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Riddle

One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
Monday morning was the first time
That I noticed something strange
Now I know with your kiss was not the same
Was it all just in my mind

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song performed by En Vogue
Added by Lucian Velea
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In The Middle

Chorus:
I'm caught up in the middle
Jumping through the riddle
I'm falling just a little tonight (uh uh)
Cos everybody's making trouble
Someone's burst their bubble
But we'll be getting by alright (uh uh uh)
Chorus:
I'm caught up in the middle
Jumping through the riddle
I'm falling just a little tonight (uh uh)
Cos everybody's making trouble
Someone's burst their bubble
But we'll be getting by alright (uh uh uh)
Sooner or later this drunken elevator
Is gonna stop where I'm supposed to be
It's ten past eleven, I'm half way up to heaven
But I'm stuck in reality
Life's kind of funny
Not in it for the money

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song performed by Sugababes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Enigma

Come riddle-me-ree, come riddle-me-ree,
And tell me, what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose; --
Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes;
Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand,
That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land
But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature,
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of int'rest, most painful, to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come, tell me what my name may be.

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poem by Thomas Moore
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Lord Thomas And Fair Ellinor

Lord Thomas he was a bold forrester,
And a chaser of the kings deere;
Faire Ellinor was a fine woman,
And Lord Thomas he loved her deare.

'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he sayd,
'And riddle us both as one;
Whether I shall marrye with faire Ellinor,
And let the browne girl alone?'

'The browne girl she has got houses and lands,
Faire Ellinor she has got none;
And therefore I charge thee on my blessing,
To bring me the browne girl home.'

And as it befelle on a high holidaye,
As many there are beside,
Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellinor,
That should have been his bride.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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True love never dies

Fiddle the riddle
Wiggle with the riddle

For true love never dies
Except those empty white lies

Love never says goodbye
It just flies
Low and high

Fiddle the riddle
Wiggle with the riddle
Perhaps you can unfold
The puzzle of true love not told

The love I know may sometimes fizzle
Then sparkle with the eye of a twinkle
After wear out like an ageless wrinkle
So I hear your cry and with you I sigh

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poem by Sylvia Chidi
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To See Life As A Riddle

Life,
Is what we make it.
But some will sit,
To see life as a riddle.
And life...
Some choose to fake it.
With a doing that's believed,
They can be freed of mistakes.
Yet life,
Is what we make it.
But some will sit,
To see life as a riddle.

Some people have a need,
To play life second fiddle.
Out of tune,
And afraid of taking risks.

Some people live,
Afraid of taking chances...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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There Is No Riddle', Wittgenstein

there is no riddle but in the mind
riding the inate thought waves
riding a language lonely rides
bathing within the foam names
white blind still sublime
soaking wet that mind craves
the end of its own time
to surf the peaceful ocean
of life long devotion

there is no riddle but in the eyes
watching the stairless sunsets
climbing the sight up the skies
casting the fragile fish nets
into the water whirl that defines
their depth their width their prey
and the burden of their day
in a silent breath of air

there is no riddle but in the hand

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Hundred Spells

Turandot, Puccini’s opera, told by stylised illustrations in a book
the heart of an Ice Princess frozen by the Moon Goddess, three
riddles posed to every Prince who wished to be her suitor on pain
of death if he could not get the answers right, beheaded by
imperial gesture of the shimmering beauty

Another Prince intrigued by the Princess, the first riddle: Every
night it soars anew, every day it dies - Hope, he replied; Illusion
said the Princess cold - the second riddle: Dream and the flame
flares anew - It is my blood that burns within with love for you,
answered the Prince - the third riddle: What is ice

that gives you fire - You cast a hundred spells - he sighed, The
answer is Turandot; he won the challenge, but would not marry
her against her will, set her one riddle - Say my name, made
her a gift of it to doom them both if she named him, then she
declared LOVE to be the stranger’s name

Chose to marry the strange Prince who by being brave and
generous won her respect; she despised all others but

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Riddle my Riddle Dear Watson

My first of four now hard, now soft appears,
sometimes it slakes, sometimes pours lakes of tears,
unmoved before, thaws, mists, then disappears,
descent rise follows, reign change engineers.

My second spins around as satellite
and from land's end scans out to see the light,
used dust to dust through dust returns to write
detailed tale of Man's mistaken might.

My third flaws all resisting flaming cause,
assures few doors contain engulfing maws,
sucks air it draws, earth scorched ignoring pause,
consuming trees, birds, bees, rooms, tombs, stores, floors.

My fourth blows forth to North, South, East and West,
arrested never, almost always blessed
unless its zest unrest spreads, topples nest,
destiny's quest jest crests at its behest.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Finis Exoptatus

Boot and saddle, see, the slanting
Rays begin to fall,
Flinging lights and colours flaunting
Through the shadows tall.
Onward ! onward ! must we travel ?
When will come the goal ?
Riddle I may not unravel,
Cease to vex my soul.

Harshly break those peals of laughter
From the jays aloft,
Can we guess what they cry after ?
We have heard them oft ;
Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving
Mingles in their song,
Are they glad that they are living ?
Are they right or wrong ?
Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so,
Why should they be sad ?
Certes ! we are living also,

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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