The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Howdy, young’uns. This here be the Terrible Poetry Contest. We been hostin’ y’all fer 55 rounds now.

If’n yer not sure a’ yerself, click here. Bad poetry’s about as tricky as kissin’ an ornery donkey that may jest be yer mother-in-law.

Here are yer ‘pecifics:

  1. I hear tell the Topic‘s a folk song ’bout heaven. You done heard ’bout “The Big Rock Candy Mountain?” Sing me where yer moun’ain is an’ where you’d be.
  2. I ain’t got all day, so’s a good verse an’ chorus’ll do me fer Length.
  3. And then there’s that Rhymin‘ business. You go’n ahead and do it if’n it’s there in yer heaven.
  4. I say to Make it terrible. Me an’ my boys will ‘termine to add you to our Mulligan Stew soon’s we hear it sung.
  5. Now, son: yer idea a’ the hereafter may just include some things more sensitive types shouldn’a read. Keep things under the PG belt, if’n you can.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 24, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form b’low to keep things a secret.

To share all ’round, go ‘head an’ post in those there comments. Let the judge know if’n you don’ see a pingback after sundown.

Y’all have fun now, ya hear!

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Photo credit:
Marko Mudrinic

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The hour’s late, so I won’t hold you in suspense any longer.

This week there’s a three-way tie for winner:

Winter Wonderland (not)

by Anne Howkins

In the bleak midwinter,
The garden’s never looked minter.
The snow all pristine clean and white,
Until the dog answered a call of nature.
Nobody wants to go snow-balling
Where the cur’s been peeing.

The snow lays all deep and uneven
Stopping all the folks from leaving.
There’s no feeling quite as unpleasant
As ice filling up your boots
And stockings
When you’re scraping the path.

Ice cold wind makes us all moan,
Our gloved hands can’t text or make phone calls.
Don’t talk to me about ice-skating,
When you’re an hour or more
From the emergency room.

Dad forgot to check the pipes’ lagging,
And when the temperature is arising,
And when the ice is a-melting
The house will be flooded.
The boiler’ll be broken
And you’ll probably get pneumonia.

—–

Winter Terribleness

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were in the cussing mood I’d have a lot to say about winter.
But I’m not in that mood so I’ll just call it win-TURD.
I am in a Pinwheel cookie mood.
You ever had one of those?
If you have then you knows –

-just how good that marshmallow is on that cookie base
with the rich, creamy chocolate covering the face.

And when you eat them not a creature is stirring and wh

—–

Frigid French Philologies (a descort)

by Rob Stroud

Shards of bleak winter gestate day after day.
The citric cannonade gurgled melodies of complacency.
Echinodermata rides again.

Hagar was not so Horrible.
Beware 48°52.6′S 123°23.6′W.
Fini.
A Galapagos penguin reads about tobacco.

Captain Kirk sings the National Anthem.
Angkor longed to visit Tenochtitlán.
Sheepish wolves.
From lofty Mount Olympus descended Odin.

Soon comes the summer of our discontent.

—–

Congratulations, Anne, Fishman, and Rob! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

After my first read-through, I entertained the thought of declaring everyone a winner. I laughed, cringed, and cried. Then, I decided I couldn’t duck my responsibility. I looked more closely. Anne’s poem rhymes enough to make us think the occurrences may have been intentional, mis-meters enough to raise eyebrows, and definitely contains a terrible subject. Michael’s does the same, in a very different and more cringe-worthy way (and, might I add, kudos to him for rising to the challenge of a half-word at the end). Rob’s poem is hilarious to me; probably because he’s such a proper and educated writer, so the end result is what I’d imagine he might shout out in the middle of the night during a restless slumber.

Like I said, though, I’d have crowned you all victors. Read and enjoy:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Oh bloody hell
I slipped and fell
My bum feels bruised
You’d think I’d get used
To stupid New Hampshire winter
Damn, an icicle splinter
In my behind
I need to see if I can find
Just a bit of color
Not this bland view that’s duller
Than a black and white photo of the bruise
On my caboose
If I can be so bold
I really hate the cold!

