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Write a poem rhyming the word “orange” with something else. Post it in the comments below. This challenge comes from Cheryl Corey, who provided the below poem as inspiration:
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Nothing Rhymes With Orange
Why, oh why, does nothing rhyme with orange?
But if I say it en franҫais—“l’orange,”
Aha! I get a woman’s name—“Solange!”
but back to orange …
Maybe I can fudge it? For example:
By candlelight her face was even more angelic;
The Rolling Stones once wrote a song for Angie;
The tourist’s choice: Rhône valley or Anjou.
I rack my brain and these are but a sample,
The options being few and hardly ample,
Which leads me where? Where else,
but back to orange.
.
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Angie’s Muse
One evening on the porch,
her friends all said “Write more, Ang”,
inspired by the torch
of sunset’s rustic orange.
(Stretching it a bit…’Ang’ is short for Angie.)
Rewrite with different punctuation…
Angie’s Muse
One evening on the porch,
her friends all said “Write more, Ang,
inspired by the torch
of sunset’s rustic orange.”
Enjoyed and thank you for sharing.
The poet gave a loud harrumph
When tasked to rhyme a word with month
And when he found he had to pilfer
Some loose-change word to rhyme with silver
His mood grew darker still.
But when he found he must interpol
ate enjambment to accommod
ate a word to rhyme with purple
It got under his skin worse than any syringe
Or being told there was no word
That he could rhyme with orange
I found a magic ring that makes up words.
It’s multicolored: red and green and orange.
I picked it up and mustered all my corange
and slipped it on. How strange. I had a birds-
eye view of all our English words. Two-thirds
were uninvented still, and I was soarange
over streams of etymologies still pourange
into seas of future meanings, wild herds
of colorful profanities like whorange,
strange cities where New Englishish is spoken,
and universities where wokes speak Woken
and dye their hair in glorange and in blorange,
which scientists illegally will clorange
in labs someday from red, green, and orange.
Well done, Mr. D’Anselmi, I think this is the right direction to go with this challenge. See my contribution below.
I could dot for de life of be
dink up a rhybe for orange,
Until I caught a cold — and, see,
De rhybe is id by porringe!
(What’s bore, dis cold is sparing be
de taste of orange porringe.)
Now do “Silver!”
An Encounter with the Rhymes-with-Oranges of Dr. Seuss Land
by Evan Mantyk
One day while crossing Dr. Seuss Land,
I ran into a quite obtuse band
Of locals who were all one clan,
Who had what seemed an orange tan
And all were surnamed Rhymes-with-Orange:
The dad was Dorange Rhymes-with-Orange,
The mom was Morange Rhymes-with-Orange,
The sister Sorange Rhymes-with-Orange,
The brother Brorange Rhymes-with-Orange.
Their favorite food? You guessed it—an orange!
The women wore orange hair buns,
The men had orange juice in their squirt guns,
And when they talked they had an accent;
At first, I didn’t know what they meant.
When Dorange meant “Go sweep the floor”
Instead he’d say “Go sweep the florange,”
When Sorange meant “The time is four,”
Instead she’d say “The time is fourange,”
When Brorange meant “The rain will pour”
Instead he’d say “The rain will pourange,”
When Morange meant “Please close the door”
Instead she’d say “Please close the dorange,”
And Dorange would joke “No don’t close me.”
Then all would laugh quite happily.
But when their laughing all died down,
They all were wearing one large frown.
As they explained, “We were convicted
And are from Seuss Land now evicted.
Someone said we’re too offensive
And toward our clan they’re reprehensive.
As if we’re made to hurt some feelings
Or failed in some strange racial healings!
They say we look like Puerto Ricans—
Or did they say like Costa Ricans?
Or maybe it was like Brazilians—
No, no, I think it was Sicilians!”
At any rate, they now faced exile,
Were clapped in irons and marched in file,
And this is why we can’t rhyme orange:
Because they exiled each Rhymes-with-Orange.
Enjoyed reading this, found myself smiling
at the tanned Rhymes-with -Orange clan!
Very clever and great sense of humour.
This must have extracted quite an effort.
I have no doubt Dr. Seuss would have
loved it.
The Golden Gate, a masterpiece for engineers
isn’t really gold; it’s orange veneers
approximate a sunset in a slanted way
and yet there’s something just below cliche —
the great idea — before it ends in sky
provoked inspired or engendered by
the leonine fog, that never grows old
that leaves a tacky orange rendered gold.
