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)

Throwback Thursday: The Ballad of the Garbage Truck

From June 29, 2017, an epic poem I’m stinkin’ proud of:

Oh, hark! -and hear my tale of old –
‘Tis true in ev’ry way:
The ballad of the garbage truck,
A loud, machine-drawn dray.

The daylight barely paints the East,
The weary man just waked;
A stirring in the quiet air,
A song of metal brakes.

How now, my lads? What sings this sound?
What draws attentive eyes,
A-pressed against the window panes,
Or gathered round outside?

Oh, feel: the porch, the walk, the lane!
Oh, see: the living things!
They shake and dart in worried dance
Of what the daybreak brings.

The song exults effulgently
As it comes round the turn:
Vehicular efficiency
As refuse is o’erturned.

Majestic rolls the garbage truck;
Ungainly -yes, but true.
A dutiful collectioner
Of everyone’s snafu.

©2019 Chelsea Owens

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

Capture a Critter #1: Monkey Buffet Festival

Excuse me, sir, but could you spare

A pineapple (we have no pears) —

Here, in this place

Of grandeur, grace

…And about 3,000 monkeys?

Image result for thailand monkey buffet festival

Poemed for Deb Whittam‘s new writing prompt: Capture a Critter. I wrote in response to the Monkey Buffet Festival, an annual tradition of setting out a feast for the local monkeys in Lopburi, Thailand. This year’s event, held on November 24, will be their 31st year.

©2019 Chelsea Owens

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.

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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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Hello there! Welcome to the FIFTIETH Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! Not only does that mean that we’ve been poking fun at poetry for 50 weeks, but that we are almost to the birthday of terrible poeting!

I’m so proud!

If you’re just joining us, here‘s a basic run-down of how to write a terrible poem. I look more at destruction of construction and making mincemeat out of meter than I do at writing about something awful. Got it? Excellent.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is FIFTY!
  2. The Length is FIFTY WORDS!
  3. Rhyming is not necessary. It’s already difficult enough to write only 50 words, Daddy-o.
  4. The terribleness is fifty -I mean, Make it terrible! 50-year-old members of the 50+ community will want to deluge you with 50 minutes of 50 historical events from 1969 (50 years ago).
  5. Let’s keep the Rating at PG or cleaner, by golly!

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

Use the form below to be anonymous for a week.

Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. If you don’t see your link within a day, leave a comment inquiring why.

Above all, have fun!

 

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Photo credit: Photo by Magda Ehlers from Pexels

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

My apologies, as always, for the delay. I had an astounding number of very scary entries to review this week, unsure of who might haunt me after I chose a winner…

And that winner is:

Halloween Queen

by Ruth Scribbles

I’ll be a queen
On Halloween
Oh that’s just mean
Did she declare
How dare you try
To be so high
And mighty
You’re a witch
You b*itch
Go scratch your
Head and
Think
Again
Queens are not scary

Or are they??
“Off with your head”
She screamed at her
“Your head will roll”
She raged at the troll
Oh me oh my
She makes me cry
I’d rather be a witch
Of course

—–

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

While I had great (scary) fun reading all the marvelous (scary) entries, Ruth’s won for an overall effort of bad poetry. She missed the meter, missed the rhymes, and missed a coherent story arc. Well done!

I had many favorites who nearly won; see if you can get through them:

Resurrected for Halloween

by Bruce Goodman

Like a guy-rope swing eternally from a pendulum
With the fiery blast swelling, Superman sank
Into percussion of fiery anticipation
And landed with a plonk at the bottom of the hall.

Like a dreadnaught, it nosed its way, silently weeping,
And wished, well-wishing it had never left the ceiling.
Deep! Oh Deep down it thundered in the mall
Then landed with a plonk at the bottom of the hall.

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

Spooky nefarious ghosts
And their terrifyingly odd boasts
Blood, gore, grim and sin
But for them it’s a win-win
Awful phantasms
Ruining the coal-miner’s orgasms
Terrible, ghastly ruins
Deadly, doleful tunes
This is the season of rust
And don’t you dare say, ‘psst!’
You’ll find out why soon enough
When the one-eyed crone lets her dogs loose, ruff ruff

—–

Simplicity

by The Abject Muse

O, what shall I be

for Hallowe’en?

A monster, a princess

or a Lima bean?

With pumpkins carved

and burning bright

if one tips over

the porch will ignite.

Trick-or-treaters won’t come

if the house is on fire

unless they’re as stupid

as an old flat tire.

