GO HERE To read about the Hoax, And to see the picture source.
Follow this link to join in or read other responses to the terrible poetry competition.
Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.
Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog barking
With a juicy bone.
A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
Silence the piano
With a muffled drum.
Slap that girl on the bum.
Bring out the coffin
Let the mourners come.
She would deliberately go
Slam the door like billy-ho.
To make her uncle Jacob start
She wasn’t really bad at heart.
He was my north my South
East and West.
My working week
My Sunday rest.
The funeral sermon
(Which was long
And followed by
a sacred song)
I thought love
My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.
A Sister wrote of her brothers passing
She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse
Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.
The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit
The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.
It bought down the wrath of the literary giant
When the hoax was revealed they became silent.
They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme
They made up a sister and gave him not much time.
Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease
Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,
When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they
His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.
Do follow the link If you do not know the story Chelsea Anne Owens explains it simply.
As the badge of honour suggests it was indeed a successful attempt at produduce a poem using the Hoaxers formulation .
Did I succeed? in my mix, to deliver the most terrible poem in your eyes? leave me a comment and I will get right back.
Looking out my back door I see the well, my eyes are drawn in its direction. I hear a clinking of the chain. A bitter taste hits my tongue, sticky liquid begins burning the back of my throat. I stare harder until the frosty air pinches my nose and makes my eyes water. I push my feet into the wellies left by the door. Again the chain shakes, a frantic determined rattle. With sweaty palms pressed into my dressing gown pockets, I place one foot on the deck and slowly creep forward.
My ears hurt at the clatter! The heavy lid begins to rise, only an inch, but enough to for me to see gnarled fingers at its edge. There’s a scream, then I realise it came from me. pyjama clad legs get cold, my wellingtons fill, which force fogged air to escape. I wobble as the stench of urine made me gag! The lid slammed closed. Forward I go across the lawn, trembling, with each crunch that the morning frost makes underfoot. One more sudden rattle and fear for myself vanished. Faster I ran, and as the sound became louder my breath quickened. The rusted chain stilled as I put out my hand. I tugged the heavy lid upwards. Both hands grasped the rusted ring. It raised a crack. “Whose there? Can you push? I can’t lift, it’s too heavy.” I cried. I feel veins bulge in my neck and blood pump in my ears as I force the lid, blood filled my mouth with each tug. Teeth biting down on flesh. Gritty rust particles bore into my hands biting, burying deep into my soft flesh.
I run to the shed, face wet with sweat and tears, grabbed a hoe to wedge its handle through the ring. With all my strength I pushed, until finally, it lifted. I leap back at the sound of a splsh, and scan the crystal clear water beneath. Bubbles broke the surface, then a sigh. Two Newts were the only occupants of our well. When John wakes he won’t be best pleased, having to repair the hinges and mend the cracked oak lid. Frowning I looked once more into the abyss below, but there is nothing, just cold, clear, water, and a pair of Newts. As I turned to face the door I whipped back my head, just in time to see deep rents in the underside of the lid begin to fill, until they vanished …
That was my response to the #RagTagDailyPrompt which today was, ‘ looking out of my back door’ press here to join in or read other fantastic tales.
Did I scare, did I paint the picture clear? Answers in the comments, please.
P.S. what would scare you?
In 99 words, no more or less, by the 21st January write using the prompt ‘Protest’ 📚 press the pile of books to join in at Charli’s place or to read some amazing responses … after the 21st.“Quiet!” shouted Miss Brooks, “Okay Girls, hands up if you think you’re the weaker sex.” Shouts, and stomping shoes echo. Her voice raised, her palm hit the desk. A puddle formed in her eye, she grabbed her hands rubbing vigorously, as a drip plopped against her lip. Her tongue, snatched it away unseen, while she counted raised hands.”Please miss,” eyes swivel, and I colour. “I think it depends if they smack the desk harder than you.” The noise level climbed. “It isn’t gender or braun that predicts strength, but Emotional intelligence Miss, females win that every time.”
tough one this week, the lone voice stood up for what she believes is right. Do you think the question should even be asked? Have you ever spoke up, voiced your opinion? Answers in the comments i can’t wait to reply.
To read or visit other responses press This “empty”
Nothing, an empty desk, a crowded head,
Rumpled sheets on an empty bed.
A void, a hole, another missed goal.
A black cloud in a sunny space,
A blank look, on an expressionless face.
An empty cupboard, an empty purse,
Hollow meannings in a hollow verse.
No energy to pick up my pen,
To use it for judging men.
An empty shell,
A burst of verse, in response to the prompt. First I had to feel the word, have empathy, then … if I was nothing … what would I be? I am fortunately, not nothing. But did you like what I penned, was it fit for purpose? Let me know in the comments. I am full of chat. 😆😉
We worked hard, determined I was, not to be ‘A Carried Wife.’ More worried about other’s perceptions, I got it wrong. Because he was a lawyer, earning big, didn’t mean people would expect me to slack. Engrossed in that thought, I took my eye of of the ‘us.’
Not seeing his palor, hearing that cough. I failed as his wife. Each night I fell into bed shattered, not fit for the part. Worked, unaware of his appointments. I didn’t hold his hand, wipe his head. Here I am now, clutching a cold yellowed hand, wishing … it wasn’t his deathbed.
Written in response to the picture prompt set at Charli’s Carrot ranch. Thank you for having me back. If you want to give her challenges a go, press the horse 🐎
Please comment I love to talk.