—–

BRRR…

by Matt Snyder

its cloudy cloudy and cold it is
Swept up and under the deep dark dank chill of the absence of light
All I see is what you see, what you see is far from me as we waver uncontrollably from the bitter
The bitter bitter white
Depressed and withered from the bitter bitter
Hardly a stutter from your cold brittle lips
Chapped and muffled and our layers of clothes bundled tight
Like Randy in a Christmas Story, we are all very much as it seems, a sight
Like the bitter bitter air we see in breath
Bleak midwinter blues
Our hue of death

—–

Squeak Mouse

by Bruce Goodman

I seem to be undergoing a process of shivication
which is no cause for celebration.
Outside the weather is extremely bleak
– did I just hear a mouse squeak?
wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie –
and inside it’s no better because I’m shivering.

I have no wood for my fire
so I think I’ll burn my auntie;
I think I’ll burn my auntie.
Fa la la la la this will be no Silent Day
– the smell of burning mutton won’t go away –
put another leg on the fire Auntie May.

—–

A Certain Type of Warmth

by tiredhamster

A flooding
Of silent whiteness
Appears within this glassy window.
But something burns
Inside, hotter
Than any truth. I remember
When we used to go
Out into the snow. I would
Shiver and shake, but you braved
Those knife-like winds.
You wanted to build snowmen
And snow castles and tiny
Snow worlds to rule over.
But now this world is without
You. Just
Flat and damp. And the snow
piling atop.

—–

Cold Stuff

by Bryntin

the snow rains down
like sparkling frozen water
difficult to drive on
if it doesn’t instantly meltdown

the slipperiness of the road now
that is cover’d o’er with snow
makes it much more likely
to skid and hit a cow

the temperature gauge has binged
to register minus 3 centigrade
that’s 26.6 Fahrenheit
if you’re not metrically skinned

but this is what it’s like
driving the middle of the winter
you can’t see the road through the screen, so
probably safer to mountain bike

it’s not all bad of course,
there’s snowmen with snowballs
and really cold air
that can make your throat go hoarse

—–

Let There Be Light

by Peregrine Arc

I don’t mind the cold or that white stuff they call snow
What I mind is the lack of light, if it’s forty days in a row.
Something kicks in, some hibernational urge
And I find myself laying in bed
Snoring a symphonic dirge

—–

An Alaskan Winter

by Violet Lentz

There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun

A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.

—–

In the Bleak Midwinter

by Joanne the Geek

It’s the bleak midwinter

cold winds are blowing

snow is falling, everyone

is miserable and frozen –

but not me

here in the southern hemisphere

it’s summer and I’m in short shorts

and a close fitting tank top

sitting out in the hot sun

getting tanned

and I think of you all up there

in the frozen north

cold and miserable

and I smile at the thought of you –

because I am an arsehole.

—–

A Bleak MidWhat

by Ruth Scribbles

Twas January in Texas
And all though the house
The AC was running
And it was cloudy and raining

Last week we had snow flurries
And temps in the thirties
Then up the thermometer zoomed
And gave us the sixties

The children all cried
Cause the snow didn’t stick
Where is winter?
They cried

The adults wondered too
And sagely said
“it’s Texas you sillies”
Get used to it

So others get blizzards
And we go to Dairy Queen
And order blizzards
To freeze our tongues
And fatten our bellies

Maybe this year or next
Who knows
And that is the story of our bleak MidWhat!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Boy it’s bleeding bleak

Low chance of me doing a streak

Every day it rains

An everybody complains

Keep hoping for some snow

More chance of seeing Marilyn Monroe

In every lane and field

Dreaded mud congealed

Wind so strong

It blows over King Kong

No chance of seeing the sun

This is no bloody fun

Every day is exactly the same

Redonculous Boris that’s whose to blame

—–

God bleakly ignoring midwinter

by Doug Jacquier

The bleak midwinter arrived in

the middle of winter

and it was bleak.

Not moor bleak;

more bleak than that.

The wind was keen,

not in that American neat way

nor like mustard,

but sharp

and bleak

because it was midwinter.

I watched it being bleak midwinter

but I don’t think God did.

—–

Thank you all for playing along!! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s theme.

