My Tits Looked At My Bottom.

My Tits live in a nest hidden in a tree,
I like to watch them daily
They also take a peep at me.

They caught sight of my bottom
when I stepped upon my skirt
I tripped and heard them chortle
my pride was really heart.




My Tits looked at my bottom
and I will never be the same
I know I heard the Raven
Calling out my name.

The Raven told the Robin
that he saw my bum
The Robin told the Lark
that all the birds should come.

They tapped beaks on the window,
One even shared his worm.
It was like being on the telly,
I felt my body squirm.

The Tits shall not get any supper
or a lardy meal-worm for desert
I believe it’s a fitting punishment
for my pride being sorely hurt.




I was the WINNER! 

Thank you Chelsea Owens for the challenge the weekly hilarity contest press the link to read more. PRESS HERE

Thanks to Pixaby.com for use of photos.

Chelsea said it must be clean and fun … “Did my Poem hit the spot?” answers in the comments I love when you twitter back too.


Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

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.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/29 – 3/6/2020

Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

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

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

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.

An Awful Anniversary Assembly.

Sixty years, well here’s to it, I raise a glass; into it, I spit.
Jerk my head to call him near, passed his glass feigned a cheer.
He swallowed with greed; saliva and all. I curl my lip; soon he’ll fall.

A drunk, a bully full of hate; tonight, they will see his colours
spread out on the dinner plate. I served tripe and jellied eels.
This food, both banal and grey; like him, had seen a better day.

I smile at those around my cloth. His cronies and the hangers-on
those that doff their cap, those that think him a super chap.
“Please sit” I cry. Having previously dressed his tripe
with little crushed garlic to disguise the arsenic’s taste.
It was with finality he gorged in ungentlemanly haste.

Today my cynical response to the terrible poetry prompt. It takes me to a sixtieth Anniversary gathering. I hope you enjoy. Please leave me a comment I simply love to talk.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/22 – 2/28/2020
https://chelseaannowens.com/2020/02/29/the-weekly-terrible-poetry-contest-2-29-3-6-2020/

Nothing. Rag Tag Daily Prompt.

To read or visit other responses press This “empty”

2020-01-16 101511055064..jpeg

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,

Nothing left

Just me,

Bereft.

 

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. 😆😉

Charlie A Poem At Christmas.

“Charlie.”

Charlie wasn’t keen on Christmas, because of the paper, the lights and all the waste, He didn’t think it good to eat so much, when others went hungry, It soured the taste.

Charlie loved wearing Granddad’s flight jacket, the best ever Christmas gift, Grandma said he wore it each day, walking back from his overnight shift.

The coat was cumbersome and heavy, if zipped it came past his throat. His arms needed to be longer, and the leather smelt like a dirty old Goat.

But Charlie could fit mucky Ethel, underneath it when the rain soaked all her card. Or the snow made her fingers go blue … as she sat in that old butchers yard.

He could fit a curled up ham sandwich and an apple from Grandma’s dish, Deep inside the fur lined pocket. And he made a new Christmas wish.

He wished that all people had bedrooms, a place to rest their head. That mucky Ethel could have a bath and a coat to hold over her own head.

But Santa, he did not come calling, to the people who lived on the street. Instead he hoped they would have their own Charlie, who would give the shoes from his feet.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWZVJhRWxLVDhxMUVQbjhJOF9obUU2clJxd3Jz/view?usp=drivesdk

I added a sound bite for anyone wanting to hear me read this. “Do you think a child has opinions on subjects such as this?” I would love a comment please 😁

This year my Christmas cards were bought to support Shelter, we sent them only, to close family and even closer friends. But I purchased one item a week and two when I could, th as extras to my weekly shopping all year. I googled a list of what I should get, to be sure I was providing what was most needed. I trawled charity shops for sturdy rucksacks once cleaned I stuffed them tight. A female sack was complete by August and delivered to the drop in center in our charming market town; you would not think there would be a homless problem here. Just before the cold of December a male back pack was ready to give, being near Christmas, I included a card, a tiny bear and a notebook and pen as extras. My gifts make me tear up as I write this, because who is to judge and it was so little for some but would mean everything to them. May this season and coming year bring roofs for the homless.

Diamonds.

Her cheeks carry the imprint of diamonds,

Where she pushed her face to see.

What life would be like beyond that fence,

To be welcomed in the land of the free.

Dusty hands grip tight, a heart still full of hope,

Unshed tears make her chin wobble, but determination helps her cope.

She gazes at the fancy dresses the boats being used for fun …

Not to escape in … or for the winds to take their Mum.

People on the other side, oblivious to her watching, or the sadness that it brings.

Play happily in the sunshine, The only diamonds they know, are set in lovers rings.

 

 

The photograph (with permission, on loan from Diane Hartnell)

On attending one of the fabulous workshops at the Theatre Royal Bury Saint Edmunds. We were challenged to use pictures as a starting point, to twist the scene and produce a piece of performance for a show called ‘The Other ends.’

The poem above ‘Diamonds,’ is my response. Performed at the Bury arts festival on 19th June. Our group will be on stage between 11am and 12 noon, where we will be accompanied by two choirs and when all the ‘Other Ends’ will be showcased.

I would love to know “have you pushed the boundaries of comfort and put yourself on the stage, if so how did it go?” Leave a comment I just love to chat.