The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day, fellow poetmasters (or somesuch)! May I be the first to welcome you to Week 35 of the Terrible Poetry Contest?

If you’re seeking directions, read my how-to about terrible poetry. Specifically for this week, I also recommend reviewing limericks over at contest nine.

Because:

  1. The Topic is a limerick about poets who take themselves way too seriously.
  2. One limerick’s Length is five lines long; an anapaest meter. Double it up for ten, if you wish.
  3. Limericks rhyme …or, at least, they get really really close.
  4. The most important rule of thumb is to make it terrible! You need anarchist beatniks in coffee shops the world over to raise themselves from a backlit Apple, scowl over something besides the injustice of everything, and slowly sip their organic latte in pure distaste for what you have done.
  5. As usual, keep the rating PGish or kinder.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (July 26) to submit a poem.

Use the form below in order to be anonymous for a week.

If you want immediate internet attention and possible comments, however, include your poem or a link to it in the comments below.

I do not read entries until the deadline and always do so with names removed.

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
abi ismail

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

After a long day with a headache (thanks, human pregnancy), I’ve rock-paper-scissored a winner from my final choices.

And that winner is Peregrine Arc.

The Hallmark of Irony: An Elephant’s Tale

by Peregrine Arc

Here’s a card just for you
For 22 months, I’ve had spew
All over the savannah after every meal
Two hundred pounds sitting on my bladder for almost two years
Growing by the day and your father asks me
Dearest pachyderm-a-booble, whatsoever’s the matter, my dear little poodle?
Chin up, dear lady, this won’t last forever.
The labour pains will only last two nights, no matter.

So dearest child when you’re born,
If you ever wonder why your father walks with a limp–
It’s because I sat on him
To make him suffer for being a nitwit.

Congratulations, Madame Arc! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Almost all of the entries went above and beyond the criteria: horrible, educational, interesting, and painful to read. P’Arc’s contribution did all that, plus garnered the promised bonus points for trying to make hers more like a Hallmark card. Maybe it’s my current pregnancy speaking, but I especially appreciated the elephant daddy getting a bit of payback in the end.

Meanwhile, National Geographic may want to get in touch with the other fabulous poets:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Pregnancy is wearing,
As I’m sure you know,
But not if you’re a Surinam toad,
For guess where their babes grow.
If you said on their back,
You would be halfway right.
If you said the male digs holes
To stash the eggs in you’ve seen the light.
In a 12 hour mating ritual,
He buries those babes deep,
Then the skin grows back,
It’s enough to give me the creeps.
Four and a half months later,
The babes emerge,
Momma Surinam toad must sure shriek,
And lament her maternal urge.

—–

A Tale of Two Widows

by Mathew S

Two arachnids met eyes across a room
All eight pairs of eyes made contact in fact
That bulbous rump had made males swoon
Those long legs called out for contact

Mmmm mmmmm yum yum yum
He thought, what a night of ecstasy
We sure will get us much of some
They lay there tangled plain to see

Dreaming up their spider plans
They spoke to make a web for both of thee
He was arachnid putty in her hands
She hissed, “you’ll always be a part of me”

He thought he knew just what she meant
Like newly webs, not you or I, but we!
After sticky reproduction, hungry and so spent,
He attempted to leave the web sheepishly

But was asked to stay for dinner
To which he agreed, but feels remorse
Since he’s digesting in her innards
As her web-of-lies main course

—–

The lamentation of a girl guppy

by Bruce Goodman

Because you’re the male you’re smaller than me
And that’s because I’m a female guppy.
I don’t lay eggs, I’m a live-bearer,
And I don’t believe I could possibly say that any clearer.

Well you might laugh at my girth,
But that’s because I haven’t as yet given birth
I’m a good couple of months old
And when you were seven weeks old I wish you hadn’t been so bold.

Even when expecting, females prefer new males prettier than hubby
And frequently change who the father is going to be of their bubby.
Basically we guppies are the epitome of immortality
And that’s what happens when one practises polyandry.

So to sum up, if I see a boy guppy who’s dashing
I get quite overcome with passion.
But I ask you, do you think it is fair
That I’m already into my fifth pregnancy this year?

—–

From Here Two Maternity

by LWBUT

If you are lying in bed postprandially wondering

what you can Google here’s an example i’ve been pondering –

The female kangaroo of Australia

has quite the most remarkable genitalia.

