WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

My profound apologies for the delay. A winner proved moste difficult to choose. That, and the judge proved moste engaged with her offspring.

After much deliberation, we named a champion:

A not exactly “Great” Adventure

by Matt Snyder

We all piled into the van heading into what we felt was the thrill of a lifetime

We headed far and fast and yet arrived dead last to what was an overcrowded parking lot

We huffed and puffed as we ran pushing old broads out of our way

they were fat and full of moth balls with bright blue hair screaming obscenities in our direction. Then this pretty skinny long blonde haired blonde with pools of gorgeous emanating from her eyes

I was entranced and lost my words, I told her I loved her but she was only interested in taking me for a ride…

The ride was full of thrills and spills and I got the chills this was the super duper looper afterall

Sleek and petite and smooth and fast.

It was the greatest of great, great days at great adventure

Honestly though, I never got on. I clucked clucked out.

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are (once again) the most terrible poet of the week!

Many brave souls attempted this quest; Sir Snyder prevailed in the end. Matt’s poem is exactly the sort I picture when cringing at unintentionally bad poetry: writing a story with just enough poetic feel that it fails, rambling meter that changes often, and random rhyming of very common words. Moste excellent, sir!

Which is not to say traversing the remaining poems is not a dangerous and difficult road. Read, and enjoy, my friends:

The Lay of Sir Fallalot and Rufus

by Trent P. McDonald

‘Twas a tawdry day
When Rufus the Cat went astray
So a knight errant, Sir Fallalot
Was called from 90 miles east of Camelot
In hopes to solve our dismay

I’m sure Fallalot felt itty-bitty
Walking about singing “Here, kitty, kitty”
Through forest, over moor
Traveling from shore to shore
Even visiting every city

Oh, the adventures he had!
Full of ogres and people, good and bad
Deeds to many to count
This lay had too many verses to count!
So I cut most of them, don’t be mad

Fallalot searched for many Years
Finding naught but bitter tears
But cats, being what they are
Rufus really didn’t travel far
And was safely home in just a couple of days, maybe three, but less than four, I’m sure!

The End

—–

A Disturbing Oath

by Deb Whittam

Laudable deeds will be done,
By me and my thwart chums.
We will destroy a dragon, deliver
a prickly pear, all of this with a devil
may care attitude, Nay we will not beg,
Of favor soothe, we will not
Shed that evil truth, we are not
Of that ilk, we always wear
Pure silk undies, Did I dare
To sully your ears,
With my jest? Do not fear I will
Repent, and suffer under your
judgement. My fellows we do
not seek to distress, though we
would not mind to wear
your best dress. We are here to
assist, we assure, just don’t look
in that bottom drawer.
Companions of the table, which
was kind of round, we will praise
you until you are beneath,
The ground and even there
we will not desist, bury us with you
and our hearts will be in bliss.

—–

Epic

by Bryntin

I stood ready at the gates
barriers of glass and steel
my chariot afore me
with just the one squeaky wheel

I drew myself up
to my full imposing height
six feet of rippling ripples
ready for the fight

in my hand was ready
my orders and my token
to be her champion
without getting myself too broken

I had arrived so ready
keyed up for the battle
I circulated among them
found my space like milking cattle

I drew my breaths deeply
hoping they weren’t my last
I was ready, ploughing forwards
the swish of the barrier past

my quarry was beyond
more chariots, some unattended
by warriors or heathens
I made my way, unbended

the path was twisty, arduous
and I had to stop upon the way
gradually filled my chariot
for my sins I had to pay

messages upon the skies
bright colours burning upon the walls
one for free and three for one
watch out for those cutting falls

I looked into the eyes
of the fellows all around me
a hollow look, an emptiness
beaten by the melee

at the end of the maze
chariot champions one and all
waiting in line for absolution
and release from the market hall

—–

The Tale of the Otiose Man

by Kristian Fogarty

Hark and listen to this tale of old,

Of an oafish man, quite otiose,

Who’d believe any story he was told,

And act in a manner bellicose.