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

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Hello and welcome to the 54th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

As always, read some brief instructions on bad poetry here. Being terrible can be tricky, or it can be as simple as tripping on a smooth floor.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is The Bleak Midwinter. Yes, I know some of you are not experiencing cold weather and do not feel bleak. Maybe come stare out my window for inspiration…
  2. Try for a Length of a standard 3-75.5 words.
  3. Rhyming is wholly up to you.
  4. Make it terrible. I want your poem to force travel agencies to contact your therapist to make appointments for themselves after reading it.
  5. Keep things PG or cleaner. It’s about the bleak midwinter, for heaven’s sake.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 17, 2020) 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. Please also comment if you linkback but don’t see the notification in the comments within 24 hours.

Have fun!

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This is more scenic than my view.

Photo credit:
Diana Parkhouse

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

You all might be in the wrong career, because these terrible commercial jingles were so hilarious they were almost too good to win!

But, of course we need a winner! And that is:

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

If you got an awful case of halitosis
From devouring Garlic and limburger
And dang your breath is atrocious
Then have a chew
On our wintry minty gum called Goo
And know that you did stink
Its not just some psychosis.
Goo Gum available in cherry, watermelon, orange and blue

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

It’s credit to everyone’s creativity and awfulness (that verged on great skill) that I read through all the poems several times. Matt’s stuck out for its changing meter and messed-up rhyming patterns, as well as a bit of help from its topic.

‘Twas a close contest, though. See what I mean:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Smoke the cig that’s the best
Go ahead and forget the rest!
It’s your life we try to fit
Even though we shorten it by a little bit
Everyone will know you are cool
(While we kill and rob you like a fool)
A great product that tastes like dung
And destroys every cell of your lung!
So go ahead and take a toke
Of our great name brand smoke!

—–

Buy our cat food

by Bruce Goodman

Cat food! Cat food! Buy our Cat food!
Be a cool dude and buy our Cat food!
I don’t want to be rude
But other brands of Cat food
Aren’t as goo-ed.

It’s more than they could wish
When you put it in their Cat food dish.
So fill those hungry tummies
With Cat food that’s yummy.

Cat food! Cat food! Buy our Cat food!
Be a cool dude and buy our Cat food!

When you’ve finished feeding those hungry boys
Let’s hope there’s something left over for the Cat.

—–

Untitled piece

by Geoff LePard

We can stick it up our noses
We can rub it on our gums
We can sprinkle it like sugar
And lick it with our tongues

It’s dusty white and naughty
It doesn’t carry tax
It’s far less calorific
Than your average Pepsi Max.

The moral of this ditty
Is when you go for broke
Ignore all other stimulants
And stick with good old Coke

—–

Plant the Seed

by Annette Rochelle Aben

Enjoy a healthy cleansing poo
When you eat the seed of ancient Peru
It was used to grow hair on heads of terra cotta
Now, people eat it to help them poop a lotta
You can find it in most stores throughout North America
This tiny little powerhouse known as CHIA!
(Cleans you out without emptying out your wallet)

©2020 Annette Rochelle Aben

—–

Fast Food, Fast Fat

by Peregrine Arc

Oh what’s the best solution to a dietary convolution?
Why the things that make your taste buds scream!
Designed by evolution to make your constitution stronger than any in this here institution.
It’s fats, oils and salts, delivered in abundance by your friend and pal, Ray Kroc!
Come on over, you’ll get addicted to the sugar;
Twenty years of your life–taken!–and diabetes is what we’ll serve ya!
So come on down and oh, have a bite
It’s the devil’s way of having a res-pite.

—–

Untitled piece

by Makeshiftdriver

You don’t got time to waste
So we better just cut to the chase
Get a load of our spackling paste!
Hey!

Fill a hole or fix your wall
It’s a wonder you don’t just use it all
On a hole that you punched in your hall-
Way!

So grab some spackling paste today!
Okay!

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

When Mother
Talks to Jupiter
Or one of its moons

And you see your brother
Out back
Answering the loons

Show them you care
Dress them in style

We hold them dear
With fabric by the mile

Don’t go for half
Nelson’s is best!

Tailors of craft
Fuller than the rest

So when another
family member
Croons

From the cover
Of uranium enriched
Dunes

Don’t throw them in a sack-ette
Put them in a Nelson’s
Full Straight Jacket!