To make it rhyme, see what’s not there. Combine it with something.
Internal rhyme:
1. slant: for engineers/orange veneers
2. [or eng]endered / [orange] rendered. If one drawls “inspired” out to in-spi-erd, then the “or” can be a stressed syllable. Technically still not perfect, though, because I think a linguist would tell me it’s “en-gendered” and not “eng-endered”.
you’ve sharpen your course.
“What does it matter,” cried orange turning blue,
“Why are the great and the good in cahoots and having fun at my expense
Competing whilst repeating and lamenting
That the word orange does not have any rhyming counter parts”
“You know sirs,’ continued orange with aplomb,
“Just remember I have segments for refreshment,
And in times gone by an orange was a treat
Afforded only by the rich
So for a fruit I am quite unique, quite unsurpassed in vitamin c,
So lack of rhyme you must forgive’ –
“My dear cousin just hold on,” said lemon quite forlorn,
As he longed for that zest in life of being discussed at poetry soirees;
Instead he always got that – if life gives you lemons rubbish-
When in truth you should be so lucky.
Intent on redeeming his maligned reputation, lemon cried,
” I the lemon, have all the qualities you mention,
I have Vitamin c in droves and a piquancy only appreciated by
Discerning gourmets not to mention orangeade is not a shade on lemonade.
And furthermore lemon rhymes with melon, felon and er well , well on. ”
“Oh we know all about citrus fruit,” piped apple ,
” It is well known that there is more peel than flesh,
No ifs or buts about it, apples are the king of fruits
And rhyme with crumble, mumble , tumble , fumble and
Er lots more to boot.”
Banana on hearing the word peel, was quite enraged
And cried out,” What a palaver, I think you will find that
Most people prefer banana,
After all who’s ever heard of orange porridge
And as for lemon you’re only good for lemon tarts
And apple you are just talking boring crumble
I think you will find that banana is the piranha full of mañana.”
“I beg to disagree cried orange, let me finish, what a shame,
What a fruit salad you all make, trying to rob me of my fame,
What a din, must I remind you that orange best rhymes with gin..and tonic!”
“Zest in life” well said Mia!
Thank you
And thank you to everyone here for
all the inspirational poems.
Once I met a stranger
Dressed in black and orange
Turns out he was a ranger
Who came to town to forage
He asked me for a golden ring
And took my horse to boot,
And as he left I heard him sing
They call me Robin Orange
And I haven’t seen a town
So meek and mild
As this here mount of Blorenge
A few changes. Better or worse?
Once I met a stranger,
Dressed in black and orange,
Turns out he was a ranger
Who came to town to forage.
He asked me for my golden ring
And took my wife as hostage
And as he rode my horse I heard him sing,
‘Tis best to do him homage
For they called him Robin Orange!
Then after I shot him down I wept
For now our town so meek a mild
Is known as the Mount of Blorenge.
This is more about how many times you can use the word orange rather than orange rhyming with something.
A Requiem to Orangium
Orange was quite fashionable in the eighties,
I remember orange velvet curtains and orange kaftans,
Orange sunsets and orange dinnerware;
We were told that
‘The future was bright and the future was orange’
We just had to seize the day,
But alas it turned out to be a lie
For the future is bleak and the future is tinged with grey
Smeared with the sludge of plague.
Now I think three is enough.
I am going to shut the doorange on it now.
But please don’t ask me to promise…
on the mount Blorenge
ferns that grow are named, Sporange
dusk there, shades orange
For a change I went to the Blorenge
In Ardha Padmansana with the grunge
My first out of body experience was lunge
As my soul and its passion Singe
While my mind a celestial sponge
I met talking borage
And had courage however derange
I and that world became a plunge
I kept this is my vessel’s storage.
ORANGE
The problem, it seems, is that there’s hardly a word
That isn’t plain wrong or extremely absurd
That rhymes with that fruit, with its name and its hue
It’s easy to rhyme with red, pink, green and blue
But what about orange, yes, orange I ask
For me this has been an impossible task
Porridge and Borage and lozenge aren’t right
And for weeks now I’ve tried with all of my might
But nothing is coming that isn’t absurd
I really just think that there isn’t a word
in this basket are oranges
the one for my dad is Dorange
for my mom is Morange
for my sister is Soorange
for my brother is Borange
for my grandpa is Goorange
for my grandma is Joorange
for my friend is Foorange
and one left for me is Zorange
When I say ‘orange’
Please think red!