Belligerently he’d wander around

Spouting words of nonsense, some would cheer

Picking fights wherever honest men were found,

His arrogance defying belief, year on year.

But wait! Don’t look back with wistful eyes,

It was in the past, a book upon the shelf.

Appears again, this otiose man who belief defies,

For history is always repeating itself.

—–

A FARNARKELING GOOD ADVENTURE

by Doug Jacquier

Upon a nonce, amidst general farnarkerling,

a fair maiden did set her sights

on a handsome prince in tights

so she could wear his ring a’sparkling.

In her way, as was her feckless fancy,

she feigned to plight her troth

to a handsome Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

The handsome prince, with heart full sick,

swore and swore and swore and swore

that up with this he would not forbore

and plotted war, down to the last tooth and pick.

He gathered full his skirtling Scots all skittish

and filled his lungs

and spoke in tongues

of once more defending the breeches of the British.

Come battle day, his fulsome steed he mounted

and waved his sword

around the sward

then charged the Nancy boys uncounted.

Full well sounded the irony ring of wrath

‘gainst shields both stout and flimsy

‘til the prince’s tilt proved but whimsy

and he was vanquish-ed by the Visigoth.

The maiden shed a seemly tear or two

then plighted her troth

to the Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

—–

The Adventures of Me
(Or an Epic Poem of (not-so) Laudable Deeds and (somewhat-less-than) Grand Gestures)

by Michael Fishman

I climbed the ladder.
Climbed it well.
Hoping to remove the gutter smell.

I grabbed the gutter.
Grabbed it hard.
Tossed the gunk down on the yard.

Then I felt wobbly.
Knees got weak.
Bent my head and took a peak.

Ground below.
¡fear of heights!
Someone give me my last rites.

Please God end this wild adventure.
This great misguided risky venture.

(Suddenly I started thinking of rhymes archaic
but wanted to try and stay prosaic so we continue . . . )

I don’t do adventures.
No laudible deeds.
I sit and worry as thoughts stampede.

Why climb a ladder?
I don’t know.
My brain is filled with diced tomato.

My attempts at adventure.
They don’t go well.
And last about as long as a snowball in (you-know-where).

I shouldn’t share this.
I’ve got some gall.
But I do it because it’s
Terrible Poetry after all

and I am
proud to be a

Terrible Poet.

You know it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

We start out on this crazy epic adventure
A divided party for such a risky reckless venture
Saying goodbye to friends is always hard
Especially when they neighbours in our backyard
Off on our own into the great wide open
Led by our leader who is so outspoken
Into the massing storm clouds we strike out
On a wing and a prayer without any real clout
Many wolves circling claiming to be our new friends
Sign on the dotted line and you can reap the dividends
But only if you agree to the orange wolfs demands
Give me your NHS and we can happily shake hands
Don’t forget as part of the deal you take our chlorinated chicken
It’s full of good stuff honest and it won’t make you sicken
An epic adventure without any real plan
Hoping countries are nice to us including Kazakhstan
Even before we leave the lies and untruths are beginning to appear
While those making hedge fund fortunes continue to sneer
On any epic adventure you need a swashbuckling hero
Sadly we have no Aragorn to lead us just a bumbling self centred zero
This adventure of ours has a name called Brexit
Please excuse me now as I try to leg-it

—–

The House Hunt

by Ruth Scribbles

It came upon a midnight dreary

My dearie said to me

Let’s fly across the pond

To see what we can see

While I work.

Homeless we were

About a month

The temporary housing

Was great-but the stairs 🤦‍♀️

The food? It was different

TV so very different

Oh wait-house hunt

We found one

Yippee

—–

Many thanks, loyal fans and poets, for your tales. Return at 10, on the morrow, for another topic of which to write.

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

After this hectic weekend, I intend to change the graphic. For now, it’ll do.

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

Throwback Thursday: Customer Service

I wrote this little ditty from a writing prompt from Reddit, way back before I knew the wonderful world of blogging. I dredged it up and first posted it July 11, 2017.

Customer Service

“And I-uh-I will all-ways love yooo-ooo-oou!” I belt out, then pause to strike a pose as the thrilling, albeit low-quality notes continue bravely on through the overhead speaker.

