[George Simmers]

May I join in?

Here's Milton writing about vacuuming:

Each morn resplendent angels swept the rich
Brocaded carpets of the Heavenly halls
With whirring Dysons, and let marvel none
That such machinery was there, for Heaven's store
Holds all devices that God's providence
Has planned for human weal in future times.
Satan was on that rota; with deft skill
He could all four attachments utilise
To clean fine tapestries and yet harm not
The lustrous filigrees of golden thread.
Which work gave him great joy, till Raphael
With Mister Muscle made the kitchen shine,
For which all Heaven garnished him with praise,
Ignoring Satan's efforts, and the the thoughts
Of that bright angel darkened, breeding vast
Resentful Pride, and so began all woe.

[Ann Drysdale]

Brilliant, George! Welcome to the madhouse! That faint sound you hear is the other inmates shuffling up to make you a space!

[Julie Steiner]

Brilliant, indeed! Very polished work, George. I've immediately taken a shine to you.

[Marion Shore]

Originally Posted by Jayne Osborn

Marion,
Doh! Of course. Thanks for assisting my overloaded brain.

Lucy is going to have one helluva hard job judging this one, IMO. Will the lucky winners be the ones who hit on her personal favourite poems to parody? Or will she be blown away by the skill of some of the entries even if she's not overly familiar with the original? A difficult call, either way.

Maybe she'll choose it by her least favorite household task.

[Marion Shore]

This one's by my son Michael (age 15)


Taking Out Trash on a Rainy Morning

Whose chore this is I think I know.
While she sleeps in, I have to go;
She will not see or smell this reek,
nor watch the puddles quickly grow.

The little birds don't find it bleak,
Safe in their nests without a peak
Between the leaves that sag and seep,
The darkest morning of the week.

I slowly step to rid this heap,
Wondering why I'm not asleep.
The only other sound's the beat
of steady rain in puddles deep.

I think of coffee, warm and sweet,
But I have chores I must complete,
And trash to haul before I eat,
And trash to haul before I eat.

[John Whitworth]

peek, isn't it peek?

[Petra Norr]

Say Marion, tell your son I think his poem is just great.

[John Whitworth]

And so do I. Jeeze. Rimbaud was fifteen when he started. And eighteen when he finished.

[basil ransome-davies]

And turned poetry on its head. He died in Marseille & there is rather a fine memorial to him there, in a park by the sea. It's semi-abstract but could easily be mistaken for a drunken boat.