A great many thanks to my fellow poets who responded splendidly on Facebook to the George Perec ‘e’ challenge. It’s a feast. I hope you enjoy the selection. I send them and you warm Easter greetings.
Send me every gem she ever kept.
Beef, beer, weed: perfect.
Helen expects eleven eggs every week.
Sarah L Dixon:
Every beret fells seven men even when they tend seeds, mend fences, then recede. End.
Best strengthen the steel sheep pen
Chew seven spelt seeds. Renew every few weeks.
Feel the breeze; expect red cheeks.
Send me the new bed, fresh sheet-bedecked.
She expects her energy ends here.
When Ben went there Jen went red.
Sarah J Bryson:
He knew every beech tree grew free, the breeze renewed, endlessly.
She’d never pre-empt these seven, then exempt.
Envy the clever shepherd – the twelve speckled sheep he secretly keeps chew where the endless greenery stretches between cherry tree edged beech crescents.
The Beer Fest swells the seventh tent; breezy revellers emerge, three sheets teetered.
The elect erected dressy needles, yet clerks scythe empty chests.
We’re held, spent – thresh sleep/speech event, feel stress.
When we’re elderly trekkers the knees need rest
Eyes drench every element when they weep.
He prefers terser sentences.
Yes the egg never left me, yes the elf then wept, even better, he grew mettle greener, severed the tree then tweeted the red hedge news.
she emerges even when she expects endless reverses.
By way of bonus, here is poet Rod Whitworth’s contribution – using only ‘i’ and ‘y’.
I mind (with liking) this child
Lit with infinity,
it insists it is big.
Bit by bit — spiting
my might, my right —
it fights my will.
I find sticks in bins
Timing it by twilight
I skip by drinking
in high winds, rhyming,
rhythmic. By limp light
I’m writing mythic signs
my child might find
inspiring. I sigh.