—–

Vanish

by Gary

For that time when the runner has gone thud
And his clothes are covered in filthy mud
When soap and water won’t do the job
And that runner doesn’t want to look a slob
In need of rescue after that mossy wall
Which hero are you going to call?
With just 5 scoops your colours will banish
But that mud will be gone thanks to VANISH.

—–

Thank you so much for your contributions!! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s theme.

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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:

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome back! I hope you’ve all used your break in the least productive ways possible and that your poetry will suffer accordingly. This is, after all, the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #53!

It’s been awhile, so maybe brush up on what’s expected, here. Writing bad poetry is an art, much like crafting mud pies with broken fingers.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Let’s start off with a fun Topic: commercial jingles. Pick a product and *wow* us with an awful little diddy.
  2. Most commercials have a short runtime, so keep the Length fairly short as well.
  3. Do you need to Rhyme? No, but catchy tales bring in more sales.
  4. Look, chum: just Make it terrible. Make your audience sit up, take notice, and frantically push the Mute button until the horror passes.
  5. This needs to be appropriate for General Audiences. Write accordingly.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 10, 2020) 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. Please also comment if you linkback but don’t see the notification in the comments within 24 hours.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Victória Kubiaki

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest: Anniversary Edition

For our one year celebration, entrants did not disappoint. You all made choosing a winner terribly difficult.

Which may be why there is a three-way tie:

My son is Not called Adolf

by Giselle Marks

I have five Kids but didn’t give birth
Stop laughing, that is not a Cause for mirth
And Each squalling BRAT had to B named
Ex and myself could not agree, Adoph! Never! You’ve no shame!
Don’t dig the Garden or my ex you’ll unearth.

—–

Birth

by Bruce

When Bruce said he’d like to give birth
It created considerable mirth.
There’s no need to curse –
Not a baby but verse
Except when it came to creating a possible concluding line to his exquisite limerick he couldn’t think of anything of worth.

—–

Untitled piece

by Michael Fishman

The man and the woman were naked
the man said, “If I’m not mistaken,
I find you attractive
so how’s about we get active
and make ourselves one beautiful kid?”

Congratulations, Giselle, Bruce, and Michael! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Giselle’s poem employed my recommended elements: bad structure, some spelling/grammar issues, and messed-up meter. Bruce’s, meanwhile, mostly nailed first with his aberrant final line. Michael submitted several poems, and this one rose through the ranks for its mis-meter and non-rhyming last line.

As is usual, the others are more than a close second:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Telling poems with mirth
About how I came to this Earth
To meet Chelsea’s rating
I’ll skip what happens while dating
And get to the part about birth

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Those dirty limericks, so bold
Say where babies come from, I’m told
With language so crude
Some think it quite rude
But without sex, there’d be no one to hold

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Grunt groan, all I can do is moan
Wail cry, all the while
Scream shriek, beyond relief
Then you ask, what’s my beef?
Childbirth, it’s beyond belief.

—–

There once was a tiny ball…

by Tiredhamster

There was once a tiny ball
Who decided to end it all
So with all its might
It squeezed real tight
Now we dance upon its pall

—–

Ooh, Baby

by Michael Fishman

Their bodies they did so adorn
and maybe they watched them some porn
the months they rolled by
nine of them to quantify
and then a little baby was born.

—–

I knew this gal from Fort Worth
she ate pancakes drowned in Mrs. Butterworth
She made me an offer
her body she did proffer
with an end result of her giving birth

—–

“Wanna roll?” she said, and I said “Maybe”.
“Is it safe,” I said, “You won’t give me rabies?”
She said, “It’s OK, we can skip the foreplay
I’m just looking to have me a baby.”

—–

He’s generally a really nice gent
She’s honest and won’t misrepresent.
One fine day they wed
then rushed home and into bed
now they’re counting the days ‘till their blessed event.

—–

The Neon Nose

by Susan

I’ve a birthmark upon nose

and in the dark it glows

I want to remove it

but the doctors say screw it

for when my nose runs I’ll know where it goes!