“Sharon, report to customer service. Customer waiting,” rudely cuts off the rest of Whitney’s (muted) boisterous tones.

I frown, and try to remember what I was doing on this aisle, before grabbing a random shelf item to sing into. I appear to be in the Clearance section. I am still holding my makeshift microphone.

“What the -” I think to myself, looking more carefully at my hand. It seems to be a tube full of glittering solution. I thought it was Princess-themed body lotion for girls or something, but now I see impossible phenomena: swirls of color float sporadically inside the bottle like miniature Northern Lights.

“Wow,” I breathe, a bit mesmerized.

“Dab. Da babba!” My infant son demands, smacking at the bottle awkwardly with his wet hands and breaking my concentration.

I smile at him. “Sorry, bub. We’re going now.” I notice I’ve picked up the crazy parent tendency to talk to my child, even though I am certain he doesn’t know what I say. I shrug. Maybe, I hope he does. Maybe I’m really just telling myself.

Absently, I allow him to pull the sparkle tube into his hands and I push the cart down the aisle.

“Squeee!” He excitedly screams, shaking his new toy. He tries to eat it.

“Now, Sam,” I begin, about to lecture a ten-month-old on the dangers of foreign paint.

“May I help you?” A man asks. I look up and see an oddly-dressed store associate. He looks as though he took his blue uniform vest home and embellished it with tassels at the corners. In fact, dangling fringe seem to be his thing; since there are also tassels on his slippers and his hat, and he sports a goatee.

“Whatever,” I think to myself. “They are scrambling for employees right now.” I smile at the strange man. Aloud, I answer, “No, thanks.”

He bows. “I was speaking to the Young Master,” Odd Associate clarifies, gesturing toward my son. “I didn’t understand his request.”

“Huh?” I ask, my face showing confusion. Perhaps this associate wasn’t all there. I mentally plan an exit strategy.

“Ah,” Odd One says. “I forgot to introduce myself.” He straightens up, smooths down his clothes and announces, “I am Amijd, Genie of Akmand. I am here,” he bows again, “to grant your wishes.”

If my face showed some concern with the confusion at first, I am certain concern -or, more accurately, alarm- is all I express now. I begin backing towards the other end of the aisle.

Amijd looks surprised. “I did try,” he hastily adds. He reaches behind him and pulls out a squeegee. I stop, and stare at it, and him.

He sees the look, and explains, “Young Master asked for a ‘squeee!’” Amijd looks apologetic. Sam gets excited. “Squeeee!” Sam squeals again, dropping the effervescent container and reaching slobbery hands out for the window tool instead.

Amijd steps forward a bit in reflex of the falling bottle, but it lands harmlessly next to Sam in the cart basket. Amijd appears relieved, and he instead places the squeegee into Sam’s hands.

I look at the overly-friendly Middle-Eastern man, standing expectantly near us and smiling. I look at Sam, trying to eat the corners of a black plastic sponge. I look at the swirling colors of the dropped toy.

Still eyeing “The Genie of Akmand,” I carefully pick up the bottle and wipe it off on my jeans. Amijd, if possible, looks even happier. He bows to me. “What wish do you command?” He asks.

“Well,” I begin. If there is any truth to this wish thing, it seems worth it to try. I look around the store, at the merchandise in my cart, and at Sam. “Well, how about, ‘I wish to have all of my purchases paid for today?’”

Amijd’s face clouds in concentration, then he waves his hands and says, “Done!” He looks hopeful. I look down at my basket. Nothing seems to have changed.

“Um. Okay,” I say. I decide to go to the checkouts, in case something looks different there. I turn and walk that way. The genie follows, his slippers softly shuffling across the waxed titles.

We reach the checkout, not without some odd looks from other shoppers. The checker seems unimpressed, though I’m sure she’s seen some odd getups working here. She scans my items in a bored manner. “That’ll be $65.83,” she says, looking out the window.

I glare at Amijd, who changes his pleased look for concern. I pull out my credit card and slide it through the machine. “I even had to pay for that squeegee,” I tell myself.