Although it is a mammal, whose species mostly possess a single uterus,

the kangaroo has developed a reproductive system that is really quite new to us,

in that she has evolved double our number of internal cavities

in which to incubate the future prospective progeny of her species.

In two uteri her eggs can be fertilised in parallel, growing two joeys at a time

And what is an even greater puzzle, going from the ridiculous to the sublime,

is that though she exceeds the number of egg-hatching chambers by one over us

her vaginas exceed even that by a half again of the surprising number of uterus

making a final tally, some might find a tad hard to believe,

of kangaroo uteri: two, while kangaroo vaginas are in total, three!

While to some this may cause a concern at the possibility of colliding despatches

Our kangaroo has yet another surprise in the way that her offspring hatches;

the kangaroo has the unique ability to suspend one of her two embryo ‘in situ’

While the other makes good his escape before deciding what he is to do,

to go outside and crawl up to the pouch, if i’m not mistaken?

or crawl back up inside and hope his room has not yet been taken.

While from egg to escaping the womb will take a little joey about a month or more

the young ‘roo will remain in mum’s pouch for another eight, by which time she’s sure to be sore.

Once her young joey has been thus evicted

mum’s familial duties are no less restricted

She will continue to raise him, teaching him how to fend

for himself until his sibling brings her patience to an end.

So with two uteri, a female kangaroo in her maternity

can seemingly be pregnant from here to eternity.

—–

Self Satisfaction–Oh to be like thee, Komodo the Lizard

by Ruth Scribbles

Parthenogenesis
Genesis, the beginning
Beginning of self-impregnating
Impregnating self
Self reliance
Reliance on moi
Moi and tu
Tu, no not you
Me and only me
Self satisfaction
Or
Self destruction
Destruction of needing
Needing anyone
Anyone will do?
No only you
Oops.. just kidding
I want to procreate
Like the dragon of komodo
Now, that’s self satisfying!

—–

You Need a New Mom

by Angela Duggins

All through the night, in my dreams,
I hear you. I feel you.
deciding that you want to be born.
You will grow up someday.
I’ll push you out some way.
Now is time to break through my pores.

You’re here. My death I now fear.
I believe that you need a new mom.
Please stay. Your birth is my decay,
and I know that you need a new mom.

Keep moving on.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

When the Giraffe gives birth the baby falls to the ground
But luckily the calves are not hurt they seem to rebound
Lucky female seahorses as the males are the ones who give birth
I wonder how that effects the dads and their much prized girth
A chipmunk can give birth every forty five days
That’s enough to make Alvin stop singing and go into a daze
Opossums are quick they only gestate for fourteen days
Pressure on the males as it’s an even quicker menstrual phase
Humans are so much slower yet no less Herculean
That all makes the our pregnancy rather antediluvian

—–

Thank you so much for putting me through this misery! Tune in tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for the announcement of next week’s contest.

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P’Arc: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

The Strangest Pregnant Animal Ever, a poem

From curly hair to larger feet
And drooling, dozing, sniffling snores;

From skin tags, spots, and extra heat
And sudden change to teenage pores;

From stomach smashed and bladder squished
And nausea any time awake;

From snacks on which one must subsist
And baths that one must never take;

From ever-spreading stretch mark lines
And complications ev’ry term;

From husband flirts one must decline…

 

You wish you’d never seen That Sperm!

Frilled Shark, a terrible poem

Come with me
To the sea
Where it’s very cold
And wet
And blue
And also deep, fathomless, really dark, dark, black, maybe deep blue, some people say it’s green, others with no color perception call the water purple, and deep
Oh, and it’s cold
So
That is why
I’d die
So high
If I were
A frilled shark

Also I’d die because they carry their babies for 3.5 years.

Frilled Shark

Photo from Wikipedia Commons, ©OpenCage

 

That’s pretty much it.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

My Mantis, a slightly terrible poem

Have you eaten, my love?
Are you certain?
Don’t mean to be impert’en
But while I’m …erm, squirtin’
I’d rather
Neither
Of us
Lost

Our heads.

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Scientists long believed that female mantises engaged in sexual cannibalism. After the males mounted their partner, deposited their essence, and dismounted; most females then literally bit the male’s head off.

Recent studies of less-invasive means prove that female mantises rarely attack and eat their Baby Daddies in their normal homes nor in their natural surroundings. There is still some debate as to whether the female’s nutritional deficiencies at the time affect things.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

From Baby Giraffe, a terrible poem

Mummy dear and tall:

I know you love me,

But why did I fall?

