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Poetry Project

Poetry Project. By: Taylor Russell. Simile.

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Poetry Project

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  1. Poetry Project By: Taylor Russell

  2. Simile • A Red, Red RoseO My Luve's like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June;O My Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly played in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I;And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry, my dearWhile the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel, awhile!And I will come again, my luveTho' it ware ten thousand mile! • By: Robert Burns

  3. Metaphor IAm A Butterfly Don’t ask me who I amOr where I go…I have my secrets andI am sure you know. Don’t try to cut my wingsOr even to keep me in a cage.Don’t put the blame on my wild heart.Or on my age.I was born to be free, I am a butterfly.My limit is the sky.Enchanted flowers to see, meadows, Starry nights and seas.Glorious nature yelling in you and me.Things so beautifulThat make me melt, sing, float.A sweet song tearing my throatIn pieces.Peace…peace…So please do me a favor, Lend flavor to my life, To my soul and babyBe sure if you set me freeI will neverLet you go! Karla Bardanza

  4. Alliteration Summer At The Seashore Seaweed snarls summer swimmersSuntanned smooth surfers shimmerSturdy sandcastles sink suddenlySeagulls swarm sumptuous suppersSatisfied sunbathers savor sunsetsNancy Ellen Crossland

  5. Personification Summergrass aches and whispers It wants something: it calls and sings; it pours out wishesto the overhead stars. The rain hears; the rain answers;the rain is slow coming;the rain wets the face of the grass.

  6. Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy lumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold French fried and rancid meat, Hyperbole SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUTWOULD NOT TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT . Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out!

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