The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to the 18th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Wondering what we’re about? You’re not alone; read my terrible poetry how-to. We seek to tear apart all that is good and rhyming about contests and poetry, and to decide whether those two roads actually went anywhere in a yellow wood.

Here are the specific rules for this week:

  1. Let’s go with the Topic of Verbosity. Are you familiar in acquaintance with persons who cannot but broaden their sentences, their lexicon, the lift of their nose, and the limited attentions of your interest? If you are, you’re ready for this week.
  2. What about Length? This is a poem about wordiness, you know…
  3. Rhyme if you want to, but it’s not a requirement.
  4. Your creation must be Terrible. Professor Theodore Persimmon Wordsworth III will surely raise his person to a full, standing height; discharge an obstruction from the general vicinity of his windpipe; expound in the manner of a filibuster for the duration of several hours; return himself to a sitting position; and examine the comatose audience in bewilderment and consternation.
  5. Keep your poem a PG-rating or lower, if you please.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 22) to submit a poem.

If you are shy, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did as well, then I will be able to tell you whether I received it.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
Image by Kai Trulsen from Pixabay

48 thoughts on “The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

  1. Every Sentence Runs Out

    Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished
    with the sounds of glorious triumph, played

    with cacophonous instruments of
    drunken loquacious musicians strung out
    on their heart strings,

    birds and cats
    playing around with joyful noise who are mine,

    these sentences gracefully making every trill
    a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways,
    being ensconced in dreams, and

    pray tell, if I may continue,
    the words of the angels
    are infinite and concise like
    love that sings forever charming and
    as elaborate as is a sentence to joy,

    many times re-phrased, re-claused
    like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures
    way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace
    reverberating with every sentence pronounced
    by judges and supplicants
    gracefully joined in symphony, in
    sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path
    to any pathy even daffy, because
    the complex can be simply wonderful
    like you all who indulge
    the marathon run into oblivion
    with a billion words and
    who pause to hear my running word.

    Give me my praise
    I shall not want but my
    thousand splendid words, and
    she who is verbose, perhaps,
    yea but

    Maybe I should have met her
    on every cherished thought I had

    but nocturnal words are fickle
    and u don’t know how much i tried

    oh don’t scold me if I tell u others
    of the old words that defy

    Look up,
    look it up:
    those lucubrations

    where I studied romance,
    but feared to speak out loud
    lest a candle be blown out
    on a cherished doubtful notion

    Maybe I could have known her
    with every cherished thought I had

    Devotions in motion maybe
    are not a type face. I’m
    looking it up.

    Sometimes she’s in a digital box,
    but now I imagine:

    Looking up to the sky
    she’s running wild style
    climbing adventurous trees

    Those wild trees uproot themselves
    just to make a statement
    even if they fall short of running
    but, of course, it’s not recommended

    Yes, trees can branch
    that’s their slow motion adventure
    when they must wait for seed carriers
    that bear their fruit

    Maybe she’ll come down
    for our favorite wine
    and a dithyramb
    about ecstasy
    and leafy love

    I have seen her dither,
    climb a tree in bloom
    speak with flirty birds
    and have a word with me
    that is a subtle twitter bark
    surrounding like a hug wood
    a play with banter-word chirps

    But wilder is better because
    even in flighty tedium whims
    she knows the prolix eagles
    who extend their wings
    and cry for hours when
    she speaks their language

    With a waiting twiddle I wanted much
    to touch her since then, and
    there is a flourish in melody
    that accompanies the twaddle
    of the giddy blooming of me
    I hear when I think
    of her as branching music
    reaching for the sky

    I know she’s reading
    between tweets
    sneaking a look at
    longer things like me
    world famous innuendo

    Hello, I can see you dear and
    I have words to sing.
    Step away from the box screen
    and meet me in the forest;
    there’s a long body
    of conversation
    of pleasure

    I want my thousand words,
    don’t want to abbreviate you
    or shorten the picture

    I don’t see you as a u or pic, and
    I’m so sorry u were picked on

    I will file a brief
    in the highest court for
    je ne sais quoi appeals, and
    run rampant on ramparts of verbosity
    because at least prolixity has a tongue
    a lingua frank and a lingua true
    not politically corrected scrub
    but where I could be a tree
    and you could be a bush
    in the metaphor field
    away from the digital box
    and on to lots

    short enough for ya’
    u,… Oh, I would ask
    your real name, but
    I forgot mine

    Maybe if I’ve lost my mind,
    all these palpitations I have known
    will be smoothed by mellifluous U when
    your dear ear is on my flighty heart, and
    frenzied eagles clap their wings, but yes
    it’s best to reminisce, be in the pasture
    of the past remembering:

    maybe I should have met her
    on every cherished thought I had
    on the euphonious sound
    of the mind plays played out
    splayed like detritus loved, but

    I knew her in the protest days
    when she had the cacoethes loquendi,
    was a gifted articulate rabble rouser
    in a day when there were no cell phones
    just cells

    Oh the sadness of her cacoepy when
    she mumbles tripe into the belly of a text message
    never speaking in a sentence that would echo
    over the harbinger crows that these days
    inhabit the empty speakers’ square
    where passersby, no longer downtrodden,
    are down headed streaming pap on screens

    I knew her when she would stand on a statue
    demand her rights when she was right, there
    in the speakers’ square (secretly knowing she was cute)

    But now she’s downheaded and confused
    refusing the speakers’ platform
    where birds and I
    could hear some rhetorical question
    that I profoundly would, with chalice aforethought,

    mischievously answer in basso profundo
    “Share my wine of fictional dictum in a cup”
    and I could see now that
    she’d pronounce us “Huh whaa?”
    and does she know I know
    she knows she’s cute

    I think a kiss would be
    better than a text message
    or a revolution

    Give me my praise
    I shall not be wanted

    My praise is in the valley.
    There the lambs are abundant;
    I do not need to want for lamb chops, and
    no need for stewing.