Why did I walk once dumped from six feet off the ground

Within the sixty minutes of my entry to this Earth that’s brown and round but not very sound?

(Because I hadn’t walked for 453 to 464 days.)

Yes, that’s why the ground was not very sound;

Though I made a sound when I landed on the dirt

‘ Cause it hurt.

Next time I thank

I’d rather have a doctor’s spank.

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Giraffes have a gestation period of about 15 months, then the baby giraffe falls from his standing mother’s birth canal. It’s a drop of five or six feet. This helps break the umbilical cord and amniotic sac, plus avoid being sat upon by a long-limbed mother.

The babies recover quickly and are ready to walk by the time an hour’s passed.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Octopussy, a terrible poem

My darling, sumptuous, suctioned
Model of a mop head mother
Take my arm
No, not that one
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor -wait! There’s the one;
Take it, my Hun,
Hardly knowing how much I love you
My dear
It’s clear
You’ll store the future like a forty-day fridge,
Including my present; though, of me, it’s just a smidge.
Then, hang our darling hybrids round the rocks
It’s Christmas in our summer sea!
Just you and me –
Except, not me.
For, you see
It cannot be.
It’s not you, it’s m- the babies!

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The male octopus uses a special arm to remove his sperm packet, then place it inside the female octopus. After storing the eggs and sperm for a while (forty days for one species), she hangs the eggs from rocks and crevices and wipes them with her mate’s present.

For some reason, the male dies within 3 days of reproducing. The female dies a month after delivering her babies.

Photo Credit:
Masaaki Komori

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! This is our 34th time of offending the internet and I hope we continue to disappoint.

As those who’ve entered before know, writing terrible poetry is an art form. To truly offend one’s sensibilities; a bad poet needs to nearly fit a meter, almost follow a rhythmic pattern, or get so close to a beautiful description his audience starts picturing EXIT signs instead of snow falling gently in a springtime field. I explain the process a bit here.

Besides that, here are this week’s specifics:

  1. Topic: Animals and their pregnancy.
    Did you know the African Bush Elephant carries …well, an elephant for 22 months? That a male seahorse carries the babies (up to 1,500!)? Or that female Komodo Dragons can impregnate themselves without a male through a process called parthenogenesis?
    Did you know you’re going to write a poem about it?
  2. Just to make it more fun, I’d like the Length to be about Hallmark Valentine’s Day card-sized. Bonus points if you actually write it like a Hallmark Valentine’s Day card.
  3. Rhyme? It’s up to you.
  4. Mostly, just make it terrible. Whilst composing your note of affection, a pregnant elephant all the way across the ocean needs to raise its head from the water hole toilet and vow to spend its next 21 months making its way to your house…
  5. do know where babies come from; but if National Geographic can keep things clinical, I think our usual PG rating will suffice.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (July 19) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Joshua J. Cotten

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The managerial staff for this contest would like to apologize for the severe delay in posting.

So no more suspense. The winner is Bruce Goodman.

In dire need

by Bruce Goodman

Wendy wanted to make some dough
So she could go to the show
If she didn’t make it to the show you know
It would be the second year in a row.

Wendy stood at her front gate
With a notice, written on slate,
“I need to make dough!
I need to make dough!”

Wendy realized that it was a waste of time.
She might as well have gone to war and been on the front line.
Then a kind man came up, rather haughty
And said making dough was his forte.

“I’ll show you how to make dough,” he said.
Wendy though he was light in the head.
She said “I know how to make dough, but at the very least
I can’t make dough without yeast.”

The man said “What the hell!
I realize now you can’t spell.”
You don’t need dough,
You knead dough before taking it to the Bakers’ Show.

When that was sorted
Everyone danced and cavorted
They sang “Dough is what she kneads!
Dough is what she kneads!
Fa la la la la! Dough is what she kneads!”

Wendy’s chances increased
of winning the bread-making feast
once she got some yeast.

Congratulations, Bruce! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Bruce is no stranger to this contest, nor to winning it. It may be that he’s cracked the system on how to terribly poet and might consider writing stories with morbid endings instead…

As to the reasons for my picking: I read through the poems several times. Most made me laugh, almost all hurt to read, and almost all were cleverly penned. I appreciated the puns and subtle references. Bruce’s contribution won by a hair; incorporating confusion, mis-meter, a few too many rhymes, and a blundering sort of story in process.

