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A quatrain is a poem that has four lines for each stanza. It usually has rhyme scheme of abab or its variant, xbyb.



    Like the many raindrops of a storm, (rhyme scheme: a)
    or the bees in a hive. (b)
    Like the cells that make up a form, (a)
    or the factors of the tide. (b)

    Each human is unique and sole, (a)
    and contributes how he can. (b)
    He's part of what makes up a whole, (a)
    the society of man.(b)

    Like the beauty of a sunrise, (a)
    or the sight of a shooting star. (b)
    Like the splendor as an eagle flies, (a)
    or a rainbow's colors from afar.(b)

    Man is an impressive creation, (a)
    so complex and unparalleled. (b)
    He's a perfectly made formation, (a)
    meant to succeed and excel. (b)

    So why do we find it so hard (a)
    to accept all those we meet? (b)
    Why do we pick some and then discard (a)
    the outcasts on the street? (b)

    Why do we feel the need to judge (a)
    and label fellow men? (b)
    Why do we have to bear a grudge (a)
    if someone's beyond our ken? (b)

    Why do we cause hurt and pain (a)
    because someone's atypical? (b)
    Why don't we realize that we'll gain (a)
    if we share amity that's mutual? (b)

    Why dump others on dusty shelves (a)
    to raise ourselves up high? (b)
    Why must we keep asking ourselves (a)
    this major question, 'why'? (b)
    - written by Gabriella 2


    Glinting warm purple in the bright Tuscan sun,
    the sweet, swelling grapes hang in line.
    Taut, ripened fruit in the hot afternoon
    'round thick wooden vines twist and twine.

    Whispers of wine float in the thick breeze
    as the round, ruby globes glow and bob.
    Resting orbs swing and sway at the end of the day
    and beneath green, leafy covers they nod.

    The older fruit holds a soft shadow of spring,
    their baking skins shrivel and shrink.
    The newly-formed buds, tough and small with new form
    come to life in bright green and soft pink.

    Sweet juices drip down as split sides seep,
    in the air filled with buzzing of bees.
    Tiny thuds fill the grove as the birds pick their prize
    and the grapes sing their songs to the breeze.
    - written by Heather Wilkes

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