8th poetry compo

Baobab tree

Any style you feel like, any genre, I’d like to hear a story, your entry has to have at least one African place name or African politician / celebrity in it..

Doesn’t have to be South African, Pyramids are fine, a trip to Victoria falls is okay.

I simply want a beginning and an end, a minimum of 12 lines, present them as you will.

For example

Twas on the road to Naboomspruit
I saw her standing there
Shaded by the Boabab at the farm gate
With her thumb up in the air

I slowed and then pulled over,
Wound the window down
‘Where you going?’ I asked her
‘The Mother City’ (Cape Town)

She hopped into the passenger seat

(To be continued…)

Extra points will be awarded for the difficulty of the person’s / place’s name and extra points if you make Boadicea laugh!

Have fun, hope I haven’t dissappointed anybody but I look forward to the entries.

Closing date, 18th April, couldn’t care less what time zone, I’ll read them and and do my thing on the 19th.

As per usual, insert your entry here or as a seperate post with a link in the comments below.

7 thoughts on “8th poetry compo”

  2. Soutie, I’ll do my best but I’m off to Blighty shortly and won’t be back until after closing time (!). Close proximity to the Janus clan is not conducive to poetic endeavour, even of the Slacky kind. 🙂

  3. Hi Soutie.

    I hardly think my entry warrants its own post, and it is just a contribution. Perhaps it will inspire someone to do better; let’s face it, it wouldn’t be exactly difficult. 😉

    Brave Monty’s been saving
    A plan is afoot.
    Last winter was harsh,
    The meadow was marsh.

    A jaunt in the sun, perhaps to the Cape
    Libya, or Egypt,
    Ambitious for sure,
    But what about Tunis or even Darfur?

    Now bless our dear Monty, he hasn’t a clue
    He’s only a mouse,
    These places mere names,
    Politics and war are just human games.

  5. A true story for a change.

    Our rellies in Jo’burg were cleverly odd
    They’d forsaken their past and taken to God
    Good works were their slogan, with fanfare and trumpet
    They plastered their holiness, buttered like crumpet
    In e-mails and letters to family and friends
    They’d sinned in the past but they would make amends
    All they needed to help with their message of love –

    Was money. Big money, ‘cos when push came to shove
    They needed the power that money could bring
    To glorify God and save souls – that’s the thing
    That drove them to work with a missionary zeal
    Just send money … or invest in their currency deal.

    They conned house and pension from her Mum and Dad
    Who limped back to Blighty to die; it was sad.
    They lived in a mansion, investing their hoard
    And all of it done in the name of the Lord.

  6. I will no more the road to Salisbury take,
    the African sun above.
    The promise has been broken,
    Loyalty betrayed.
    Though the die has been cast,
    the past remains
    A ghost haunting the memory
    Of this ancient land.

    No more shall we see
    The train run on time,
    Nor will we see,
    The wheat growing under sun shine.

    The past has been broken,
    The die has been cast,
    All that remains,
    Is the ghost of things that have passed.

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