Rhyme Quotes

I have heard queens' swans, moved a man to cry,heard Bach played in the Metro on guitars.I have made love in Paris. Let me die.

Jennifer Reeser

The breath of Paris pushes at my shutters.From the Balcony

Jennifer Reeser

Chance is your godThough you're falling free you will land hard

Princess, princess, youngest daughter,Open up and let me in!Or else your promise by the waterIsn’t worth a rusty pin.Keep your promise, royal daughter,Open up and let me in!

Champagne morning, sleepless grin, setting off and settling in. Today feels good.

Seven half-bloods shall answer the callTo storm or fire the world must fallAn oath to keep with a final breathand foes bear arms to the doors of death

Before reaching Grassy Butte, though, Dad spied a farmhouse with two pumps in the drive and a red-and-white sign out front saying DALE'S OIL COMPANY. Another sign said CLOSED, but a light was on in the house and Dad pulled in, saying, "I believe we might prevail on Dale. What do you think?""Prevail on Dale," I repeated to Swede."To make a sale," she added."And if we fail, we'll whale on Dale--""Till he needs braille!""Will you guys desist?" Dad asked.

Auden is an accomplished rhymer and Shakespeare is not.

Witches, he thought. Always rhyming.

And now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and your grandmother, nd upon all your relations.'Is he cursing in rhyme?'He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of his curse.'("The Crucifixion Of The Outcast")

When we step in the name of love, we cannot rhyme if we don't have the same RHYTHM, and we cannot have the same rhythm if we are not listening to the same BEAT.It takes someone who understands the rhythm and melody of your "heartbeat" to dance to it.

Olaotan Fawehinmi

On the steps leading to a doorwas a scrub brush that was blue.I snatched it quick and ran for homebecause it was just the thing to chew.

Melinda K. Trotter

I must go down to the sea...to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by......

By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.

Lords of space and Lords of time,Lords of blessing, Lords of grace,Who is in the warmer clime?Who will follow Madoc's rhyme?Blue will alter time and space.

Madeleine L'Engle

I, Larry Vail, do hereby confessTo murdering Merry in her little dress.To strangling and raping and making a mess.To all of these charges the answer is yes.

Rosalyn Drexler

Jill showed friend Kay the cute white mice.They liked to run races for cheese.Mice were lots of fun to play with.Jill said, "Take Poopsie, the male one, please!

Melinda K. Trotter

Kaylee giggled as he tunneled up inside her sleeve.Out popped his head for a quick look, then he took leave.He enjoyed scaling up, down and around her shirt.What a sweet, funny and adorable flirt.

Melinda K. Trotter

Is the phrase 'pay' or 'play the piper'I inquire, why'Cause I admire a desire to flip the switchYeah make a way to face the music likeLife savings for a mosh pit riotListen to a mixRock the tickets, higher volumeVelocity which shakes a cockpit's pilot

Toilet paper unrolled and slitheredthen wrapped around my tummy.That paper tried to roll me upinto an Egyptian mummy.

Melinda K. Trotter

Every little or big problem has a reason,Every year there is a winter season,Every trouble goes away with time,After winter spring comes with rhyme.

Debasish Mridha

A good poem has rhyming but no ending, it continues to rhyme in our heart.

Debasish Mridha

Before he got too far, he thought he smelled a fire.No sooner did he blink before he sensed something dire.He heard a sound and froze, danger tickling his nose.His ears perked up as tiny cries of capture rose.

Kat held her head high as she met the King's eye.Her stare was bold, yet sweet, and it would not die.Gansevort looked down into these dark, green pools.And soon his tone softened as he bought her ruse.

Wherever you go in the next catastrophéBe it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ryDo not fear that your stay will besolit’ryCountless souls share your fate,you’ll have company!

It is not until you rhyme with a person that makes you their perfect match, it is when you are satisfied with each others peculiarities, and find jewels in their loopholes.

Michael Bassey Johnson

True love finds its own waysTo spread goodness, always.

Ana Claudia Antunes

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paintExcelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

Ana Claudia Antunes

The trouble with poetry is it's often written to the sound of a drum only the poet may hear; nonetheless, blessed are those poets who always manage to find unshakeable pleasure in their own works.

My heart's made of goldMy soul is pure steelLoved ones shall riseEnemies will kneelI soothe with water, attack with fireFor I am the master of my own empire.

A fruitless year, take a fearless heartOne that blooms late will flourish in the dark

Sealing your lips makes your eyes talk Truth creeps beneath your lame feet’s walk Knees stiffen when blood vessels stalk A pounding heart’s lies hard as rock

I'm trap in marriage with gangsta rhyme and my street life.

Kjiva

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

From attraction and affectionCover of perfectionFailure beyond texture to a painful lessonEverything that was from the start wasn't from the heart

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

Jagged needle, wicked liesFrom under the skin, pluck evil eyes.Destiny change from pain and coldNow that you pay in blood and soul.

She's my pride, my winning prize, always a surprise, to look into her eyes, see her free soul, as soap that slips from the grip of control; a stroll through the park on a dark night with stars to spark the sky, heaven with no price tag I realize, love is the same: endless, priceless, full bliss; to have this princess I pinch myself thinking this is a dream, but to my reprise, I can only say I am now, at last, alive.

Anthony Liccione

What is this lovethat makes me see beauty,and makes every beautiful thing bring you back to me?What is this lovethat makes me declare 'I love you'even though I uttered itonly a moment ago?What is this love that keeps growing even when my chest is soreand it hurts to love you any more?Tell me:How am I to find what this love iswhen it was the one to find you, me, this verse, and this universe?

Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued.'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said.Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song''What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question.'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?''N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking.'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o''Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?''It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently.'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know.Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious."Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.''And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?''It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted 'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him.'Would that be so bad?''Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.''It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked.Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other'Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him.'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?''So what?' Crowley challengedHalt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.''A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry

That weekend my people brought home a big eared gray scrawny kit.He was so loud and annoying that I did not like him one bit.

Melinda K. Trotter

One little Indian left all alone, he went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

Agatha Christie

One, two, three, Im gon be crazy and free.

Nick

If I knew what to doI'd do more than write a song for you

You ask me why I don't speakNot a word at willBut write so much worth well over a mill'Well I value words like I value kissesA sober one, a closer one penetrates the heartDarling it's how it mends it

Oh I know it's cliché but yeah they say that great men make it in-To places few others who even do take the risk've ever been

Anger's like a battery that leaks acid right out of meAnd it starts from the heart 'til it reaches my outer me

I box in yellow Gox box socks.

Dr. Seuss