“Have a good day,” Checker automatically intones, as she hands me my receipt and starts scanning the next person’s items.

I gather up my bags and start walking to the doors. Amijd skips right along.

Once outside, I stop. I look at him. “What the heck?” I ask. “I still had to pay for everything -even Sam’s ‘wish’ you gave him!”

The genie is surprised. “I granted that everything was paid for,” he defends. I think about that. He is technically right. I groan. I didn’t want this kind of wishing, the kind where you might get dropped in an ocean if you don’t specify where you want to be when given a long-lost treasure.

“That’s not what I expected,” I tell the smiling tassel man. He looks thoughtful for a bit, then says, “Ah. I will try harder. But,” he adds, “I may only grant you two more wishes.”

“Of course,” I think. I look down at Sam, who has successfully gnawed a strip of the sponge away from the plastic. I try to think. “Any wishing for more wishes?” I ask. Amijd shakes his head, his tassel swaying across its hat and his head.

I think some more, hard. “Okay.” I pause. “I wish for our car to be paid off, but not by me, my husband, or any relative.” I look at Amijd as he does his frowning and hand-waving. He looks up. “Done!” He announces.

Just then, a crossover SUV peals into the parking lot. I catch a glimpse of a blonde woman applying lipstick, with a cell phone clenched between her cheek and shoulder. Half of a second later, she misjudges her turn into the stall and smashes into the side of my car.

I stand there, aghast. “Amijd!” I yell. “Damid!” Sam repeats, giggling. I watch the woman get out, still holding her phone. She looks at what remains of my car, from different angles. She seems to be trying to find a position at which the damaged vehicle does not look completely smashed in.

I might suspect coincidence, if not for the affably pleased oddity standing near me, and the fact that Blondie seems to have no damage to her car. I check the parking lot for any other random maniacs, and cross with my cart to the accident scene.

The blonde woman is still walking about, her black heels clicking loudly on the asphalt. “Hey!” I say. She stops, and looks up at me. I can see that she didn’t finish her makeup job.

“Oh my! I am so sorry!” She says, her apology fighting to show through the botox in her face. “I don’t know what happened, dear!” She finally detaches the cell phone, and flips her hair over a shoulder.

“You call the police, honey,” she points at me. Somehow she has already extricated her insurance information. “They always take a while to get here, so I’ll just pop in the store and be right back for my statement,” she says as she hands me her card.

“Thanks, dear. Sorry again.” I watch her blonde hair and black shawl walk away to the echoing sounds of her shoes. The store doors close behind her.

“One more wish, Master,” I hear near my elbow. I look from the toll-free phone number of Blondie’s car insurance company to the expectant, goateed man. I’m considering calling the police for two reasons now.

I have the feeling Amijd won’t leave till I’ve spoken my last wish, though -as tempting as arrest sounds right now. So, I try to think of a harmless wish as I dial the number to report accidents.

I’m put on hold.

“Okay, Amijd,” I say, holding my own phone with my shoulder. “I wish to lose twenty pounds.” He mumbles and waves his hands as the operator finally comes on the line.

“Hello. Yes, I’d like to report an accident,” I say. I glance around, happily noticing that Amijd is gone. I look back at my car and say, “Yes, we’d like an officer. It’s at- wait! Where’s Sam?!”

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

The Diet: It Sucks But It Works

I love food.

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I mean, I love food.

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I mean, I really, really love food.

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Like most humans, I love the wrong kinds of food. What can I say? The ‘bad’ sorts just taste better. Eating lots of the ‘bad’ sorts also tastes better, particularly as a coping mechanism for depression.

However, that is known is gluttony, and is my favorite sin.

As such, baby-making and age eventually caught up to my habit. I found myself considering something I’d never had to before: a diet.

Before Child #4 and my thirties, I’d been blissfully ignorant of the difficulties of weight loss. I walked a lot. I was actively breaking up fighting children. I worked around the house and in the yard. I cooked our meals; sometimes, from our garden. I’ve never consumed alcohol or coffee and do not drink soda pop often.

