Charlotte the fancy hippo put on airs all the time
her clock was better than most, it had a lovely chime
She had the fanciest laces on her pantaloons, for sure.
Charlotte confided that she had sweet smelling manure
Some believed her but others knew much better.
We had smelled her gas through her jeans and sweater.
Today she is on a swing bragging it is the best around.
Some of us are hoping it breaks and she ends up on the ground.
Hush, hush sweet cousin Charlotte
Don't tell them what I've wrought.
Just let them all think
you require a shrink.
They saw your hands stained scarlet.
Charlotte’s whimsical nature led her into fun escapades
she was invited by many to share their adventures
because she was entertaining, playful, and inventive
creative and clever, we said to each other
Charlotte accumulated many appreciative friends
the way rich girls accumulated Barbie dolls in the sixties.
Charlotte
You were smiling at me
As you were looking right
Through him
Or were you
Looking right through me
As you were smiling at him?
False subtleties
From dew to dust
From dawn to dusk
All the things that you have to weave
I’m sure didn’t mean to deceive
Well I never really had a doubt
After all the things I found out
I can’t get out
Charlotte
Too caught up in the web you wove
In the lies you told
Head first for you I really dove
The web you spun
Right here where it all began
As I sing along
The cricket’s song
Just as I realized
Summertime can’t last forever
AsI hang onto something
a little tighter
I wondered if I
Should hold on to nothing
A little bit longer?
Your hourglass body
The bristly patch I crave
Too many things on my mind
So many past better left behind
That also told my woes to you
That is all I can do
No one can ever take your place
In my heart
Blood thirsty
Looking pretty
That’s all you do
Charlotte
I’d still like to believe
That you really
Didn't mean to deceive.
There once was a girl from Charlotte
Rumors spread that she is a harlot
She was loose in her ways
And perhaps her suitors did pay
Would it be better if free tomorrow Scarlet
A poet, Charlotte Bronte (pen name Currer Bell),
was eldest of three sisters; novels she wrote as well.
A Gothic style in first person narration she wrote with flair,
giving us novels ahead of their time, like the popular Jane Eyre.
Charlotte kept the house cleaner than anyone else.
She washed and scrubbed and vacuumed until it was an obsession.
Her husband wanted her time, but she had none to spare.
As a housewife, she was determined to deep clean daily.
Her house was her kryptonite; she was super cleaner.
Let’s go on vacation, he would say. Let’s stay in bed a little longer.
Let’s go out to eat. But she was determined to be a success.
She successfully ran him out of her life and her clean house.
Hair of honey brown and gold
Simply gorgeous truth be told
Eyes of steel gray, powder blue
Pierce my heart that's what they do
Rendered speechless at their sight
Look right through me with a light
That bares my soul, unspoken words
In silence thunder, though unheard
But if you trace out my tattoo
It's then you'll hear it play for you
My testimony sans fanfare
That proves "you know" is really there
Charlotte Anne is an incessant talker
does not listen long
stays on track
back to herself no matter what the topic is
“I know. My family was a piece of cow dung”.
“It is a wonder no one molested me.”
“That reminds me of my life.”
“I did that once.”
“That is my story too.”
“My friends all turn on me.”
“My relatives hated me.”
“My mother said she wished I would have died.”
Me, me, me, I, I, I, self, self, self, self, self.
I say “Wasn’t that horrible about Nancy Pelosi’s husband?”
“It’s a wonder my family didn’t do that to me!” she replies.
I have run out of ideas now as to how to turn the conversation.
I guess I may have to turn on her too.
Wise man of Charlotte enjoys his wisdom which is known.
We respect this paragon whose power mimics a king on a throne.
Although not of noble birth, he is revered throughout the land.
We know of his exploits and ideas. His ideals are enormously grand.
Wise man of Charlotte walks comfortably among the classes.
He is admired by many – oldsters, youngsters, males and many lasses.
He will not take a wife, for he needs no other to be complete.
His traditions and ideas are respectful, and he is almost ridiculously sweet.
Charlotte
fictional, friendly
caring, comprehending, self-sacrificing,
crusader, comforter, nightmares, aliens
scurrying, panic-inducing, mate-killing
creepy, otherworldly
spiders
Me: Say Charlotte, is your story true?
C: It’s fictional, now are we through?
Me: So are you rich from telling yarns?
C: I’ve got nice threads, but live in barns.
Me: Are you a speedster in disguise?
C: I took a spin; I won a prize.
Me: So what’s your sport now, with your size?
C: Baseball, I guess, ‘cuz I catch flies.
Me: Do you take trips by ground or air?
C: I went by truck, seemed pretty fair.
Me: I hear your love of school is big?
C: I learned to spell and saved a pig!
Me: I hear you were a diplomat?
C: I once coerced a nasty rat.
Me: At this point, what’s your great concern?
C: I’m losing it; I talk to ferns.
Me: So is your life now on the skids?
C: You ever kept a thousand kids?
Me: Surely your life’s not been a dud?
C: You’ve clearly never sucked fly’s blood.
Me: So you’re concened with mental health?
C: I often try to hang myself.
Me: What helps most with life's flow and ebb?
C: I sit a lot and surf the web.
—————
(Inspired by Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White)
FIRST PLACE WINNER
for ‘a conversation with a fictional character’ Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
Submitted 2/4/22
Childhood friends helped each other
Known since we are 8, 9 years old
They helped me with Gen. Austin- a scammer
I fell, was hard but I accepted
Now, there are those who’s she’s hurting
God and me
We’re hurt because she’s committing a sin
She is living in a world of lies
She was hurt when I told her
Starting to say hurtful things
It is okay I love her
Was helping her
It hurts but there is love
That’s what friends are for
I knew a girl called Psychic Charlotte
her bogus readings less than starlet
her sly ruse exposed
new profession chose
is now known as Charlotte the Harlot
Charlotte died in eighteen–forty-four,
Murdered on Cornwall’s,
On Cornwall’s, Bodmin Moor,
Those seeing the ghost are very sure,
It’s poor Charlotte,
Poor Charlotte, who still walks the moor.
A monument erected is there till this day,
Marking the spot,
The spot, where she did last lay.
Those seeing the ghost are very sure,
It’s poor Charlotte,
Poor Charlotte, who still walks the moor.
Was it her murderer the police did arrest?
But if so, why can’t her spirit,
Her sprit, now find its rest?
For those seeing the ghost are very sure,
It’s poor Charlotte,
Poor Charlotte, who still walks the moor ...
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