—–

TBD (terrible birth diatribe)

by Ruth Scribbles

When Chelsea decided to write
She thought “ah me thinks they should fight”
She birth-ed this mess
Named terrible poetic-ick-ness
It’s all just a blather and blight

—–

Borne

by Violet Lentz

Borne more of angst than understanding
Employing methods, far off from upstanding
The young anarchists ploy
Was to seek and destroy
Whilst obtaining all they were demanding

The first threw himself on the tile
At Walmart, in the Christmas toy aisle
He screamed and he pitched
Held his breath till he twitched
As his mother did her best to smile

The second locked himself in the loo
And screamed out, “There’s nothing you can do!
I will not wear that Tee!
Kids will make fun of me!”
Till his mother, her demand she withdrew

Now sister thought herself a bit slicker
She’d not fight mom, instead she’d just trick her
Off to study she’d go
And little would mother know
Till she came home awash in malt liquor!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Boris Johnson was asked how many kids he has fathered
It wasn’t a surprise when the posh fart spectacularly dithered
Rich entitled Eton Boy has had fingers in many pies
Trouble is that people are starting to see through his web of lies
He may well have the last laugh by making us all Brexit buggered

—–

Untitled piece

by The Bag Lady

There once was a pregnant lady

Not happy to birth more babies

A control split the seam

Now she’s just acting mean

Too bad for the coming baby.

No more children said to her hubby

He insists on getting more huggy

So now she is groaning

With birth pain she’s moaning

And here comes a baby so chubby.

—–

Whoops

by Richmond Road

By day she’s disarmingly mild
At night unexpectedly wild
Unpredictability frisky
Ill advisedly risky
So now she’s expecting a child

—–

Thank you all, so much!! I will not be posting a new prompt tomorrow. Please come back at the first of the year (2020) for the next one.

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

©2019, the respective authors and their poem(s)

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest: Anniversary Edition

Greetings to all: newcomers, oldcomers, midcomers! Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #52. For those familiar with math, this means we are at ONE YEAR of terrible poetry.

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For those still needing some direction on what terrible poetry is, I’ve written a basic outline here. Got it? Great! Let’s move on.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Birth. Childbirth’s a bit high on my mind, or the birthday of this contest, or …go where the prompt takes you.
    For kicks, let’s also do a limerick.
  2. The traditional Length of a limerick is five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
  3. Limericks totally Rhyme. See the line above this one for direction.
  4. Make it terrible! Seriously; that’s the point of the whole contest.
  5. Keep the Rating PG/PG-13ish (or cleaner).

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 22) 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. If you use pingbacks by including a link on your blog, leave a comment if that link doesn’t show up within a day.

Have fun!

 

 

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Photo credit: Paul M
Nick Fewings

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Merry? Christmas to all! I knew that most of my followers weren’t into all the commercialism that seeps into this season and was happy to see so many of the poems reflect that. However, this also made judging as difficult as knowing which Paw Patrol puppy your daughter said her little Stephen wanted.

After much deliberation and decision, this week’s winner is:

The 12 days of Ca$hmas

by Matt Snyder

Oh holy hell

What’s a child’s wish for old saint nick ?

Rampant shopping by his parents, 5 months in advance…retail has gone bonkers

With a wink of the eye

Black Friday is every day or so it seems so near

Christmas in July with a bottle of beer and the three wise ho’s

With a yank and a tug and on some poor bastards head, mauled over and dead what dread.

With sappy hallmark cards and zippy Starbucks drinks

Purple and white trees, the whole kitchen

Sink. Holes

Burnt in pockets

Egg nog delight

Jesus rolls in his

Grave or returns for the night

Has become silent

I wish you well

To all a good night

Ain’t that right Charlie Brown ?

Bah.

—–

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

Like last week, entrants took the prompt in a few directions. I enjoyed the references to carols, shopping, and even a bit of politics. Matt’s poem followed my usual terrible requirements (intentional rhyme, meter, and subject issues), with an overall ‘bad poetry’ feel to it.

