I can never see Brunhilde otherwise. Wascaly Wabbit or bust.

Alan, Brian deleted something on another thread "for reasons of paranoia" - perhaps it's the possible risk of posting online counting as publication, or somesuch, but then again that's why we have Deep Drills, to avoid that, and the Oldie doesn't mind. Maybe I've misunderstood.

I see. Thanks Nicholas.
So, presumably, someone has had a poem rejected because of posting here.

Brilliant! Thanks.

I suppose. I don't think the Oldie minds though. Poems on these threads often win there.

The Ring
 

Unpolished gems, no ray on pride bestow;
And latent metals innocently glow:
Here stored rings my great grandsire had to trust
We would keep sacred, lay bequeathed to dust.
Rich in refulgent robes, now few shall be
When most hide lustre under lock and key.

We peek the awkward grace of sparklers,
Snigger, shut up again in attic drawers
To hush his pocket-watches' ticks and tocks:
What stays me is not their old English box
(Half gold and half enamel nécessaire),
Not public office symboled with a flair,
Not that they ring the time, but all, they show
Essentials in a time we cannot know.
I glean the well-dressed, upright gentleman
Great grandad was and how he thought back then.
s

***deleted***

Deleted ditty.

The early British converts stared aghast
At Knowlton Henge in Dorset and decreed
The monument a blasphemy. Too vast
To level out, these pious folk agreed
To topple all its megaliths instead
For fear that men might come to reappraise
The word that blessed Augustine had spread
And re-embrace their former pagan ways.
They raised a temple of their own design
Inside the earthen ring already there
To further neutralise this heathen shrine
With wholesome Christian liturgy and prayer.
The church collapsed, but still that bank of sod
Outside its shell endures. So much for God.