Half-Priced Valentine’s Love

I’m a bit late in posting this, but I wanted to write my final love poem of the (last) week to my favorite holiday in February, Half-Price Chocolate Day (February 15).

I also write this in response to Carrot Ranch‘s weekly writing prompt.*

Excuse me, ma’am, I know it’s bright,
My coming here at break of light;
Yet, may I guess you’re here to mark
Down hearts and cards within this cart?
‘Yes,’ you say? You’ve made my day!
-But, wait! What of the wall this way?
The bags and boxes here, you know,
Are why I woke up, braved the snow.
They’re why, my diet I’ll ignore;
Why, really, I came to this store;
And why, no joke, my world still turns
For what my beating heart still yearns:
My meaning, purpose, lifetime vice
Is V Day choc’late, sold half price.

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*Carrot Ranch’s official rules:
February 14, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about valentines. It can be Valentine’s Day, the exchange, love for another, romance, or friendship. Have a heart and go where the prompt leads!

Respond by February 19, 2019. Use the comment section [on the site] to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

Photo Credit:
Pixabay

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to The Terrible Poetry Contest, a family tradition since about thirteen weeks ago.

Writing poetry is a daunting idea. We get in the mood, think of a lyrical phrase, and then run up against a metaphorical wall mid-stanza. While I have written a how-to on composing poetry legitimately, that’s not what this contest is about.

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The Terrible Poetry Contest is a chance for writers of all shapes, sizes, and ability levels to make a rude literary gesture to all that is good and decent about proper writing and contests. It’s a chance to do everything your poetry teacher told you not to. It’s a chance to shine when other contest-hosters left you alone in the dark.

If this is your first time, review my how-to on terribleness so you know what to expect. Then, read the following rules and please, please, please share something truly terrible:

  1. Topic: Motivating Lazy People
  2. Keep the length between 5 and 150 words.
  3. Rhyme if you want to; don’t if you don’t feel like it.
  4. Just keep things terrible. Make your listeners finally get off their lazy backsides just to do anything besides sit through another stanza.
  5. Keep your poem PG at most.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (February 22, 2019) to submit a poem.

Post your poem in the submission form below, or include or link to it in the comments much farther below.

 

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Photo credit:
Ken Treloar
Tom Morel

Creativity Contest: The Time Machine Sewing Machine (Open)

A stitch in time? Yes, literally!

Visit Peregrine Arc’s latest prompt and take your imagination on a fun adventure!

Peregrine Arc

Last week you were told you were the new owner of an antique hotel. You’re hoping to rehabilitate the hotel back to its glory days and are doing what projects you can do to save money. In the middle of cleaning one day, you find a mysterious packet of letters, love letters, with no dust or grime on them, nestled in a cubby hole behind the front desk. And were those voices you heard from the pages as you ruffled through them? Check the comments of that entry to see what everyone did with those letters…

For this week’s prompt, we’re time traveling. Our ship? An antique sewing machine with one of those metal foot pedals.

You’re house sitting, you clever thing, and that means free food and free access to most rooms of the house. What a luxurious job. One day, a button falls off your shirt and rolls under…

View original post 287 more words

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Another week, another contest, another episode of my wanting to give everyone first place. I asked for terrible love poetry, and you guys all gave me …well, I think it was poetry.

I happen to know the winner this week wouldn’t want to bite his nails any longer in expectation, however. It is the famous, clever, inappropriate Geoff LePard.

Only Skin Deep (After Sonnet 130*)

by TanGental (Geoff LePard)

The azure of the wide Pacific seas

Has depth, unlike your bland insipid eyes.

A dancer’s legs are shaped by art to please

But yours are not for show, they need disguise.

My tongue, whose form can change to suit all tastes,

From gentle probe to pert, priapic beast,

Becomes a dry and flaccid thing, all chaste,

If suffocated by your doggy breath’s release.

Facial engineers, who can craft Kate Moss

From Quasimodo, turn and run a mile:

I’d give my soul to Satan, bear any loss

If they’d mould Venus from your Cubist smile.

Let’s face it, love, on me you’ve placed a hex:

It’s not your looks that bind us, just the sex.

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

All of the submitted poems were terrible. Throughout reading them, however, I just couldn’t feel that sort of acute revulsion necessary to crown a victor -until, that is, I read Geoff’s poem.

I thought his may have been too pretty as I started reading it. There’s meter, and rhyme, and a bit of a misguided theme. Then I got to the bits about the tongue, and “doggy breath.” That settled it.

Any of the other entrants may hold their heads high if they really want to as well. And, here they are:

Songette of Love

by Bruce Goodman

You are like fresh water in a toilet system
and I am like the bowl that’s just being pissed in.
Your flush of youth washes away all stain of sin
and all I can do is sit there and grin.

Your love is like a roll of toilet paper,
seemingly endless and yet is a handy caper.
You remind me of the aerosol can of “Province French”:
one squirt and you hide the smell of stinky stench.

The lavatory brush as well reminds me of you,
as does the mop that cleans the bathroom floor, too.
Both are meticulous in cleaning up every speck of microbiotic dust;
Such fastidiousness greatly increases lust.

