1. Rhyme Scheme LIMERICKS

2. You already know how to recognize a rhyme, You’ve been doing it a really long time. You’ve had help from Suess, Dora, and Elmo too. Today we’re just labeling what you already do.

3. “Rhyme scheme” is the term we use for the pattern of rhymes in a poem. I keep on fallin' In and out of love With you Sometimes I love ya Sometimes u make me blue Sometimes I feel good At times I feel used Loving you darlin' Makes me so confused “Fallin’” by Alicia Keys

4. In poetry, we label that pattern using the letters of the alphabet: Lines that end with rhyming words share a letter. The first line of the poem is always “a,” even if it has no rhyming mate. I keep on fallin‘ a In and out of love b With you c Sometimes I love ya d Sometimes u make me blue c Sometimes I feel good e At times I feel used f Loving you darlin‘ a Makes me so confused f

5. The Eagle By Alfred, Lord Tennyson He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

6. The Eagle By Alfred, Lord Tennyson He clasps the crag with crooked hands; a Close to the sun in lonely lands, a Ringed with the azure world, he stands. a The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; b He watches from his mountain walls, b And like a thunderbolt he falls. b

7. Homework Machine By Shel Silverstein The Homework Machine, Oh the Homework Machine, Most perfect contraption that’s ever been seen. Just put in your homework, then drop in a dime, Snap on the switch, then in ten seconds’ time, Your homework comes out, quick and clean as can be. Here it is – “Nine plus four?” and the answer is “three.” Three? Oh me… I guess it’s not as perfect As I thought it would be.

8. Homework Machine By Shel Silverstein The Homework Machine, Oh the Homework Machine,a Most perfect contraption that’s ever been seen.a Just put in your homework, then drop in a dime,b Snap on the switch, then in ten seconds’ time,b Your homework comes out, quick and clean as can be.c Here it is – “Nine plus four?” and the answer is “three.”c Three?c Oh me…c I guess it’s not as perfectd As I thought it would be.c

9. Limerick Guidelines for limericks: 1. Limericks ALWAYS follow the rhyme scheme AABBA 2. Limericks are ALWAYS 5 lines long. 3. Lines 3 and 4 are shorter (5/6 syllables) than lines 1, 2, and 5 (8/9 syllables)

10. Examples of limericks: There was a young farmer of Leeds Who swallowed six packets of seeds. It soon came to pass He was covered with grass, And he couldn’t sit down for the weeds. -Unknown There was an Old Man who said, “How Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile, And continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of that Cow.” -Edward Lear

11. Patchwork Limericks Pick ONE option from each group to write a limerick of your own Line One: -I know- a kangaroo- named Lou -I recall- a repairman - called Sue -You must be- a young lady- age two Line Two: - who would sit- in a bag- with the flu -who would ride-on a road-eating stew - who slept-at a desk- in the dew Line Three: - Have no fear- I would say -I don’t know- If I’ll stay -You might think-they would say Line Four -I’ll be home- yesterday -You can come-for the play -They can come-anyway Line Five: -And I’ll watch - my dessert- at the zoo -Then we’ll eat-two raccoons- through and through - You can find- a small fridge- ‘til I’m blue

12. Free Verse NO RULES

13. Free Verse Guidelines for free verse poems: 1. Poets have the freedom to create their own form. 2. Free verse poems do not follow pre-set rhythm or rhyme schemes 3. Usually arranged to mimic natural speech.

14. Tumbling-Hair by e.e. cummings Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers

15. The Locust Tree in Flower (Second Version) by William Carlos Williams Among of green stiff old bright broken branch come white sweet May again

16. Tar by C.K. Williams The first morning of Three Mile Island: those first disquieting, uncertain, mystifying hours. All morning a crew of workmen have been tearing the old decrepit roof off our building, and all morning, trying to distract myself, I’ve been wandering out to watch them as they hack away the leaden layers of asbestos paper and disassemble the disintegrating drains. After half a night of listening to the news, wondering how to know a hundred miles downwind if and when to make a run for it and where, then a coming bolt awake at seven when the roofers we’ve been waiting for since winter sent their ladders shrieking up our wall, we still know less than nothing: the utility company continues making little of the accident, the slick federal spokesmen still have their evasions in some semblance of order. Surely we suspect now we’re being lied to, but in the meantime, there are the roofers, setting winch-frames, sledging rounds of tar apart, and there I am, on the curb across, gawking. I never realized what brutal work it is, how matter-of-factly and harrowingly dangerous. The ladders flex and quiver, things skid from the edge, the materials are bulky and recalcitrant. When the rusty, antique nails are levered out, their heads pull off; the underroofing crumbles. Even the battered little furnace, roaring along as patient as a donkey, chokes and clogs, a dense, malignant smoke shoots up, and someone has to fiddle with a cock, then hammer it, before the gush and stench will deintensify, the dark, Dantean broth wearily subside. In its crucible, the stuff looks bland, like licorice, spill it, though, on your boots or coveralls, it sears, and everything is permeated with it, the furnace gunked with burst and half-burst bubbles, the men themselves so completely slashed and mucked they seem almost from another realm, like trolls. When they take their break, they leave their brooms standing at attention in the asphalt pails, work gloves clinging like Br’er Rabbit to the bitten shafts, and they slouch along the precipitous lip, the enormous sky behind them, the heavy noontime air alive with shimmers and mirages. Sometime in the afternoon I had to go inside: the advent of our vigil was upon us. However much we didn’t want to, however little we would do about it, we’d understood: we were going to perish of all this, if not now, then soon, if not soon, then someday. Someday, some final generation, hysterically aswarm beneath an atmosphere as unrelenting as rock, would rue us all, anathematize our earthly comforts, curse our surfeits and submissions. I think I know, though I might rather not, why my roofers stay so clear to me and why the rest, the terror of that time, the reflexive disbelief and distancing, all we should hold on to, dims so. I remember the president in his absurd protective booties, looking absolutely unafraid, the fool. I remember a woman on the front page glaring across the misty Susquehanna at those looming stacks. But, more vividly, the men, silvered with glitter from the shingles, clinging like starlings beneath the eaves. Even the leftover carats of tar in the gutter, so black they seemed to suck the light out of the air. By nightfall kids had come across them: every sidewalk on the block was scribbled with obscenities and hearts

17. A Poem by YOU….

18. Ballads A STORY AND A SONG

19. Ballad Guidelines for ballad poems: 1. Narrative – they always tell a story. 2. Long poems with a set number of lines per stanza (typically 4-8) 3. Contain a repetitive element – usually a phrase.

20. Ballad poetry is very old. It comes from the dark ages of Europe, when minstrels would travel between villages telling stories in song. Ballad poems tell many types of stories, but tend to focus on stories of romance, adventure, and heroism. The Lady of Shalott Poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Painting by John Waterhouse

21. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

22. Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that— We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— “That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore. “Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand; And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.” “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud; But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out