I Actually Won Something

Great news! I won second place for the poem I submitted to the Annual Bloggers Bash!

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…I’m a bit miffed that “Silent but Tardy” wasn’t a contender, but totally stoked that I actually won something! I’ve included the winning entry below, which I submitted from my motherhood site.

 

Five More Minutes

Five more minutes to sleep alone,
To dress in peace,
To check a phone.

Five more minutes to eat my food,
To eat it warm,
To eat it chewed.

Five more minutes to sit right here,
To read a book,
To disappear.

Five more minutes is not that long,
To feel the guilt,
To feel the wrong;

When

Five more minutes is what I seek

Five more minutes is all I need

Five more minutes, or maybe three,

Is all I long for, to just be me.

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Photo Credit:
Jordan Whitt

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Play the fanfare, crack out the snacks, and do your favorite dance! It’s time for the THIRTIETH Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!!

Thank you to so many who’ve been here for all or most of those weeks and to the many other willing participants who’ve joined since! If you are a newbie, I recommend reading my brief how-to about terrible poetry. After that, I recommend writing an entry after a really late night or three, and a severe headache.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is a repeated number. Pick a number, any number, and use it a lot throughout your poem.
    Besides children singing pop songs, I loathe when I have to sit through everyone using the same prompt word for 500 entries. So, irritate me.
  2. Keep the Length shorter than 150 words, so I don’t jump out any windows.
  3. Please Rhyme in terribly, horribly, no-good, very bad ways.
  4. If you can’t tell already, make it terrible. I want crazy people to look at you in fear and for the survivors of Lost to beg you not to repeat that same number again…
  5. Keep things PG or cleaner; there’s no need for crude numerals.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 21) to submit a poem.

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

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

Have fun!!!

 

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Photo credit:
Johannes W

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow. This week’s contest was amazing! I had a terribly fun time reading through everyone’s entries …and an equally terrible time trying to pick just one winner.

But a winner there must be. And that is Deb Whittam.

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

Luke was like a piece of driftwood
He floated his way into my life
And marooned himself on my stretch
Of the beach
He lay there salient
Watchful, still
He didn’t leave
It was kind of disturbing
I considered starting a fire
I considered tossing him back in
I considered getting my dog to poop
next to him, but in the end
But being driftwood
I walked round him
Then the tide came in and
He drifted out again
Days passed
Honestly I didn’t notice he was
GONE

But that’s what driftwood is like
Forgettable
Just like Luke
SUCH IS LIFE
… (Pause here to blow a raspberry)

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

As I said earlier, there were many excellent entries. The level of awful poetry was astounding and made for a difficult decision. Great work mixing meters, muddling themes, and morphing rhymes! Deb’s over-the-top features were all those elements working so well together. Good/bad job!

And the remaining entrants were terrible in their own right. Enjoy:

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

I’m writing a poem that needs to be deep
It’s supposed to have rhythm and metrical feet
Through bang-head-here moments I moan and I weep
While googling synonyms that start with an e.

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

They study Mars
and neutron stars
and never ride with girls in cars

And, if they do acquire a wife
they are working each night for the rest of their life.

So, if studying a black hole
is your goal
prepare for it to crush your soul.

And, spending your life trying to prove dark matter
is even satter…

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

You are so well-rounded that you could be compared to a turnip,
and indeed you have earned it.
Everything you touch seems to turn to gold;
each and every talent that you hold.
Even when you play the violin
it’s so sensual it’s almost a sin.
When you simply fry an egg
it’s ten times tastier than when it’s fried by my Aunty Peg.

With a paint brush in your hand
you make Leonardo d’Vinci less a man;
not to mention when you do arithmetic
you are better at arithmetic than Arius was at being a heretic.
There’s very little you could be taught
when it comes to sport.
Compared to you the rest of us look dumb
so there’s no reason to walk around like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your bum.

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

Every week, Ms. Chelsea posts
Hey you lot, write something gross!
Do your worst and you’ll get our praise;
Do your best, you’ll get week old mayonnaise.

And so I do, and so it went
Until I gave my last two cents.
I’ve wrote about summer, literary masterpieces and the lot
I’ve won twice, and I’m besought

So tell me now and tell me true
Who is the worst poet for you?
Is it so terrible to terribly tell a little lie?
And say that perhaps it’s the great Kahunana himself, Mr. Billy Sly?

No one understands the guy who Shakes the Speares
He could be making it up after all the years
No one understands what he’s trying to say
Truly, he’s laughing from his grave and giggling all the way.

