bags ships are towing
    estranged from hen houses where hen-humping cocks are crowing,
    neck-deep in Amygdalin so as to retard trophoplasms from growing

  • Zoila T. Flores (7/26/2014 6:46:00 PM) Post reply

    Rhythm and Rhyme,
    Good poetry will charm,
    Exploring big words,
    I swear, Won't harm.

  • Richard Beevor (7/15/2014 3:41:00 PM) Post reply

    Clouds In The Mind

    Cemetery gates in the damp morning mist,
    death in the air of a summer's kiss,
    island of mercy, fortress of light,
    garden of tranquility, love life dismissed.

    Angels of the havens, holders of the gate,
    open to our cry, or are we overly late,
    prison of decision, egg in empty shell,
    return our light to heaven, or condemn to hell.

  • Terrance Tracy (7/4/2014 2:43:00 AM) Post reply

    Foolish Journey
    O the anguish that hurts the soul are words spoken when one’s emotions are high, vicious accusations relentlessly expressed gave birth to a foolish journey to find some rest.

    The seasonal high humidity and heat accompany the disabled voyager on a foolish journey to what end he did not know nor care.

    With each step pain is felt in his temporal body and eternal soul, health or peril he did not care on this foolish journey to nowhere.

    One more step and then another, one more step and then another the voyager rehearsed in his mind giving no thought as to what he left behind.

    Traveling on a busy highway struggling with each step the voyager stumbled by a familiar church perhaps he should stop here, but his soul was wounded and he would not abide in there.

    One quarter of a mile up the highway he spied a bridge with grave needs for a voyager to rest, there he will sit and pray to his God to ask for forgiveness for undertaking such a foolish journey.

    Reaching the bridge he accepts the invitation of the rail and begins to contemplate the fruition of his fate, dear Lord what have I done I left behind the love of my life in this test of strife.

    The traffic was heavy and so was his soul, as the voyager sat on the bridge rail several cars stopped and offered help but all the voyager could muster was to say that he was homeless and nowhere to go; for he wanted to be alone with his Lord and ask for his sins to be atoned; he just wanted people to leave him alone.

    Hampered with physical limitations he could not take a step forward or back so he just sat there and began praying and hearing his Lord speaking to his heart that which you have done was not very smart.

    I do not condemn you so look for no stones for your sins have been atoned return to your love, the wife of your youth, for I will give you strength to endure the hardships and defeat the roaring lion that roars your ears and has caused you to be covered in tears.
    Terrance Tracy

  • Vivek Mishra (7/4/2014 2:20:00 AM) Post reply

    I'm new here. Please be gentle. :)


    Without the security where I want to be
    You are far away and a thousand miles impose upon

    I am shackled with tears but you are free of fears
    Why do I whisper and no one hears

    I lusted in thought
    I rusted and fought

    sleight of fate and the one that you've done
    strikes an immature infinity and I'm dying young

    fallen from grace I see a face and it never ceases
    You break one heart and I gather a thousand pieces.

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (7/3/2014 10:47:00 AM) Post reply

    Valuable guidance on rhythm and rhyme is requested from the persons of eminence in the subject which can be understood well.

  • Mandolyn ... (7/1/2014 8:10:00 PM) Post reply

    here is one i wrote recently

    -baby, put down the steak knife-

    you aren't a suit or tie
    you don't drink gin,
    a polish dog is in your hand,
    your teeth make love to cape cod chips

    munch 'n crunch this–

    your hair reminds me of the smoke
    coming off the grill,
    a triple digit drop of sweat
    sliding down your neck
    you use your eyes to move my head
    left, it goes left, there's brimstone over there...

    i need to hold something
    when it's just us, in Summer
    floating boats without fritos, ignoring sunscreen
    we feel the waves through digestion
    in a processed bun, a gall stone from the sun

    and you almost rubbed my back until
    you found out
    IPA comes in a barrel

    –i wish i came in one
    get fizzy on your tongue, scratch your throat
    make you an addict
    feel you chug...chug... chug
    light a fire in your belly, scream 'n shout

    don't ever let me out
    if you get an urge to go

    ~ i'm not big on rhyme all the time, but i do like rhythm.~

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (6/29/2014 10:14:00 AM) Post reply

    This is a very useful page to read that I think since it is felt that rhythem and rhyme is more important in poems that is to be maintained for an effective and beautiful reading.

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