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.

lisa-h-gOWuRBY7gDM-unsplash

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!

joshua-j-cotten-w-DHG2su6gU-unsplash

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.

When the Shadow of Me Returns

Last night my Other Me reappeared, the one of shadows. For, truly, that is where she always stands, lurking: the shadows of thoughts, the shadows of feelings, the shadows of anything I see or do.

It is she who colors a happy idea with doubt.

She deepens the uncertain edges of a frown in every smile.

The fear of possible failure to proposed activities? Also her.

I hadn’t seen her in a while; thought her to be gone. How little I knew. How I forgot. She does not ever go away, especially when I choose to ignore her instead of keep working to repel her. Especially, when I want her.

Last night I felt her; nearer and nearer. And, like a fool, I let her come. I asked her to grow, expand, envelop, then smother. Anything, I thought, is better than what I feel.

Because the Shadow of Me does not feel.

As I settled beneath the apathy and self-pity that I invited in, I twitched a bit in discomfort. Some part of me recognized the old, unhealthy patterns. Something deep within, in a timid voice, whispered, “I don’t think we want this.”

“Do we?”

Yet, not until this morning did I notice the source of the rain. Standing –no- languishing morosely in depthless puddles I blamed anyone but her; anyone but me for bringing her. Like a fool; I cursed the weatherman, the water, the sky, the mud. I failed to name the shadowed storm. It is Depression. And it is not what I needed.

Because, as familiar as Depression is, it is not a good solution.

As easy a solution as Depression appears, its fallout is more difficult to clean up than actual resolution.

But who wants to stand and face her troubles when Depression promises otherwise? I can tell you: not me. No, I chose fear. I chose to see My Shadow’s effects: small rocks on the trail ahead made to look like looming boulders; a few grumpy observations from my companion augmented to devastating predictions against success.

So I turned back.

Rappelled to our base camp of years ago.

And sat outside the tent, in the rain.

I’m still there, you see, but have shifted a bit. My seat felt somewhat wet so I moved to a less-muddy patch. Still depressed. It’s a new day, though; I can see the pervasive grayness is a lighter shade.

And, no, I’m not ready to climb again. ‘Tis a daunting thought.

I think I’ll start with an umbrella. From there, I just might gain the perspective I need to change into dry clothes and eat some rations. We’ll see.

Paint

Some great writers painted pretty pictures this week at Carrot Ranch. If you want to participate in next week’s prompt, click here.

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Color me something new, something bold. Color over the mistakes and past regrets. Pick up a brush and paint bold strokes, flashy colors. This is a time to refresh.

Writers met the challenge with colorful stories full of emotion, surprise, horror and humor. All the paint cans opened to reveal a rainbow collection.

The following are based on the June 27, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves paint.

PART I (10-minute read)

Charli’s Starlingsby Chelsea Owens

No one knew where the starlings came from. One day, the sidewalks and light posts and old brick buildings were bare; the next, they were scattered with flight.

Up and down Shelden Avenue elderly friends stopped their morning walk and children pointed and pulled at parents’ pants.

Winged, irridescent forms swooped up a wall. Yellow-beaked stills observed from flower pots. A proud male perched…

View original post 4,694 more words

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #33.

Our contest is about crafting the sort of poems only amateurs love. It’s about the cringe of the professionals. Sometimes it’s even a work of the most deplorably flowery adjectives coupled with way too many rhymes.

Read my brief how-to for more information, then follow the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Unusual ways to make money.
    (No, prostitution is not that unusual. Thanks, Certain-Regulars-Who-Know-Who-You-Are, for wondering.)
  2. Keep the Length as short or long as your muse needs, with an upper limit of 250 words.
  3. If you want to Rhyme, go ahead. If not, I won’t stop you either. As always, playing with rhymes is a great way to screw up a potentially lovely poem.
  4. Most of all, make it terrible! Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Warren Buffet, and even the POTUS himself need to take a full five seconds of their precious time to stop, look at you, and shake their head in disbelief.
  5. Rating? PG or nicer, as usual.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (July 12) to submit a poem.

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

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

Have fun!