    Give me my paprika,
    the shepherdess is at the barbecue

    My staff, they comfort me,
    the office gives me my just humor;
    they humor me in cacophony

    I cross the river into Egypt
    and find my sticks, no carrots

    Loquaciousness
    do not fail me now, for
    I must beg to be let to
    come to the gates of Heaven
    and plead my case in
    the verbosity of the century, yea
    I come to praise Caesar and myself in kind

    Indeed tell me he is there
    and I am ubiquitous in
    the quadrillion words of praise.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. [We just had a power failure while I was posting this and I don’t know what I was up to and if I posted anything. Sorry if this is a duplicate]
    In Praise of Verbosity

    Do not abjure verbosity in
    servile service to the reckless feckless,
    those pusillanimous brevity mice,
    rodents on the road to hell paved
    with the cheesy gold, like pyrite
    written on the cave wall, those
    who shun the consanguinity of
    the synonymatic coinage, and who
    at best are simpletons,
    mere intelligentsia manqué
    taking a wrecking ball to
    a palace where formal balls are
    hosted with complex word dances
    with subordinate clauses and pauses
    in pas de deux coupling of phrases

    It is not mythomania
    to champion verbosity against the normative nabobs
    who can not lengthen themselves to Robert
    and not be Bob bobbing in a tiny pond
    when the oceanic awaits the big fish.

    A penchant for words is the progenitor
    of the verbose pension proscription
    unless one eats one’s words.

    Liked by 4 people

  3. Over the river and through the woods
    To loquacious land we go
    Up and down, in and out
    Throwing up long words and thumbing our snouts
    Dotting our I’s
    Hearing our tunes
    Taking a breathe
    Delivering ’til June
    Free write is a way
    To earn free spoons…

    But did I tell, did you hear
    The tune of a man who drove a John Deere?
    Upwards and humming
    Downwards and chummy
    And boy did that grass grooooww—-oh!

    Over the river and through the woods
    To Captain Marvel we go!
    Did you see the movie yet?
    It was great, the actions spectact!
    -ular, oooh!

    Over the bridge and under the fire
    Suddenly we’re quite alone.
    I hear music a thrumming,
    A child humming
    And then it’s back to loquacious land we ….gooooooo……

    Repeat ad naseuam.

    Liked by 4 people

  4. Pingback: The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest – Verbosity – Ruth Scribbles

  5. Verbosity is my Name

    I want to write a story
    But you’d be so bor-y-ed
    I want to write a poem
    And you’d be all ho-hum-ed 😴
    I’d write you a tune
    Yet you’d tune it out
    Whoa is me
    So I decided to write what pleases me
    And they all said glory be!
    Will she be verbose?
    Or will we all become comatose?
    So she began to write
    The more she wrote
    The crazier she felt
    Until she saw herself sitting there
    Writing about writing
    Blah blah blah
    Then she began to sing as she wrote
    The words became a song
    Verbose is the name of the game
    Cringe if you must
    But I will boast
    That I am the most
    Verbose
    After a cup of coffee
    They call me verbosity
    That is really silly,
    Don’t you think?
    Is your thinking verbose?
    Wow…. now THAT my friends
    Is morose!
    I’m done now
    So I’ll say goodbye
    Or is the end better?
    What is the best way
    To end a verbose poem
    Terribly!
    Ba bye all yawl!!

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Pingback: Unfortunate decision | Thru Violet's Lentz

  7. A Simple Song of Spring

    ‘Tis spring!
    A man thinks of the simple things
    The important things
    ‘Tis spring
    The vernal equinox
    As the sun moves past the equator
    No, that’s not right
    The sun doesn’t move
    Does it?
    Well, technically, it does move
    Rotating around the galaxy’s hub
    While the galaxy zips out from…
    Wait, what’s our frame of reference?
    Where does the galaxy zip from?
    Where did it start?
    Hmmmm…
    About 13 billion years ago
    The universe was born
    For the first few nano-seconds
    Before matter as we understand existed
    The Universe actual went faster than the speed of light
    Well, light didn’t exist yet
    Anyway
    It all slowed down to just a bit less than the speed of light
    Now it has slowed more
    Though the mass is unaccounted for
    To make it slow so much
    So we developed the concept of dark matter
    It is possible that the dark matter
    Caused the galaxies to form
    From galaxies are born stars
    Like our sun
    And around our star, Sol, a system
    The Solar System was formed
    Which includes Earth
    Which rotates around the sun, Sol
    But the axis is tilted
    So once every rotation
    From a reference on Earth
    (of course)
    The sun moves past the equator
    (From that frame of reference, remember!)
    Heading north
    Well, that brings us back to spring
    Now doesn’t it?
    ‘Tis spring!
    And man thinks of the simple things
    The important things

    I hope you enjoyed my very simple poem as an entry into the terrible poetry contest.

    Liked by 2 people

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