And so, my dear, when all is said and done,
whenever I have a crap I know that you’re the one.

—–

Oh my Darling

by RhScribbles

Oh my darling, my darling valentine
I’ll leave you at the table while I go
To the den and wait for you to bring wine
And spend time with you and the old banjo

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
How I adore your odd sense of humor
I am excited to be your wife
That’s not a joke, I’m with child it’s rumored

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
Your face is as scruffy as a scratchy scrubber
I’d love to scrape it off with a sharp knife
I might mistakenly remove blubber

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
My valentine, angel, I am your wife

—–

I love you lots (only slightly in a sleazy way)

by Greygirlieandme

Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
Well, I’ll have a go,‘cos you’re a bit of alright (at least Colin thinks so).
Where to start – fancy a tumble in the hay?
You will when you’ve read this, I’ll wrap it up and tie it with a bow.
The doctor said we can have a snog now the herpes sore’s have all gone;
Your eyes are like rock pools, salty and they overflow a lot, and your eyebrows look like sea slugs,
And your skin’s okay when you’ve got a tan, as long as it’s not too orange, like the Trumpster one;
And I know you’ll look like your mother in a few year’s time, but she’s OK with the lights off. What, you’re scared of the dark because of the bugs?
Now there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me, what’s with the bush? Untrimmed’s really not my thing…
But overall you’re a bit of a catch (as per Colin again),
So I’d like to take you into my possession, I’ll follow you all the time, on the wing;
I want everything thing you touch, so I might go through your trash, again and again,
But most of all, I want you to be mine,
As long as I breathe, allowing for the ciggies,
I’ll make sure all my kisses are biggies.

—–

Chubby Cheek Pooty Duty

by Donna Matthews

His chubby cheeks very adorable
And I know, you know, what we all know
Without you, life would be so horrible
You show up day and night, sunshine or snow.

The job at hand isn’t rosy face cheeks
We’re talking uncontrollable poo-poo
Digested milk spewed from pudgy butt cheeks
Exploding odoriferous, slimy goo

I adore the way you absorb the mess
No matter the pigment nor time of day
From your faithfulness, I am truly blessed
Beloved, there’s nothing more I can say

Without you, diaper, excrement galore
Your pooty duty valued evermore

—–

The Handkerchief

by Peregrine Arc

Oh my dearest hanky
How I love thee without compare
I snort, I sneeze, I wipe my hands
on you without a care.
For you are the holder of my snot,
Full of my forget-me-nots
From cold, allergy and flu seasons
My always and forever, linen pressed beacon.
Sprinkled with limeaid from that last catastrophic fall
When I was trying to increase my fluids, dash it all
Sniff. Sniff. Oh dear.
I feel I have another achoo arriving, I fear.
I can feel it striving, stretching down my nostril hairs, tickling my mucus
To my hanky–my succus!
Away, away, Sir Lucas!

—–

How I Love my Hot Flashes

by D. Wallace Peach

I’m never cold from head to toe, not me
In winter’s deep when snow is white and brash
I lounge in skivvies for all the family t’see
In summer attire, I bask in hottish flash

The hubs may shiver ‘n shake by blazing fire
The daughter dressed in coat and hat with flaps
But I will sweat a flash like a funeral pyre
Too hot to cook or clean, too hot for naps

Too hot for heat in the car while driving home
Too toasty for salsa and barbeque chicken wings
Too flushed to deal with hair dryers and combs
Too fiery to wear a robe or sweater that clings

The windows stay open ‘spite the sleeting day
For years, I’ve had my head in a baking oven
My heating bill is zero, so I won’t complain
Now you know the reason hot flashes I’m lovin’

—–

Unsuitable Suitor

by Jon

O how she captured my attention when at the first she happened by.
What was it then that caught my notice, caused my heart to palpitate?
Hope raised above the slimmest chance, would I even catch her eye?
What is that thing my heart is doing? Could it not be what I just ate?

Would we be so clearly mismatched, quite unlike as ones could be?
We are boring, both diverted, our screens gleaming pale and blue.
Am I right? Should I reconsider? Are there sparks ‘tween me and She?
Thoughts within begin to torment, something is not ringing true.

Alas! Still if I could only focus, on what is here and what is now.
Cease even to opine on twitter, step far back from writing blogs,
Still a chance our love could work out. Exciting yes! Even wow!
Can’t help now but wonder, would she e’er stoop to kissing frogs?

‘Cause far beneath I clearly lodge high and endless opportunities,
She has e’re open there before her. What if I come upon my knees?

—–

For My Babe on Valentine’s Day

by Michael B. Fishman

What I won’t do for you – –

Those jeans you think are too tight: they are. But I won’t tell you because I care that much. And really, what difference does it make if you have a fat ass?

I’m the only one looking at it and I’ve never expected perfection.
And besides, you’re a good cook and I don’t want to mess that up.

Your hair: I guess I don’t mind the gray.
It is what it is, hey.

I will always do what I can to make you happy.

When I kiss you, your breath sometimes smells.

It’s like pepperoni mixed with that sour smell
of milk that’s been in the fridge too long.
I don’t say anything but it makes me
wonder if you’re not due for a
teeth cleaning.

