A Series of Unrelated Poems - Riddles are Poems, too

Riddles are Poems, too

Aug 10, 2014

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1 Min Read

This chapter is all about Riddles. Enjoy.

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I drive men mad.

Women take me in chains.

Rushing I've had,

And I've no brains.

For love of me

Kings make a seat.

I am never free,

And am easily beat.

What am I?

Gold. It drives people mad, like America was during the Gold Rush; women have gold necklaces; the Gold Rush is the "rushing"; kings had gold most of the time, and they loved it; gold is easily beat into shape, compared to other metals.

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Ripped from my mother's womb,

People change my faiths and beliefs

So that I become a blood-thirsty killer.

What am I?

Iron (or other metallic ore). Ore mined from Earth, made into weapons.

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Four of us are in the field,

But our differences keep us at yield.

First, one that is no fool.

Though she resembles a gardener's tool.

Next, one difficult to split in two,

And a girl once had one as big as her shoe.

Then, to the mind, one as a lovely bonder

As absence makes it grow fonder.

Last is a stem connecting dots of three.

Knowing this, what are we?

The suits of a card deck (spade, diamond, heart, club).

A field of cards; a spade is a shovel; love is difficult to split up, and apparently in a nursery rhyme, a girl had a heart as big as her shoe; diamond is a rock, but it's rare, so people are more fond of it when it starts disappearing; a three-leafed clover.

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This last one some of you may be familiar with, as it was not made by me, but by an author of a famous trilogy and prequel.

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What has roots that nobody sees,

Is taller than trees,

Up, up it goes

Yet it never grows?

A mountain. Caves as roots, and they're dark, too. Mountains are big, but don't grow like trees.

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Riddles are Poems, too

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