So many of the following were a very close second. Read, if you can, and see if you don’t agree:

Stuff

by Deb Whittam

So you’re caught up in the Christmas hype,
Buying stuff you don’t need.
Remember, if you don’t cough up,
They’re going to gripe and it’s all about trying to please.
The shops are announcing their sales
Wares that you can’t really afford
I mean it’s not like they got it wrong.
Buy, buy, buy, that’s the law
What do you mean that the church
Decided 25th was the day
To circumvent pagan worship
Isn’t that a bit unchristian?
What do you mean that it’s all about
Penance and peace? Don’t you mean purchasing and
Spending your hard earned cash for
Profiteering doesn’t happen by itself, does it?
And let’s be honest, we’re here for them.
(Sorry, clarification required) the shops, not your family.

—–

Joseph’s Christmas Lament

by Bruce Goodman

It’s impossible to find accommodation around here.
With crowds converging for the census people are selling their wares
all over the place – a Bethlehem-Census never fails
to promote discounted toga sales.
My wife’s just had a baby and now the jolly farmers are visiting us in droves
– next thing there’ll be hosts of angels singing their heads off.
How are we meant to feed all these visitors
not to mention the farm animals?
And it’s freezing cold in the night.
I’m looking forward to Christmases in the future.
Everyone says future Christmases will be all peace and quiet.

—–

Ding Dong

by Jane Basil

One silent night,
the virgin Mary had a baby boy,
an infant holy, infant lowly.
It came upon a midnight clear,
once in royal David’s city.
Ding dong merrily on high.

Go –
tell it on the mountain, the night
before Christmas:
Santa Claus
is coming to town.
Ding dong merrily high.
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

So I’m in a shopping mall you see,
An agglomeration of shops and shops to be,
There’s a boozy Santa in the corner with a kiddy on his lap,
The kiddy is either waiting for his present or is taking a nap
“Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum,”
Screams a vagabond, a bum
I’m tired shopping for the wifey
Shops, shops and shops are all I see,
I’m exhausted and need a break
But what should I get my kiddie
Maybe I’ll just give him a little money
The kiddie and the wifey want freebies
And we’re living in a damn capitalist economy!
They’re a bunch of cold blooded democrats
I believe that Trump’s the man, you WORK to become an aristocrat
Anyhow I’m stuck in this marriage with shops all around me
I’ll think I’ll sing a line from Hey Jude
“When I find myself in trouble mother Mary comes to me”
Wait that’s Let it Be

—–

Happy Dust Collector’s Shopping

by Ruth Scribbles

Ding dong ding dong
The text chimes are
Driving me absolutely crazy
Spend money here
Or there
The halls have been decked
All year! Why?
I don’t want your crap
Do you want mine?
Save your pennies and buy
Medicine or food ?
Your children don’t want
Beanie weenies
And please don’t burn the piano
To buy aunt Matilda
A new nose ring
To catch her snot
While she sings
Joy to the world
The cash registers are bulging
And people are destroying
Their ability to warm their
Houses

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Blimey the adverts have started already

Only just done Halloween I’m so unready

Reindeers standing where the tinned soup used to be

I only want some food for dinner not a giant inflatable Christmas tree

Santa hats seem to have replaced my usual supply of herbal tea

*

Jingle bells bellows out on loop from the supermarket speakers

Ornamental singing elves more important than things like carpet sweepers

Hilarious festive ties are everywhere all playing an out of tune carol

Nearly every aisle is full of wine and spirits and lager by the barrel

Suddenly the only cheese you can buy must contain apricots and cranberries

Over priced selection boxes become the only source of confectionaries

Nuts by the bucket full which is no good for delicate tummies like that of Gary’s

*

Is it too much to ask for one single deodorant not those annoying Old Spice Gift sets

Suddenly on every aisle corner you see stacks of Home Alone Video Cassettes

*

All the shop staff are forced to be decked out as Santa’s little helpers

*

Gone are the discounts as it’s full pricing in all its splendour

It’s a crime not to stock up for that big day in December

To much much for me as it’s still just pigging November

—–

Untitled piece

by Chetyl

Groceries hidden by Christmas fare

Oh, oh, see chocolate cherries there

A once a year treat I can’t resist

But is it too early? I need to resist

Passing by the long toy aisles

Stuffed animals with sewn on smiles

Since when are they giant sized

Maybe bedrooms are bigger, I surmised

After Thanksgiving I must indulge

Texan dancing Santa with tummy bulge?

I think I’ll stick with my mini tree

Add a few lights, happy me.

