Oscar Wilde has Yeats on the Ghostbuster's phone, and they are talking about that great poem you wrote yards ago. It's either that or Wilde has an earache. The question is why isn't everyone talking about your great verse. What ... it's dead. That can't be true, great poems never die. But they can have the blockchain sit on them and keep piling on so they can't breathe. Push off all those butterflies, blossoms, recipes, and rants, and let that poem roam free-range once again. It's Sunday and time to close off #poetryweekend with #deadpoems.
The Rules
- Upvote and re-esteem this post.
- The post must be at least a week old.
- Vote for 1-3 other entries in the comment section. Do NOT upvote the original post. That is a wasted vote. Upvote the comment here.
- I will choose from among the poets/poems that received the most votes and best quality comments and gave the best comments and did their diligent best to upvote 1-3 other entries.
- Depending on the size of the payout, I try to reward as many people as possible.
- Poems only, all forms of poetry welcomed.
- Don't vote for yourself
Last week's post has not paid-out yet and I actually want to go outside and tromp the moors in search of medicinal berries and a newly-single Heathcliff. Yeah, Katherine was born again and since then she hasn't been any fun. I will return with a brooding, invisible beau and the results from the last week a little later.
So file through your oldies but goodies and drop the link below:):):)