About who-knows-how-many years ago, I had to do more. Baby #4 could walk and talk …and go into preschool, so I couldn’t use his birth as an excuse for the 30 extra pounds anymore. So, I started my own variation of the no-carb diet.

Diet #1

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I cut out sugar, white flour, white rice, and white rap (we all know Mom’s spaghetti is loaded with carbs). Instead of going completely lettuce-wrapped, I replaced my grains with whole wheat and brown rice.

I lost about 10 lbs; then, reasonably, gave up.

This may have also coincided with school letting out for the summer.

Diet #2

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About a year after Diet #1 and Christmas, I implemented another diet. I focused more on not eating after a certain time (9 p.m.), drinking more water, and not eating any sweets or desserts.

Again, this lasted about a month.

Diet #3

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Cue yet another year and I told myself this was it. I told myself I would drop that final 10 lbs, whether or not it was Girl Scout Cookie Time.

For some reason, I had also been exercising daily since November. For some other reason, we planned our first-ever out-of-country and longer-than-two-nights trip. The husband wanted me to get a bikini. He assumed I would be seen in public wearing one.

This final time was more difficult than the others; due to its being the last few pounds, due to my exercising, and due to my wavering conviction after a few weeks. I did smaller portion sizes. I tried to avoid refined sugar. I chewed gum, wore my retainer, and shamed myself away from late-night snacks.

But, did it I did. Lost the weight I did.

Aaaand, now I’m back to where I started. Actually, I’m back to where I started, plus a little extra in case we run out of snacks on the flight to where I started. I’ve been trying to diet again, impatiently so.

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I always forget how difficult The Diet is. Day One is the hardest. Actually; like they say in Holes, “the first hole’s the hardest;” then, “the second hole’s the hardest….” If I survive the first week without killing everyone in a hangry rage, my stomach shrinks and I make it a while longer. I’m hoping to stick with it till all the extra baby weight is gone.

I write this post to explain why I’m a little testy; why I’m somewhat unfocused. I also write it to encourage anyone working on dieting or other self-improvement. Self-improvement is difficult, but you can do it. I can do it.

We can do it, one hole at a time -er, maybe one salad at a time.

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What have been your experiences with dieting? What worked? Whom did you murder during the first week?

—————-

I wrote some stuff, too:

Wednesday, January 22: Wondered at the anti-social social world in “Real Life vs. The Blogosphere.”

Thursday, January 23: Throwback: “Herculesa.”

Friday, January 24: Posted the winner of this week’s “Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest.” Congratulations to Doug.

Saturday, January 25: Announced the 56th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is an epic poem of adventure. PLEASE ENTER!

Also, “Quick Game: Edit That Book Title,” for fun.

Sunday, January 26: “The Hereafter, Aloft,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, January 27: An inspirational quote from Charli Mills.

Tuesday, January 28ish: Poemed “Wanton Winter.”

Wednesday, January 29: Today

I also published a bit on my motherhood site. I wrote “You Might Have a New Baby If…” and “Time for Baby.”

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Photo Credit:
Jonathan Borba
Kavita Joshi Rai
Laura Gomez
petra cigale
Ocean Ng
STIL
Pexels
Anna Pelzer

The Hereafter, Aloft

She came every day at 5:00; after making her way from the bus [D’you need a hand, Mrs. Parker?], down the sidewalk, to the bench.

She needed more and more assistance from those sweet young nurses [What if we skipped the park today, Mrs. Parker?] with each passing day.

The birds know her. Chirping – flitting – pecking. She laughs at their avian antics.

[Come with us.]

“What?” Emiline Parker glances around. A sparrow eyes her.

[Come fly.]

“…Why?”

[You’ve cared. It’s the least we could do.]

Considering, she nods. The birds alight; a new friend among them, an old life behind.

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From this gif, as prompted by Charli at Carrot Ranch.

©2020 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day and welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #56.

Not to leave anyone adrift, click here for a basic how-to on writing terribly. Bad poetry is not for the faint of heart, though it may be for the feint of art.