See if you can get this,
In your head.
“It’s so simple.”
That’s what I said…
“A trip to the store,
For an apple so orange!”
Doesn’t rhyme but you inspired me nonetheless…
Chariot’s Pumpkins
Chariot is a delightful dragon,
She sits upon a healthy pumpkin patch.
She gifts them out to friends by wagon,
But sometimes puzzled by when eggs will hatch.
You see her nested eggs are orange too,
And they are mixed in with rows of pumpkins.
So sometime when she loads the wagon a few…
Of her children head to the town of Thumbkin!
The mayor did decree that all children meld,
And from this end marriages did occur.
And all prejudices so promptly fell,
Upon times, Chariot would speak her word…
“Pumpkins and children are one and the same,
‘Natures true beauty’, the name of the game!”
The Compleat Angler
Eyes peeled for wary muskellunge,
a gentle bowl of fruitless bait,
that still-life time framed by The Lake.
Sent pithy comments from the bank,
as I missed lunge, my skewer pike,
cling sodden cloth within my boots,
a sponge for wringing, plunge where sank.
Too sinking feeling, close of day,
glow fire ball in satsuma sky,
ceramic pillar, water course,
scroll down, dying, blood-red, orange.
This was published some years ago in Light:
I loose the bolt, and ope the door hinge
Looking for a rhyme for “Orange.”
I’ll hunt until at last I score, in j-
Ust the place, a rhyme for “Orange.”
’Til then I’ll, like a carnivore, ing-
Est the fruit of no more Orange.
If I start now, in April, or in J-
Une, will I have rhymed the Orange?
It’s rarer than the Koh-i-Noor in J-
Ahan’s Court, this rhyme for “Orange.”
Could it be there are no more? (In j-
Est I ask. A twin for “Orange”
Shall be found. Yes, rhymes galore in j-
Okebooks lurk to pair with “Orange.”)
I’ll find the oath that Brutus swore in J-
Ulius Caesar, ere rhyme “Orange,”
Find Poe’s Lost Lenore before ing-
Eniously I rhyme with “Orange!”
I’ve pried apart each flower’s sporange—
Still I seek the rhyme for Orange.
From the Obelisk of Gorringe
To the purple peaks of Blorenge,
Everest, McKinley, or Rinj-
Ani, I will rhyme the Orange!
But, ’til then, I won’t rest, nor enj-
Oy a tasty, un-rhymed Orange.
Wedging more and ever more enj-
Ambment, just to rhyme with “Orange.”
May I post a haiku? sorry it does not rhyme!
the sky glows orange
over a mellow orchard
-windfalls of sunshine
Not sure about the third line
perhaps this is better
The sky glows orange
Over a golden harvest
-the taste of warm bread
an orange sunset
over a verdant vineyard
the taste of sour grapes
Assonance
“It means getting the rhyme wrong.” Willy Russell, Educating Rita (1980)
Doggerel struggles with words like “month”
To a degree far greater than nth.
“Orange” we pronounce “arrange” –
An expedient change,
Rhyme scheme saved through lisps and assonanth.
Funny…
Of Flies & Sonnets.
Because it has a shape, it has a sting
with durability derived from form.
From amber circumambient, it brings
more meaning forth than first, when it was born.
Critics who swarm at them, that race of flies
whom Nature has compelled to suck a wound,
are blind to how warm feeling also dies
when feeling, made explicit, is entombed.
In resinous expression, poets know
the Limit that immures them in Its rage,
but learning “limits” urges them to go
beyond mere limits lurking on the page.
Like T. E. Lawrence, also called “E’Loranj,”
each poet is herself a rhyme for orange.
Oh strange-
Orange…
You’re fruitlessly left on your own
Living in dictionaries sans one rhyme known
Oh strange-
Orange
Sweet yet all alone is bittersweet, and still-
You are much loved before and after a-peel
Love or a-peel, isn’t needed in an Oranged marriage.
Love that! I think Ogden Nash would, too.
A Rap on “Earthtone” Orange
—borinage: noun, an “earthtone” orange
Borinage, with orange a rhyme
—a word for that “earthtone” crime
that ick upon the urban sprawl
that makes a color slowly crawl.
“High tone,” I know, they say.
I like a lively orange, anyway;
bright orange for me, a sunny smile,
beats borinage orange a country mile.
Without an apple, I set up an orange
To test my arrows and bow for range.