WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The world thought it had experienced the worst in pumpkin spice once cinnamon and cloves crossed over into Cheerios, Twinkies, and SPAM. If only the general population had anticipated this week’s terrible poetry…

Of which, at long last, there is a winner. And that is:

Spicing the Pumpkin

by The Abject Muse

Autumn aroma

fills the air with Halloween

making one nauseous:

too much candy and chasing

it with ten beers then puking.

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

Everyone who entered brought their worst. I had such trouble choosing from all the wonderful, beautiful, bad poetry. Susan’s poem won after my third reading of the entries, and my deciding it made me cringe the most.

Since the theme was a tanka, hers stood out as one that appeared to be a typical tanka yet was most definitely not. She made me think it a serious sample with her “Autumn aroma” beginning; but, by the end, we were puking. Great work!

Even more pumpkin spice is to be had! Read the rest of the poems below:

A Coffee Snob Tanka

by Heather Dawn

Pumpkin spice coffee
Is the worst kind of coffee…
When from Tim Hortons,
Or other fast food places.
But I like it at Starbucks.

—–

Something spicy in my pumpkin

by Bruce Goodman

Pumpkin spice! Pumpkin
spice! Syllable counting in
Germanic languag-
es is a meaningless pro-
position. It works in the

Romance languages
however, where syllables
matter. Which is pos-
sibly why we eat pumpkin
as a vegetable over

here, and to think of
it as being something in a
dessert is a fair-
ly repugnant thought! This then
is my triptych tanka. Yeah!

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Undernourished, the
Pantry’s bare, no there’s something
right up in the back
Relief … what is it? Let me
Reach … Pumpkin spice, hunger strike

—–

Love Tanka

by Joem18b

oh my dearest love
i want to give you my heart
but how to do it
rip it out hand it over
or sprinkle with pumpkin spice

—–

Pumpkin Spice (A Poem)

by Not Sheep Minded

Vanilla sweet spice

Pumpkin puree and whipped cream

What is that brown stuff?

I can’t be sure but It might

Be nutmeg or cinnamon

—–

And Then There Were Six

by LWBUT

“There’s a new spice in

town”. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“and it’s Pumpkin Spice!”

“So tell me what you want. ” “What??”

“What you really, really want.”

—–

Yuumy

by Ruth Scribbles

October oraange
English muuffins flavored sooo
Puumpkins grow on vines
Lattes and coffee oooh my
Hot Pumpkin spice soups are too

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

sunset orange with explosive hot red
unsettling and overpowering
angry and sickly sweet arrogance
rule spiced by lies
sick of Pumpkin Heads presidency

—–

Pumpkin Spice, A Terrible Tanka

by Jim Sponseller

Pumpkin spice is great,

I mean it tastes really good

Add some to coffee,

Or that milky thing, latte?

Then drink it down, no regrets!

—–

Untitled piece

by Cheryl

Pumpkin latte eww

Pumpkin soup would be better

Pumpkin candles nice

Everything October likes

Carving a pumpkin is fun.

—–

Terrible Cook. Look. Worse poet.

by Richmond Road

Peel it. Slice it up

A cup. Of sugar or two

You. Boil it to hell.

For smell? Scented candles get.

Yet more spice. Pumpkin slice. Nice.

—–

Tanka about Pumpkin Spice

by Joanne Fisher

Pumpkin Spice is nice
I’m told by people who drink
overpriced coffees
I’ve never tried it and won’t
I’m too judgmental of them

—–

Hopefully, we’ve not put anyone off their favorite fall treat. Thank you to all the fantastic poets who entered; come back around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Greetings, mortals, and welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #45!

Sometimes as writers we take ourselves too seriously. We take writing too seriously. Poetry is the worst medium for that, attracting snooty nose-raises and accusations of not being in tune with raw Nature. So; take off the shackles of your beret, read my basic outline here, and live a little!

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The type of poetry I’m interested in is a tanka. Colleen Chesebro runs this form (and a few others) every week for her popular Tanka Tuesday challenge.
    A tanka is very much like a haiku, but uses the format 5/7/5/7/7.
    On top of that, our Topic is PUMPKIN SPICE.
  2. What’s the length? I already told you: it’s a syllabic pattern of 5/7/5/7/7.
  3. Rhyming is not allowed. Scented candles are.
  4. The most important part is to make it terrible. Madame Chesebro herself must apply to WordPress to have my site banned from the internet, burned, and buried with cloves to ensure we never attempt to write tanka poetry again.
  5. Pumpkins and their harvest seasonings can stay rated at PG or tastier.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 4) 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. I highly recommend commenting and not just depending on linkbacks if you write one.

Have fun!

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Photo credit: Heidi Kaden

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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

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

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

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

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

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

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

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

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

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

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

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

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

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

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

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

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

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

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

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

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

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

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

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

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

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

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

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

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

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

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

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

Like –

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

Or “So”.

Like –

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

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

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

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

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

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

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

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

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

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

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

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

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

(inhale)
(exhale)

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

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

—–

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

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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

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

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

Got it? Here are the specifics for this week:

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

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

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

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

Have FUN!

 

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Photo credit:
Frida Aguilar Estrada

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, Episode 20.