Here are this week’s specifics:

  1. The Topic is an epic poem about a great adventure. Laudable deeds and grand gestures will be your comrades-in-arms, even if your adventure proves to go no further than locating a missing sock.
  2. These sorts can run rather long, so let’s cap the poem at a Length of 200 words. Yes, Fishman, you may write fewer than 200.
  3. Rhymes are unnecessary, yet contestants will be awarded bonus points for archaic ones.
  4. Make it terrible, I say! A great shout must be heard from deep within The Woods of Whispering that Princess Sock has been found, and is begging you to stop singing your ballad. Forever.
  5. If the Rating must, it may rise to PG-13. Remember that insults from these times moste often ran the gamut of brigand or knave.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 31, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the given form, below, to submit your poem in secret.

To declare your efforts to all, respond in the comments. Enquire further if a pingback does not show by the following day.

Make merry!

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Photo credit: Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Another day, another delay. Not for naught, y’all: I’ve been havin’ a devil of a time pickin’ a poem jus’ awful enough to win.

Tonight, that winner’s:

The Giant Mozzie of Kozzie

by Doug Jacquier

I went searchin’ for the treasure
The wealth beyond measure
That would bring me great pleasure
Up there in the blue azure.
Atop the mount called Kozzie
The dream of every Ozzie
Lay hidden in a secret pozzie
And guarded by a giant mozzie.

Chorus
Nobody knows the trouble I have seein’
Since I’s bit on the eye
While reachin’ for the sky
By the mozzie of Kosciuszko.

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

I read my favorite four or five several times before settling on Doug’s contribution. I believe he stood out for the overdone ‘ie’ rhyming, the nonsense, and the …well, probably for the nonsense. Well done.

As to the rest? See if you can get through them:

Oh, I’m a Gonna Go!

by Peregrine Arc

I’m a gonna go out where the wind durst blow
Sand in my knickers and mud in my toes
Where cow pies rightly disappear and the crickets eat them dangburned rusted bandoliers!
Where the guns don’t get to shootin’,
Where there’s no high brow falutin’
And everyone dances ’till half past three…
If you need me, why that there where’s I’ll be….l
In the Land of Absolution…!

—–

Hunka-Hunka

by The Abject Muse

When I ain’t got no tomorrows

when the strings all bust on my banjo

I’m gonna change my undershirt

an’ go to my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

It’s paradise, hell yes it is

with a little wood shack to take a whiz.

Among green trees and birds that chirp

my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

—–

Morose Melodrama #1

by Deb Whittam

I stare at it in defeat,
My heart it don’t want to beat
Me, run up that?
Yeah right, I would also like
To invite Mike Tyson to a fight.
Lofty and high it will prevail,
I, well, I am destined to fail.
But I grit my teeth,
And take that first step,
Pause and gasp,
Time for a rest.
Four hours later at the top I am,
Now how the hell do I get back down.

—–

A haven or Heaven?

by Trent P. McDonald

It would be bliss on Earth here…
(Hold on, I’ll be right there)
Uhm, I like to sit in my chair
(I said I was coming!!)
Not really work, but, well, bumming…
(Hold your horses)
Uhm, bumming about, reading some sources
(Darn it, I’m in the middle of a sentence!)
Doing writing penitence
(Not a story, a poem. What? No, I said I’m, writing poetry…)
No one to bother me, even if it is three…
(Just a minute!)
Uhm, three AM and I’m really in t’ it
(I don’t care if supper is getting cold)
‘Cause being disturbed while writing gets old
(OK, OK, I give up)
So heaven would be to write undisturbed from sundown to sun up…

—–

Heaven to be sung to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda” if it fits

by Bruce Goodman

Heaven is like a suitcase in the
luggage compartment of a train
hopefully the owner
is sitting down somewhere on the train
and will claim the suitcase from the
luggage compartment when the passenger wants to get off.

Heaven is also like the toothbrush that’s in the
suitcase along with some toothpaste
and a flannel
and some aftershave – to be bannal.
I also like to think that Heaven is like mowing the lawn.