 

sam-truong-dan--rF4kuvgHhU-unsplash.jpg

Photo credit:
Sam Truong Dan

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I may have to wash my eyes after reading these, but -WOW!- what a turnout of terrible poems! After much uncomfortable squirming, guilty laughter, and deliberation; I have chosen a victor.

Since I know you might be holding your breath, this week’s winners are Trent and Nakedinfiniverse.

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Little Willie took a swim
Thinking the piranhas wouldn’t eat him
Don’t you think he was awfully silly
To assume a fish didn’t like Willie?

AND

A Helping Hand

by Nakedinfiniverse

Poor Willie said
he wished he was dead.
I wished the same
so I took aim.

Congratulations, Trent and Jane! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Although many, many entries were hilarious and/or disturbing; I specifically looked for those that captured the clever twist of the traditional Little Willie poem; those that flippantly versed of disaster whilst punning a punch line. Of the finalists, the two winners were my favorites.

Good work, everyone! Here are all of the poems:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Stuck in tar Willie waved
To the steamroller on the road just paved
The driver blindly sat
As Willie was made real flat

—–

Willie?

by Bruce Goodman

The doctor’s no expert at circumcision
Yes or no, it’s quite a decision
To be or not to be
Willie Willie’s willie?

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Little Willie went a swimmin’
While his friends watched on.
But the croc got hungry while he was chillin’
So they all applauded when he was gon

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie unveiled his parts
Thinking he was very smart
He was found at half past eight
Begging to enter the pearly gates

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie killed the roach
Then took a ride in the yellow coach
At his funeral folks did say
Little Willie seized the day

—–

Water of Life

by Lwbut

Little Willie was no liar,
But Little Willie’s pants were on fire,
If only he had been close by a lake
I’d likely not now be at his wake.

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Little Willie had a thought
To play his trumpet at six o’clock
The sun had started rising, his father fast asleep
And now Willie can play all he wants–six feet deep.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

Gun
Fun
Sillie
Willie

—–

A Little Exaggeration

by Lwbut

Baron Boris casually enquired, just before beginning his dismemberments,
Of Little Willie in which fashion he desired to be held in remembrance.
“Preferably
by hyperbole!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

Little Willie caught an itchy infection

Tried to visit his Doctor for an inspection

Was told no free appointments in weeks

So Poor Willie he ended up with very red cheeks

—–

No Bull

by Masercot

Little Willie fought a bull

in Barcelona, Spain

His body gained a few more holes

when it hit him like a train.

—–

Dragon

by Nakedinfiniverse

If I described the beat of its wings descending to the ground,
the claws, the teeth, the flames that brought Willie down,
It would sound like a lie, even silly,
Alas, poor Willie.

—–

Who, Me?

by Nakedinfiniverse

I told him not to smoke your fags
and why would I dip his glad-rags
in paraffin? It wasn’t me, dad.
Can I have Willie’s iPad?

—–

Willie’s Mayo

by Nakedinfiniverse

Willie loved red, he dreamed of red
and all the thoughts inside his head
he drew on walls in crimson crayon
(He even mixed red in with the mayon-
Naise). While dripping red ink in a nearby well
he tripped, and heavily, in he fell.
As from the depths his corpse was raised,
Willie’s bloodied skull left his mother unfazed.
“I see he’s rejecting the red from his head
so it’s OK to chuck out his mayo,” she said.

—–

Playmates

by Valfish56

Little Willie was up to no good
Chased his sister through the wood
Tied you her to a tree, left her for dead
Played with his dinosaurs instead

—–

Smokin’

by Violet Lentz

‘Farmer Vincent’s Smoked Meats’ the billboard did proclaim.
“Where our smoking process, is our claim to fame!”
Little Willie, ever curious, set off one day to see
exactly what’s so special about Farmer Vincent’s recipe.
Little Willie never did discover Farmer Vincent’s smoking secret.
Farmer Vincent smoked him out. Then ground him into a tasty tid-bit!

—–

I hope you had just as much fun as I did writing, then reading where everyone went with the prompt. Go on home now, and get yourself back tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week.

three-monkeys-1212621_1920

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