I nearly chose several of these, and they are more than worth the read:

Take a Bow, Entropy

by Peregrine Arc

Hey here, look at me
The name is Entropy
I’m the flibber-gee-wibbit, the whoosit, the what’s it
That wears, corrodes, splinters, breaks, splits and frays all the things you own, from your patience to your very home.

I’m the thing that makes your pipes leak right before company is due.
I’m the squeaky wheel during a bike ride that echoes in the light of the moon.
I’m the rust that erodes at your swing
I’m the darling who ruins and breaks everything.
Even a no risk home owners insurance policy.

But for a fee? Never I.
But it’s my living just the same.
I collect your bad tempers, harsh words and examine your scowls
And then I make merry while the whole deck of cards comes tumbling down.

I’m havoc, I’m free, I’m powerful, I’m me.
I’m Entropy and I keep the flow of the economy, hee hee.
Free trade, capitalism, the green buck, oh oui
I’m kept in the front pocket of every crook who wants to make money. 💰

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

He wasn’t profiteering,
Nor being a freak,
He’d learnt that those things
Often didn’t come cheap.
Not cheap like a chicken,
Eggs were so blasé,
Nor like green eggs and ham,
He wasn’t hungry today.
Ideas once come,
Have their way,
Of being beneficial to those,
Who seized the day,
And it beat walking the streets,
Being a cop sure didn’t pay today,
Or being a lawyer, politician, teacher, tax collector, prostitute, drug dealer, c’mon you get my drift by now …
Those were all so au feu
No he got the idea,
From one of those reality shows
And it sure had paid,
Today he was a millionaire,
Selling ear wax from corpse was having its day.

—–

Blood Money

by Joanne the Geek

When I yet again start running out of money
To the blood bank I go to sell off my red honey
It’s a rare type so they’re always in need of some
If only I could produce more I wouldn’t have to be a bum

I even offered to sell my mucus dripping out of my nose
Or the copious earwax or what I find between my toes
Or any other of my bodily secretions I would quite happily sell
But they weren’t so interested in those as far as I could tell

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

I had fun today
It’s the month of May
I slept on a cot
I ate a lot
I listened to Sir Lancelot
I broke a pot
I’m in love
I have a glove
I like my rat
I play cricket with a bat
I have a ball
I am small
I like you
You like me too
I am good
I like food
I ate sweets
And meats
I drank wine
The sun shine
Oh yeah oh yeah
Oh yeah oh yeah

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Knee deep in the marsh
Still as a stump
Hear the trill of a Warbler
Imagine it is plump
Got the special quill
At the ready
Ready to aim
Hands held steady
Several in the bush
Most likely two
I get one in hand
Sure that it will do
Paint brush held tight
Microscope-like specs
Without a quiver
I write the tiny text
I let the little birdy go
It will fly away soon
And act like nothing’s wrong
Whistling it’s tune
But some birder will see
Written on it’s belly
An ad for the store
Where they sell raspberry jelly
And other delights
You can’t live without
All are guaranteed
To put a smile on your snout
You see I make my living
By writing words
Tiny advertisements
On the bellies of birds

—–

Breech

by Violet Lentz

Hiram slipped his elbow
then his forearm
then his wrist
from the swollen vulva
of the poor heifer
whose calf he’d had to twist
to get it to emerge all aglow-
first the legs, and then the torso.

“Delivering poorly
presented calves
can be some tedious work.”
Hiram stated
as he brought the calf
with one final tug n’ jerk,
“It’s a stress on the calf- and brother-
a right pain in the ars for the mother.”

“T’isn’t exactly painless
for a poor farmer
either, now don’t ya see
I’ll have to sell
off this wee little calf
if I’m ta cover yer fee.”
Farmer Ed countered, and so it began-
the necessary haggle-an…

—–

A Truly Terrible Rhyme 😉

by Tales from the Mind of Kristian

I’m told I often come across orgulous

Like a diamond-encrusted nautilus,

But I can’t bring myself to mix

With the great unwashed in the stix

So, in order to make some money

I do something jolly and funny.

I volunteer to look after cats,

And then keep tabs of everyone’s stats,

What type of shops they like to use,

All their secrets and their news,

Then sell the data for the highest price,

It all makes me feel rather nice.