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

The ten amazing PM candidates
Needed since the dreadful May abdicates
Boris Johnson
Looking out for number one
Jeremy Hunt
No more than an embarrassing publicity stunt
Michael Gove
Slowly disappearing in all the cocaine lies you wove
Dominic Raab
Wouldn’t trust you with a kebab
Sajid Javid
You make our police so livid
Matt Hancock
Talks utter poppycock
Mark Harper
Completely incompetent usurper
Esther McVey
Only wants you to obey
Rory Stewart
The leadership qualities of a Raspberry Tart
Andrea Leadsom
Will only bring national doom
That is Britain Today
A country in complete disarray

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

Eee ha, ho down horse around,
dance the rainy reign reins away.

Rains rein in the picnic nit picks
but for every weed given rein to,
there will grow a rein-Carnation
and a carnation reincarnated as a weed.

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were from the southern part of the US I’d say something like, “Jiminy Christmas” instead of swearing. When I listened to a braggart I might think “he’s all hat and no cattle” and if someone got mad at me I’d smile and tell them that they can “just get happy in the same britches they got mad in”.

But I’m not from the southern part of the US.
Goodness gracious,
Although I am sometimes loquacious

I’m from the northern part of the US where I say stuff like, “You betcha” and where snow is called “snoooow” and where we all say “Yah” a lot and follow it up with “sure”, and where, when we talk to strangers, we begin every sentence with, “Oh”.

Like –

“Oh, how ’bout those Twins?”
or
“Oh, Olivia Johnson sure does make a good casserole.”
or
“Oh, didja see. . .”

Or “So”.

Like –

“So the Twins lost yesterday, eh?”
or
“So, didja hear Jim Larson got food poisoning from Olivia Johnson’s casserole?”
or
“So what’d’ya think of. . .”

And you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us pronounce “third” like “turd”.

So, yah, I’m from the northern part of the US.
You betcha,
And those little red dots you sometimes get on your skin? They’re petechia.

If I were from Mars I might talk and I might not talk because no one knows how Martians sound or if they even talk at all for that matter.

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

Slumped on sofa, feeling low,
Don’t wanna shop or outside go,
Shocking din beyond window;
Apocalypse? Malignant crows?
Curtains closed, so I don’t know,
But curiosity, so

I think take a look,
Rise to feet discarding book.
Need to eat, don’t want to cook.
Kitchen no cavern – more a nook…
Is it birds or fatal fluke?
Peak between drapes like cornered crook.

Three car pile-up – bedlam there,
Poking bones, blood-mussed hair.
Look away from sickening scare,
See ribbons of colour streaking the sky and I carelessly cease to care,
Horizon highlighting rhapsody rare;
Surprising sunset, breathtaking flare.

Pity poor victims; tarmac is read,
Rubberneckers shaking heads,
Twisted bodies lately dead.
Making sandwich, ready for bed,
Scraping mould from hunk of bread;
Provocative dreams if properly fed.

Pluck off blossoming, blue-grey yeast,
Anticipating impromptu feast,
Unforeseen shock – view faces east.
Time is thieving, night-fleecing beast.
Feel like a flock of silly geese;
Sunset west, sunrise east.

Radio wakes in hollow bedroom,
Morning call; warning tune.
Sat through night, blind to gloom.
Feel foreboding, forthcoming doom.
Skin feels pocked with autumn bloom.
Off to horrid office soon.

Better slough of sleepless grime;
Supper’s off; it’s breakfast time.

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

Roses are red
and white and pink.
Roses can also be
orange, I think?

Violets are blue,
And uh, tulips are…yellow?
I don’t know, I’m not a botanist. Or a poet.
So the end, bite me.

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

One two three four five
Counting seven syllables
Five four three two one

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

I cannot accurately say how far down it was.
At the time, I had no way to measure.
I could estimate, but that would be a guess.
Besides, I’d rather explain what I saw,
how I achieved a somewhat modest goal,
and enjoyed the unusual fruit harvested
from an unusual place which rewarded me
with a somewhat modest treasure.

Shining from the east, fiery streaks of sunlight slowly peeked
through clouds to warm the sandy sandstone bluffs,
the unstable wall between
Coast Highway and our planet’s largest ocean.

The salty surface of the massive sea was still and glassy as it slept.
I paused to pose in yoga stance
and stared at the horizon.

As chilly darkness surrendered to blue sky dawn,
I shifted my physical position and left my previous posture
to the past and headed for an outhouse where I hoped
to leave the liquid remnants of my light roast coffee.

Surrounded by blue plastic walls and door,
and squinting in the midst of acrid chemicals which did not mask
or complete the task that they were manufactured for,
I did what I’ll admit I cannot resist the urge to do.