—–

The Lonely Elf

by Michael B. Fishman

There was an elf
who lived by himself
he whittled wood toys that he set on a shelf.

One night he thought:
“These toys can’t be bought
so I’ll give them to those who have naught.”

So one cloudy day
he gave them away
went back home and read E. Hemingway

While still all alone
his gloom it had flown
so he moved out to Sierra Leone.

There he lived on an isthmus
and he waited for Christmas
so he could help Santa with the gift-giving business.

—–

The Christmas Gate

by Daniel Kemp

’Twas Christmas Eve behind Stephen’s gate,
The shops were closed. The hour was late.
The money counters were stressed and tired,
Stephen wished more he’d hired!

Sacks of notes were piled high on trucks,
Millions of pounds and millions of bucks.
He toasted his wife he praised his staff,
But as the drivers drove off they began to laugh.

They loaded the spaceship and off high it went,
Around the world tipping out all the money that was spent.
In the morning the cash laid deep and crisp and even
Good King Wenceslas had a look and said it was the fault of Stephen.

—–

Thank you for contributing your terribleness. Come back tomorrow for our ONE YEAR anniversary of this contest, plus the final prompt of 2019.

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

©2019 Each poet, and his/her respective poem

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #51! Can you believe it?

Writing bad poetry intentionally can be tricky, so I wrote a basic outline here. The long and short of it is to capitalize on the poetry clichés all beginning poets love: adjectives, fluff, overused expressions, and angst. Add intentional mis-meter to that, and you’ve got a ‘winning’ combination.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Since it’s coming up on my mind, at least, this week’s Topic is the commercialism of Christmas. Man, I hate it.
  2. Everyone’s having sales, sales, sales! Keep the Length to 20% off your usual poem. Hurry now; supplies are running out!
  3. Rhyme if you were smart and purchased the name brand version back in July. Otherwise, you’re stuck with the cheap, knock-off variety that might have been recorded in Chinese.
  4. Make it terrible! Make Hasbro put out a recall for all verse you may have ever produced in the last decade, plus offer psychological recompense for the ten years before that.
  5. Christmas is family time -ish. We’d like to make people assume so, anyway, as we advertise the spirit right out of them. Anyway, keep things G-Rated or friendlier.

An offer like this won’t last forever! You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 15) to submit a poem.

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

For a more social experience and immediate attention, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. If you use the ol’ linkback method, pop me a comment if you don’t see the link show up within a day.

Merry(?) Christmas and have fun!

Jingle All The Way Christmas Movies GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

Photo credit: GIPHY

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

At long last and after long deliberation, I have picked a winner for this week’s contest: FIFTY!

No more suspense. The winner is:

I’m Gonna

by The Abject Muse

Now I’m gonna

write a poem

in exactly 50 words.

I cannot think of anything.

Hey look! Outside there’s birds!

What’s that falling from their butts?

Could it be airborne turds?

And there’s a squirrel eating nuts;

he’s grateful they aren’t curds.

Such is life in my backyard

in fifty words.

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

Now, you may all think Susan won for her terrible subject -but that’s not the case. I actually tend to not pick poems if they’ve made me feel ill, mostly to ensure I was not swayed by nausea. Instead, I felt that hers embodied most of what we strive for in this contest: differing line lengths, rhymes and near-rhymes and rhymes that did not fit (oh, how I hate people adding ‘poetic’ lines, just to make a rhyme!), and a subject that tried to stay on topic but just couldn’t.

Well done her, but also well done to those who barely lost. Seriously; some of you gave me the distinct impression of channeling a twisted Dr. Suess. You are all worth a read, and maybe a strong drink:

A Desperate Poet

by Heather Dawn

Forty-nine bad poems I’ve written,
For the bad poetry competition,
Forty-nine times, disappointment repetition.
I even lose at being bad,
At poetry, now that is sad.
But I am a poetic mess,
I cannot stop rhyming, I must confess!
I will win this time!
Maybe, this fiftieth time, I will!

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

Some say it’s pretty nifty turning fifty.
Alas! Alack! I can’t remember that far back.
I probably got socks, underpants and tie;
You see, it’s the thought that counts. Oh me! Oh my!
It remains to be seen next week when I turn seventy
If I get given a hemorrhoidectomy.