If you’re new or need directions; read my how-to on terrible poetry. Although I sometimes choose a winner who wrote about terrible things; what I seek above all is terrible meter, satirical tropes, and other poetic clichés.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. This week’s Topic is Springtime Haiku. I gave a brief tutorial in haiku back at Contest #3.
  2. Since it’s haiku, you all know the Length is roughly a syllabic 5-7-5.
  3. Haiku doesn’t Rhyme. Do it, and you just might have nothing happen since this contest is about breaking rules.
  4. Our #1 Rule that is always listed at #4 is to make it terrible. Since I witness haiku getting butchered all the time, you’re not likely to have trouble making yours cringe-worthy.
    Just in case you need the motivation, however, I’d like your ode to nature to
    Force quiv’ring blossoms
    To shiver downy snowflake stuff
    In terror of you
  5. Japanese poet-masters are rarely pushing boundaries. Keep things G-rated or gentler.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (April 5) to submit a poem.

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

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

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
michael podger

WINNER of the Third Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Oh, my freakin’ hailstones! I haven’t laughed this much since the last time I was able to watch a comedy without children interrupting. So -yeah, years.

You guys did SO WELL writing terrible haiku! Please believe me that the winner was a really really really really really tough decision.

And it was:

Appalling falling snowflakes

by Bruce Goodman

The falling snow’s a
floccinaucinihili-
pilification.

Bruce actually wrote eight entries for this contest. Be sure to read the rest of his stanzas that follow this one (below). Bruce has entered every contest so far, but his poems were just too good to win.

Congratulations, at last, Bruce. You really made me cringe -especially because I had to count syllables for floccinaucinihilipilification. This is, in fact, a word. It means ‘the action or habit of estimating something as worthless.’ Touché.

Bruce Goodman is The Most Terrible Poet of the Week.

For the rest of you: wow. If I could award prizes after first place, I wouldn’t even go that far down. I wanted to award 1.1 place and 1.2 place and such; the terribleness was that close of a contest! I just loved the terrible adjectives; the horrible descriptors; and the no-good, very bad subject matters.

For your reading pleasure, then, here are the close contenders in order of when they were submitted:

It’s snowing on the eucalypts aka gums

by Bruce Goodman

Snow is falling down
like toothpaste on a toothbrush.
Shame I have no teeth.

—–

Falling Snow

by Ruth Scribbles

The falling snow is
Falling and falling and down
Fifty miles an hour

—–

Appalling falling snowflakes

by Bruce Goodman

The falling snow’s a
floccinaucinihili-
pilification.

It is all fluffy;
soft as the down on a dead
duckling that’s all stiff.

We made a snowman
and used our frozen dead cat
for the snowman’s hat.

We used grandma’s skull
for our snowman’s head; the same
for Autumn’s scarecrow.

She has a skull for
all seasons, has dead granny.
(We took the brains out).

In Spring it sprouts seeds,
and in Summer we use it
for a cricket ball.

Fa la la la la
Appalling falling snowflakes
Fa la la la la.

—–

Untitled piece

by Violet Lentz

tropical island temptress
so heartless- so cold
she wept tears of falling snow

—–

They Scold:

by Jon

Cold are the undead
The flakey white stuff is snow
falling on zombies

—–

Untitled piece

by Michael Fishburn

I’m watchin’ snow fall.
Snow is rain, but frozen, yup –
and it really sucks.

Untitled piece

by Michael Fishburn

Hope the snow keeps up.
Really? Why would you want that?
Then it won’t come down!

—–

Untitled piece

by Geoff Le Pard

why does snow always fall?
it never stumbles and rights itself
before moving on

—–

FALLING SNOW

by FRANKLY

Ugly miry wet
Embalming souls with icebergs
To die frozenly

—–

SNOWY NOSE

by Babbitman

White stuff, look at it;
it’s all over the place but
it ain’t cocaine, mate

—–

Untitled piece

by Jessica Peterson

Come on in; boots off
Where did all my carrots go?
Go warm up your hands

Don’t be shy! Come back tomorrow and enter next week’s contest!!

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FREE Contest: Third Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good Saturday morning, everyone. I hope your Thanksgiving went well (if you are in America) or that you at least enjoyed all the food items that were on sale.

Today I’d like to give a brief lecture about haiku. When I was in elementary school, we were told that a haiku was three lines of poetry with a distinct syllable pattern: 5-7-5. I had to laugh at Google’s definition because it listed that syllable rule as the first definition; then, for the second, ‘an English imitation of this.’

People murder haiku all the time because it is not simply a matter of syllables. It needs a feeling, ‘cutting’ (kiru), and a season reference (kigo) often pulled from a list (saijiki) as well. Heck -the syllable thing is more of a pattern of on and may even have 11 total. Thank you, Wikipedia, for setting us straight.

Given that, and the fact that people completely fail to pull these elements into haiku, this next week’s contest ought to be simplisticly easy for everyone to ‘win’ at.

If you still need some pointers on what ‘terrible’ means, read my wonderful blog post, How To Write Terrible Poetry, and dive right in:

  1. The topic is falling snow.
  2. All poems submitted need to be haiku. Let’s keep it awful and insist on 5-7-5 English syllables (yes, I really want you to follow this rule).
  3. Haiku traditionally does not rhyme, but you can make us all scream if you insist it does.
  4. And remember: the poem needs to be terrible. Japanese poet-masters who understand English ought to be rolling in their graves, digging themselves out by their fingernails, and coming to wag a zombie-like scolding finger at you in your sleep.
  5. Keep it PG-Rated.

Think you can do it? You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 30, 2018) to submit.

Post your poem or the specific link to it in the comments.

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