I took a look into the tank below–
down into the pit–
down into a swarm of buzzing flies
and abandoned human exhaust product.

And there is where I found it–
silent, lonely, floating
with other objects which are not usually
mistaken for candy bars or old potatoes,
I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.

I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

Attempts to win the lottery
have never worked for me.
The Universe has not exactly
blessed me with its blissful luck.

But on one amazing morning,
I rescued a celebrity’s accessory.

Fortunately,
I did not fall in or make a mess of me.

In fact, after ending
its encounter with the ugly muck,
I let it dry for half an hour.

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.
I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

—–

Thanks to all who entered and for sharing your amazing talents! Tomorrow at 10 a.m. starts next week’s contest!

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

Really Big News of a Non-Writing Kind

I have not been feeling well lately. For about six weeks now, I’ve been nauseated and exhausted all day. It’s worse in the evenings.

That is because this week marks my twelfth of being pregnant.

Surprise!

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Frankly, this was a surprise for us as well. After four kids; yes, I know how it works. Just trust me that the pregnancy was a surprise.

I’ve also been on bed rest for the last 2-3 weeks due to a chorionic hematoma. Basically. Good times and all that. But, things are looking up and the included pictures are the latest as of today.

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—————-

Besides a baby, look what else I’ve made:
Wednesday, June 5: Wrote “I’m Not Soliciting Ma’am…

Thursday, June 6: Nothing

Friday, June 7: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Peregrine Arc!

Saturday, June 8: Announced the 29th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is whatever you wish. PLEASE ENTER! Please spread the word!

Sunday, June 9: Responded to Irene Waters’ reminiscence series with “Washroom Stories.”

And “No Girls Allowed at Dead Man’s Crick,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, June 10: An inspirational quote by Evan Esar.

Tuesday, June 11: “Wilhelmina Winters, Ninety-Six.”

Wednesday, June 12: Today.

I also posted at my motherhood site. I wrote “NeverEnding Laundry… Na na na na na na na na naaaa,” “A Bona Fide Reason to Cook with Your Kids,” and “Boy Mom Bathroom Haiku.”

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, Ninety-Six

Wil left the table after a requisite number of tuna casserole bites, hungry and self-pitying. The dark, narrow hallway seemed even more constricting; the dim bathroom bulb even dimmer; the tasteless toothpaste more tasteful for the lingering tuna remains. “Ugh!” she spat, swirled, spat again. She scowled a deeper expression at the girl in the glass, but her reflection matched and even exceeded her gloom.

A distinct *Ku-huh* *Kuh-huh* from the kitchen paused the glaring session. Wil and her shadow listened, a bridge of concern across their united brow, as Cynthia had her coughing session. “They’re happening much more,” Wil and Mirror-Wil whispered. They frowned and their deep, dark eyes spoke helplessness.

Wil exited the bathroom. Parent shadows crossed the hall on their way to the couch and sounds of scrambling soon led to the ever-present breathing machine. Wil stood, caught by fear, till her mother’s deep-throat coughs were tamed by the nebulizer’s magic.

She heard another sound: a chair scraped from the table and careless steps to the sink. Knowing that meant the immediate appearance of Jakob, she squeaked and scampered to the safety of her room and shut the door. After locking the knob, she threw herself atop the messy bed. Clothes, blankets, homework, and an open book or two caught her flying form and held her in their comforting familiarity. “There, there,” her favorite pullover soothed. “We understand,” the nearest novel assured her.

Wil hiccuped a few times but managed not to soil her bedthings with tears. She kicked a shoe free and pulled the second from a bent-leg position. Taking careful aim, tongue in teeth, eyes squinted tight; she threw the sneaker at her push-button wall switch. With a *clunk* the light went off. The shoe dropped.

Woolykind Wil, most respected member of the flying squirrel chapter of The Treetop Dwellers, sniffed and snuffled round her nest. She felt each treasured material with pride, moving things this way and that to arrange them just-so.

It had been a busy day in the forest and Wooly felt tired. She’d gathered food for her group. They’d been a tad ungrateful, to be sure, but she’d done her best. After all, flying was more her forte than food collection ever was.

Burrowing into the most comfortable heap of warm leaves, twigs, and discarded scraps around her; she sighed. Tomorrow would be better. Maybe there’d even be acorns. She fell asleep dreaming of better things.

 

Continued from Ninety-Five.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

No Girls Allowed at Dead Man’s Crick

Suzy Mae hitched her shorts over her black-and-white polka dot suit and marched right down to Dead Man’s Crick.