—–

Fifty, A Study in Awfulness

by Trent P. McDonald

Seven, a perfect number
So I’ve heard
Like Seven wonders
By Zeus’ beard!
Seventh heaven
Better than paradise, weird
But wouldn’t seven square
Be better there?
Forty nine
Doesn’t sound great
Like a gold mine
A football team, mate
Does adding one
To squared Perfection
Make it better
Or dereliction?

—–

The Big – 5-0

by Deb Whittam

Fifty,
Knees Crack,
Lost my knack,
Can’t seem to get it back.

Fifty,
Hearing going,
My age is showing,
Don’t want to do the mowing.

Fifty,
Need my glasses,
When I read,
Pee myself whenever I sneeze.

Fifty,
Can’t sit long,
Can’t stand long either,
It’s my knees you know

—–

A Wild Ride

by Tiredhamster

Half a century has passed
And now I’m all outta gas
It’s been a wild ride
Especially with you by my side
But now it’s time to die
And say my last goodbye
Cause i’m all old now
And my car is in tow
Just thought you should know,
Joe

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

For the fiftieth time, must I say
That you have fifty ways
Of walking down fifty street
Where fifty men dangle their meat
I mean meat not fifty inch meat
You know skewers that are sweet
Meat kebabs and puddin
Yeah that’s right darlin
Fifty shades of grey, ho hey

—–

Nifty

by DennyK

Fifty is nifty
Keen, cool and thrifty
Slumped shoulders
Big ears and a nose to match
Pants up to my armpits
I am truly a catch

Fifty is nifty
Because I don’t care
Greying, thinning, wild-ass hair
Socks with my sandals
Baggy blue jeans
Don’t tell me what doesn’t match

—–

The Big Five – Oh!

by LWBUT

Latin starts with an ‘L’,
which is also how Romans spell ’50’.
That’s pretty nifty!

Ten plus ten then double it again,
then add ten for a quick, shifty 50.

They say it’s not cricket, to have lost your wicket
one run short of a hundred.

I’m lucky if i even make 50!

—–

Only 50 Words

by Ruth Scribbles

I started at the beginning

And missed one or two

But I’m fairly consistent

Because it’s such fun to do

Chelsea is a fiend, I mean friend

I mean she’s mean

We all try hard and I’m

Supposed to be writing

About 50 but well

I failed.

That. Is. All.

—–

Nearly 50

by msnyder1970

I’m only 49

Nearly fifty, kinda nifty ya ask me.

Did you know

There are 50 words for snow ?

Yeah, heard that on the radio, Once

Upon a time lived an old geezer of a gent

Sniffing glue from his shoe turning a deep hue of blue

Mumbled incoherently as I awoke…

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

I like Blancmange but it has more than 50 calories
I have 50 really annoying allergies
I only have 50 hairs on my sad old head
Can’t get any sleep on my 50 quid bed
No money so have to be thrifty
Bugger I feel like I am over FIFTY

—–

Don’t Look Back

by The Bag Lady

Everyone says fifty is nifty

I think it’s the “all’s downhill from now on” instead

You’ve probably met the love of your life

Handled your job with strife and stress

Married and divorced your first spouse

Cynicism rules the day

Life pushes you around

Where are dreams you were promised?

—–

I preferred eighteen.

by Brutus Richmond

Being fifty is no fun
It’s even worse at fifty-one
And really, what is one to do
On reaching birthday fifty-two?
Goodness Gracious. Dearie Me
I’m really dreading fifty-three
Giving up. Won’t take no more
No plans of reaching fifty-four
Wont be around. Shan’t be alive
To celebrate at fifty-five

—–

Untitled piece

by Pensitivity101

I left fifty behind years ago
Basically didn’t want to know:
Not the best year I have to say
But looking back, guess it was OK:
Lately though, everything’s changed,
Bits falling off, falling out, rearranged:
Greyer and thinner, a bald patch or two
That’s what old age can do.

—–

You all, truly, deserve at least fifty rounds of applause. Well done. Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week’s prompt.

50-art-close-up-1339866

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

 

©2019 The respective authors of each poem