Chorus: Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Heaven is on my mine
Kumbaya Kumbaya
Those who don’t want to get to Heaven
can go to Hell
but I’m sure ev’ryone who reads this
will have a better idea whether or not they want to get there
so Michael row your boat ashore.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I wasn’t going to do a poem
for the bad poetry competition this week
because the theme was ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’
and that sounded a bit country ‘n’ western
what I thought about it was
that it sounded very much like
the sort of thing that would
have the sounds of a slide guitar in it
god I hate the sound of a slide guitar
‘just settle on a note!’ I think
‘don’t play an instrument
like a drunken man, trying to walk
bouncing off doorways and
speaking whole sentences in one continuous word’
anyway, then I read the lyrics
for the song that is the theme
and saw it was full of peoples dreams
for what they imagine might be plentiful
in this fantasy place, their heaven
so I thought perhaps mine would be slide guitars
stripped and remade into proper guitars
that people played different notes and chords on
one at a time mostly
properly
like musicians, not drunkards
Some might ask
‘wouldn’t slide guitars, for you
be in ‘the other place?’
and I’d say ‘no,
would you deny me the pleasure
in my heaven
of seeing them being destroyed?’
so then I listened to the song
to get my inspiration
and it didn’t have slide guitar on it
so this was all a waste of time really
I’ll probably have to do something
about abundant custard creams instead

—–

For Rent

by Thru Violet’s Lentz

Don’t much wanna go to heaven
wouldn’t know no one there, no way
as the kind that I holds near and dear
won’t be a gettin’ thru them pearly gates.

There’s a better chance you’ll find me
sittin’ round a fire ring somewheres
talkin’ loud and smoking Marlboro’s
next to a tub a ice cold beer.

Wearing an old King Diamond tee shirt
and a pair a too tight jeans
sittin’ on some ol’ boys lap, feelin’ frisky-
in the trailer park o my dreams…

Where on every space there’s a double wide
and the lot rents paid in full
and my sister’s- ex-fi-ance’s -brother-in-law
has done his last parole.

So when I exit life’s long lost highway
don’t you be a worrin’ ’bout where I’ve gone
’cause I’m sure there’ll be a For Rent sign
on a nice li’l trailer in the great beyond….

—–

Big Science Mountain

by H.R.R. Gorman

The mad scientist created
Freeze rays and said, “This is the best,
I dare anyone to beat me.
I’ll freeze banks and avoid arrest,
Then freeze folks at the city hall
To cause the government to fall.
Yessir, I’m gonna have a ball,
With my freeze ray and my money.

—–

Heaven via Hell

by Ruth Scribbles

If you wanna go to heaven
Hell’s where you belong
Cause you can’t get to heaven
Unless you’re in hell for way too long

Walk with the devil
Play with evil demons
Wait for the angels
To carry you all the way home

Oh oh oh
Go to hell
Go to hell
You can’t get to heaven
Except through hell

—–

Thanks, y’all, fer a most entertainin’ evenin’. Come on back, now, once you’ve had yer rest and I’ll post a topic fer next week ’round 10 tomorrer.

marko-mudrinic-EW04roNVHLg-unsplash

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

I didn’t have the time to make one after your suggested patron saint, but intend to once I take a moment to do so.

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

Throwback Thursday: Herculesa

Still a favorite short, humorous story of mine, first published July 13, 2017:

Herculesa

Herculesa bravely clutches at her last weapon -the Libman of Justice- as she eyes the dangerous Hydra plodding menacingly toward her.

Whack! A purposeful sweep draws the vicious head of Dirty Tile Floors off its base. Swish! Returns the Laundry head to its origins. Clunk! And the Dishes is decapitated.

But, as we all remember, Hydra Housework cannot be defeated so easily. From the supposed stumps of completion, new branches sprout and grow full size. Floor splits into Carpets, Windows, and Toilets; Laundry spawns Sock Mating, Bedding, Repair; Dishes makes more and more Dishes!

Our heroine is surrounded as she stumbles back on loose Hot Wheels and plush animals. Bravely she strikes again and again!

How will Herculesa ever vanquish this unconquerable beast? There is no permanent end in sight!

©2020 Chelsea Owens