Through thick and thin
I shall oppose sin
For I am pure
As the snow covered moor
Ere footfall
Spoils all.
I am a saint
(Which is rather quaint
In this age).
But open the pristine cover
And look beyond the page
And you will discover
A man much like his brother …
Esther Chilton is hosting a challenge in which she invites you to write about ballet. Below you can find the contributions of those who have contributed thus far, together with my limerick on the subject of ballet.
Ester also includes some amusing contributions from last weeks challenge, in which she invited readers to write about cheese. I enjoyed last week’s contributions and, in particular the prose piece, by Martin Strike. Being a huge consumer of cheese, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to contribute to last week’s challenge in the form of a limerick and Esther kindly reproduces my poem in the below post.
Kevin
This week’s challenge is to write a story, limerick or poem on the subject of:
Ballet
Last week’s challenge was to write about cheese. You sent in some simply brilliant pieces. Here are a few:
Keith Channing wrote a thoroughly entertaining limerick:
I live in a land famed for cheese
With Rocqueforts and Cantals and Bries
To make them is lawful
Though some taste bloody awful
Just send me some strong Cheddar, please!
Peter Wellshad some fun:
Sometimes it makes me sneeze,
Don’t be unhinged,
No cause for alarm,
It’s an addiction and not a disease!
Visit Steve Walsky‘s blog for a ‘cheesy events’ piece!:
https://simplicitylane.wordpress.com/2018/03/23/cheesy-events-flash-fiction-humor/
D Avery send in some super limericks:
How can I ever make it up to you?
This cheese is green and you wanted blue
I can’t hope to console ya
With this Gorgonzola
If green cheese is something you do eschew.
View original post 981 more words
There was a young man called Jim
Who asked me to write about him.
I lacked the time
To compose a rhyme
On account of his pretty wife Kim …
Walking the shoreline
I perceive that there is a fine line
Between our yearning to be free
And our respect for the sea.
Writing Magazine is holding a sonnet poetry competition. Fancy a go? Here are some details for you:
‘Sonnets have been around for over 800 years and are widely popular in English (Elizabethan, a la Shakespeare) or Italian (Petrarchan) form.
‘The challenge for this competition will be to find a fascinating, fresh subject that works perfectly within the form’.
Prizes:
1st: £100
2nd: £50
Both winning entries will appear in Writing Magazine.
Entry fee: £6 (£4 for subscribers)
Closing date: 15th May 2018
Entries can be 14-line sonnets in either the Italian or English form.
To find out more, visit the competition page.
***
There was a young man from Bristol
Who threatened me with his pistol.
When the gun backfired
As I desired
He flew many miles from Bristol!
—
There was an elderly man from Bristol
Who threatened me with his pistol.
He said “keep away from my daughter
Or I will you slaughter
With this powerful water pistol!”.
—
There was a young man from Bristol
Who was a collector of crystal.
He owned an antique gun
And just for fun
I shot him with his pistol!
Yesterday evening I read an article entitled “The Privilege Paradox”, http://quillette.com/2018/03/27/the-privilege-paradox/ . The article reminded me of my own short poem “Privilege” which runs thus:
“I stand opposed to all privilege,
To the bitter end.
Yet, if it be mine own
I do, as a dog with a bone
My privilege defend,
Gainst foe and friend”.
(https://newauthoronline.com/2017/09/20/privilege/).
There was a young man called Mark
Who wrote a poem about the dark.
It was late at night
And he haden’t much light,
So his poem was bleak and stark.
Trigger is my fourth guide dog, and I am pleased to report that he is still as bouncy as ever.
You lay on my book.
Perhaps you mistook
It for a bone
And discovering your mistake, left it alone!
You creased it’s pages.
Oh the ages
I took
To write that book!
You lay on my book
But look
I have many more,
And ‘twas entirely my fault for
I should not have left it on the floor!
Dogs have such short lives
While the poet’s work survives
Long after master and friend
Have come to their end.
You lay on my book,
My faithful old mutt.
K Morris - Poet 