Then I stride on down the street

In my golden tracksuit, rather neat.

By this simple data extraction

I live a life so full of action,

with a simple process activation

I’ve risen way above my station.

—–

Napkins for the Elderly

by jasonscottbrendel

I like to take napkins
and sell them to the elderly
don’t laugh, it’s not funny
and I think I’m lovely
so don’t tell me otherwise
positive vibes only
have I mentioned my heartbreak
it smells like torn, blackened, rusty, threadbare, shabby, tattered, grey with a hint of dark brown and hue of purple,
steak
so yeah
I deserve better
and that’s why I sell napkins
to the elderly
so they know
no matter how low they go
or how slow they row
at least they’ll know
I took the time
to sell them something fine.

—–

To Sell One’s Soul

by Padre’s Ramblings

Selling a soul is a thing to see,

It’s not done in a lab-rat-ry,

But in online Vlogs and Reality TV,

For few brief moments of cash and “fame,”

You embarrass yourself,

And bring your family shame;

You bathe in slime, or sing out of key,

Do crazy stunts, or publicly pee,

All for endorsements – their granters fickle,

And your dreams of wealth are oft

Just a trickle.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

Rupert likes to make shed loads of money.
Not bad for a lad who comes from a land which is so sunny
A man who set up his own news corporation
Who still had time to build a TV station
Making so much dosh he thinks he owns your nation
So how does our Rupert make his cash
Promoting fake stories with panache
Filling his TV channels with balderdash
Getting you to watch TV shows filled with advert trash
Rupert also likes to control the news
He wants you to sign up to this perverted views
Making sure his political buddies get friendly interviews
His opponents suffer as fake news spews

—–

Acosta=RumputiN=Epstein

by reality

Our king-kong sized terrible two has realized
an even more devious way to line the Trump
organized crime family’s pockets, he’s having
NASA do a trip to Mars in preparation for a
manned landing by some white guy who’ll also
be tasked to play golf on the moons too.
RumputiN will throw in a little histoire to
make the photos more appealing to his multi-
millionaire foreign dictator pals: “They’re
named after the Greek mythological twin
characters Phobos (panic/fear) and Deimos
(terror/dread) (The Donald’s domestic and
foreign policy, respectively), who went with
their father Ares into battle. Ares, god of
war, was known to the Romans as Mars. This
will up the price he can charge them for
renting out the Lincoln bedroom, cafknching,
being the united suck of assassins new motto.

His current fav tool of stealing tax dollas is
still doing genocide, classwar style against
Latinos. He ripped apart 7000 families to
gift overtime, doubletime, more hires, multi-
million dolla private detention center
contracts to republican manned anti-immigrant
Gov’t agencies + his lifelong criminal cronies.
These kids are caged, allowed little soap,
showers, running water, food, etc.. Similar
conditions to 40’s US internment camps. This
should be one of the articles of impeachment
against him. Dinos, like Nancy ‘Chamberlain’
Pelosi, can be scolded if impeachment doesn’t
go only forward, for if it’s not completed
in the House before the 2020 elections,
RumputiN/vlad-the-impaler may be re-installed
into the Blackhouse by the same conspiracy
that did it in 2016. Viva la evolucion.

—–

Money Grows on Trees

by Ruth Scribbles

Money does NOT grow on trees
It comes out of a wall,
Everyone agrees
So why should I work?

I’ll climb a tree
To jump the wall
Until I’m tall
Enough to teach the slot
Where the money comes out
Green, like snot

—–

Thank you for sharing your terrible talents! Thanks for returning to play and for those who visited for the first time this contest. Come on back tomorrow, all y’all, and try next week’s prompt as well.

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Bruce: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

Another Pregnancy Announcement

I’m about 16 weeks along in my pregnancy. As such, the doctor offered a quick ultrasound peek to see whether a couple of dresses or a few more black eyes were in our future.

Welp:

It’s a boy! Our new baby shower balloon hoops! Place on the cake table, next to the presents or use as a photo prop! …

It’s another boy. Number five. If half our kids had a higher potential height, we’d have a basketball team.

So far, they seem bent on Lord of the Flies mixed with Hunger Games -but- that’s childhood, right?

I’m up and past bleeding but still have “morning” sickness all day, every day. The baby’s heart rate and measurements look great every time. For now, we’re expecting him to be surgically removed from my abdominal cavity near the start of December.