Fake skeletons dangle

from the dead oak trees

One’s leg is on backwards

and his head’s stuck to his knee

Sometimes directions

are too hard to read.

O’ what shall I be

for Hallow’en?

Probably something simple.

Like me.

—–

I Love You Lorena

by Matt Snyder

We met in jail, I a drunken serial cheater, she a thief

The night I said I do, I shook like a leaf

Earlier that day I slept with her sister

What can I say I’m that kind of Mister

It was our wedded day of dread when they threw the rice

I felt like I was skating on thin ice

That night things got kinky, she tied me to the bed

I lied there awhile lost in my head

I called out her name and got no response

Then she came back with her sister both spouting hateful taunts

I tried to break free, I was quaking in my socks

Her sister handed her a knife and with a devilish grin she cut off my…

—–

Why I hate Halloween – A Protest

by Deb Whittam

I’m an Australian
The shops are full of chocolate treats
Designed to guilt trip me
Into participating in an event
That is for another county

I’m an Australian
The internet is obsessing
Over a tradition that
Means nothing to me
Can’t get away from it, can’t be free

I’m an Australian
Kids will be knocking on my door
Yelling trick or treat
I tell them to emigrate
I just don’t care you see

I’m an Australia
Why should I be involved in this farce?
I’d rather the kids went out and exercised
Than shoving more junk in their gobs
To mimic a country
That does nothing for me.

—–

This is Childrening
(A terrible homage to the song “This is Halloween”)

by Peregrine Arc

Pumpkins, ghouls and spaghetti strands
Oh my lot loves doing handstands
With jellied fingers and muddied hands
I find their artwork all over this land
Come with me and you will see, in this land of Childrening

Mustard stains, broken glass
Footballs punted into the nightstand
Come with me and you will see
The reason for my punctual screams

This is Childrening, this is Childrening!
Everybody scream, everybody scream
In this land of Childrening

Parents cry in the Dead of night
Wondering how they’ll survive the fright
Round that corner is their toddler of two
Wondering if he can fit more jelly into mom’s shoes

This is Childrening, this is Childrening!
Everybody scream, everybody scream
In this land of Childrening.

—–

Bed

by Rogblog666

Bed, bed what have you under thee.
A reflection of my peculiar mind?
Or just a hidey hole for your scary bits,
Do you mirror me, do you parallel me?
Or are you my dark side?
Boo no just a dust bunny
Bed, bed what have you under thee,
Is it my mothers’ reflection?
Is it a portal from another dimension?
Is it a collection of your what ifs?
being seen from the planet regret.
Boo no just dust bunny
Bed, bed what have you under thee,
Am I just shadows of something lost,
Or just shadows of something to come,
Am I a shadow of something more solid,
Or just a shadow of your imagination.
BOO I am no shadow I am you, killer dust bunny

© 2017 r leach

—–

The Vampire’s Night Out

by Joanne Fisher

There once was a hungry vampire

of fresh blood he could never tire

one night from his dark castle he flew

looking for a fair maiden that was new

until through a bedroom window he did see

a slumbering maiden who looked a beauty

so he crept into the room to have a bite

lucky for him she obviously had an early night

she was motionless and lying fast asleep

so right up to her he did silently creep

his fangs chomped down on her exposed neck

only to find the skin was hard, and his teeth now a wreck!

She was only a mannequin left lying in the room

he quickly left, flying in shock back to his tomb.

That experience left him feeling so pitiful

without his fangs, he now gets blood bags from the hospital.

—–

Dead Man’s Jamboree

by Violet Lentz

rattle me bones and shiver me timbers
it’s a dead man’s jamboree
from dusk till dawn
around the graves
a dancing they will be
a raspy throated woodwind howls
as drums are banged with bones
and out there in the mist somewhere-
another dead man moans
with but one night, the whole year thru
this gay thread to weave
they dance the jig, and tip the jug
in gleeful toast to moon above-
‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

The moon is full
It’s time for blood on the wool
Halloween terror
Your in the wrong place, a deadly error
Knifes sharpen
The atmosphere slowly darkens
The clock ticks
While the madman plays his tricks
This is sick
As bad as the worst horror flick
Witches potion
An unpredictable explosion
Straight from hell
Too horrific for Slasher Motel
Frankenstein creation
A Poltergeist apparition
Beyond X rated
The result is pure evil hatred
All hope is forsake
Dads been trying to bake a SPONGE CAKE

—–

Definitely scary! Thank you all for the frights, and come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

neonbrand-ASNSoeead70-unsplash

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