A red fallen flag; a grey house.

The tin door’s open – an invitation.

Seven golden pears, in a single golden row

And twenty-seven pickled feet in a jar.

My father picks them out with a silver fork,

And lays them out on the granite bar.

I followed my mother to where the milk’s sold.

Twenty-four teeth, and two of hers are gold.

Torn colored cloths in a green thorn tree.

And a red tin flag atop a closed tin house.

They say my father looks nothing like me.

Author guidance for This poem

Current Score
Gnashville: 120 points (for writing "Help! I'm Being Eaten By a Rodeo Gal In A Dervish")

How challenging. Write a poem with the title decided by the author of the post before. It's quite absurd.

*I encourage you to leave a COMMENT for the poet before you (or on any poem you like). This is an exercise in both poetry and in community! Please help us build on each other.

Have fun! Try to read others' work! Be fair, play nice, be appropriate (I don't want to mark this mature). You're big kids; you know what 'appropriate' means.

Thanks, Eryl

updated Apr 13 by Lyre