Head up, ponytail wagging, she didn’t look up at the, “Go away, Mae”‘s or the, “This is our swimming hole”‘s. Daddy’d told her it was public, and public meant she had just as much right as Jimmy, Tom, an’ all the rest of them boys.

She climbed the tall bank of mud up over the water. She freed the rope-and-tire swing from its stump. Taking in the astounded scowls below, she hopped atop the rubber and swung out into freedom.

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Told by Suzy Mae for Carrot Ranch‘s writing prompt.

June 6, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that makes a big splash. It can be fluid, or you can play with the idiom (to make a big splash is to do or say something that becomes unforgettable). Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by June 11, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

Photo Credit:
Teddy Kelley

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Washroom Stories

Oddly enough, today I wish to reminisce about bathrooms. The idea came from Irene Waters, the illustrious writer and memoirist.

Her suggestion came at the same time a friend of mine is on vacation, a friend who keeps posting ratings for the various bathrooms she’s visiting. Little did I know that this is an activity she’s indulged in for a few years, supposedly stemming from a terrible experience with one. To this, I can relate. I did not realize how crucial a good seat for relieving oneself became until my first cross-country drive in 2015.

It inspired a star-studded poem:

I’ll tour this grand old land of mine;
I’ll drive from ocean to sea.
I’ll walk where millions walked before,
But,
I’ll not sit where they all …do their business.

Unlike some of the older participants in Irene’s prompt, I haven’t lived through a drastic era of change regarding toilets. Every house I’ve lived in has had what I have now: an indoor model that flushes with the aid of plumbing that enters and leaves the house. No water closets or outhouses. I do not believe I’ve ever lived somewhere with a septic tank.

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Yes, I’m spoiled. And young, I suppose.

I have stayed in less-posh situations. I recall a summer camp one year with limited water and sewage supplies. We were advised to follow the old poem, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”

My family also spent a couple of summers at a cabin in the woods with its very own outhouse. I still recall the dread of midnight nature calls, shaking my flashlight through the dark and whooshing trees on the path and out to the pit-with-a-door. Due to active imaginations, two of my children are currently afraid of using the toilet alone. They said they imagine a head poking out of the hole and biting them. I don’t know what they would have done with the outhouse in the woods…

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For my part, my only childhood fear of toilets involved imagining an alligator in one. I’ve never lived in Florida nor visited beyond the airport, but had heard a news story to the effect in elementary school. I also feared for spiders and such. I think, as a female, one’s fears are more justified since one always has to sit.

The one advancement in washrooms I have experienced in my lifetime is the automation of its basic functions. Automatic toilets, sinks, soaps, and blowers make using the bathroom a breeze. They also made for many, many times of standing over a peeing child to block the sensor so he does not get flushed on before he’s ready.

In a somewhat-related experience, I recall a music trip to San Francisco in my senior year of high school. For the first time, I encountered public stores that did not offer a public restroom. Also for the first time; I was directed to a public toilet, on the street corner, that utilized two-way mirrors as walls. When inside, a visitor could view everything outside as if he were not within a building at all. My childhood experience of knowing one could see through this glass by getting close did not encourage any desire to use this facility.

I suppose, like my friend, I also note and rank vacation bathrooms. When in Rome, eh?

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Photo Credits:
Image by Andrew Martin from Pixabay
Image by Luciana P. from Pixabay
Image by David Rinehart from Pixabay

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome, one and all, to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #29.

Some visitors may wonder, “What is terrible poetry?” Is it a good poem with a rotten subject? A potential masterpiece with a funny twist? Not really.

Way back at the beginning, I gave a basic outline. My aim is to capture the sort of every-line-rhyming poem one wrote in grade school, or a roses are red rip-off when first tormented by teenage love, or to fulfill a college assignment to create haiku based on syllables alone.

Got it? Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is open! No, not a poem with the word “open,” but a masterpiece about any subject you feel inspired to expound upon.
  2. Just as the theme is whatever goes, the Length is also. I will warn entrants that the (sole) judge has about a 200-word attention span.
  3. Rhyming is also optional. Look at all the freedom you have!
  4. Above all, make it terrible! Make professional poets beat themselves over the head with their organic chai tea from recomposed cacao husks. Make English literature professors escape out their office windows and climb down their ivy leagues. Make your mother proud.
  5. …But keep things PG or cleaner if you can for the general audiences that read the blog.
  6. Also, please share the love. Tell your friends and followers. I think our regulars could use a bit of competition, and I always enjoy seeing new victims to the contest.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 14) to submit a poem.

If you want to be anonymous (for a week), use the form below.

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

Have FUN!

 

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Photo credit:
Frida Aguilar Estrada