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.
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
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.