Sure, you have faults; who doesn’t? But it’s OK because you let me watch baseball games and you don’t bug me too much with household stuff.

And you don’t make me clean up after the dog. Actually – and not to dwell on your breath – but pepperoni and sour milk and the dog when he’s wet.

Anyway – –

Happy Valentine’s Day

I really like you.

—–

Our Lizard Overlords

by H.R.R. Gorman

Nary a day may pass that I don’t weep,
Considering your scaly hide beneath
Some guy’s soft flesh used as your body sheath.
So before I pray and lay down to sleep,
I consider how your anger must seeth
As foul human cattle turn Earth to heath.
I’ll turn off my computer with a beep
And stop spreading lies about your intent.
The lizard man in human flesh is kind,
A good reptilian father to his
Underling livestock filled with malcontent.
Accept your lot and I’m certain you’ll find
Falling in love with master is your fate.

—–

Trying to love it all – A Sonnet

by Molly Stevens

There’s so much to love about the world today,
How can you choose from such variety?
It’s enough to cause major anxiety,
Like filling your plate at a Chinese buffet.

Do I have room for lo mien and fried rice?
Why don’t they have plates as big as my belly?
I sure hope I don’t get a case of salmonelli.
I know what I’ll do, I’ll fill my plate twice.

Twice was nice but caused much distress
When I went over the top with my pickin’ .
Pepto bismol tastes best when chilled.
It will take a solid day to convalesce
From a case of all-you-can-eat Kung Pao Chicken.
Maybe I should have stayed unfulfilled.

—–

(PG-13 Warning)

It’s Really Not His Fault…

by TanGental

It had been, for God one heck of a week

So in fairness we should let it pass

And forgive that Adam, His coup de grace

Could have done with the odd final tweak.

The papers focused their gaze on the Fall

And those pictures of Eve in the buff

Where instead they should have done their stuff

And told us of His mighty cock and ball.

For Adam shouldn’t have needed a stiffy

To get himself into a sweaty old state

Where his only urge was to copulate

And his end was always so sticky.

And all he was given to perform this role

Were balls in a bag and a bewrinkled pole…

—–

I recommend a fresh palate refresher if you got through them all. After that, gear up for next week’s prompt, which will be announced tomorrow morning.

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

Costco, My Love

In celebration of an upcoming commercial holiday and to help inspire others to enter The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, I will write a love poem every day this week.

Never able to be serious, this poem is dedicated to the megalith that is Costco:

Whenever I run out of bread,
Or cheese, or eggs, or e’en a bed;
Or when it’s time I must acquire
A brand new set (or two) of tires;
Or, hanging there, a frozen goat;
A lamb, a fridge, some pants, a coat;
There’s only one place I may go
Where membership card I must show
And cheese and choc’late samples flow
And impulse buys include cargo:
My own, enormous love, Costco.

Image may contain: one or more people

Freddy and Teddy’s Valentines

Freddy and Teddy were best friends. They lived on the same street, liked the same candy, and loved the same robots movie. They even went to the same school, and sat behind each other in the same second grade class.

Valentine’s Day was the very next day and both boys were excited.

After school, their moms gave them 32 robot cards. Each spent a while tearing cards apart and writing “Freddy” or “Teddy” too many times.

The next morning, each got ready then walked to school together.

“I hope I didn’t skip anyone,” Freddy joked.

“Me, too,” Teddy laughed.

But later that afternoon, Teddy wasn’t laughing. He had dumped out all his Valentines only to find one missing.

There was no card from Freddy.

Teddy felt bad. “Freddy,” he said, “Why did you forget me?”

“What?” Freddy asked. Turning around, he saw Teddy’s frown. He felt bad. “I’m sorry, Teddy. I didn’t mean to.” Then, his eyes lit up. Freddy turned back to his desk, pulled a red paper from inside, cut carefully, and scribbled quickly.

Facing his best friend, he gave him a giant red heart. It read Best Friends. There was even a picture of a robot.

“Thanks, Freddy,” Teddy said, feeling better.

“You’re welcome,” Freddy said, happy to see Teddy smiling again.

 

Submitted for Susanna Leonard Hill’s Valentiny Contest.

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If You’re So Inclined

In celebration of an upcoming commercial holiday and to help inspire others to enter The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, I will write a love poem every day this week.

I also write today’s tale in response to Carrot Ranch‘s weekly writing prompt.*

A simple man, though good and kind
Went walking down the sidewalk line
And saw a simple womankind.
He thought, She looks, to me, quite fine.
Meanwhilst, she glanced in mirrored shrine;
Of café window, ‘neath a sign
And told herself she was quite pline;
Till, seeing, side and just behind
Our simple man, in quite the bind.
Then, from his cellphone, played a chime:
‘Twas evening of Day Valentine.
She smiled, asked, “Have you the time?”
He smiled, too; said, “Not yet nine.
“Would you,” he paused, “Want to be mine
“For supper, now it’s time to dine?”

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*Carrot Ranch’s official rules:
February 7, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a sign. It can be a posted sign, a universal sign, a wonder. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by February 12, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form on the website.  Rules & Guidelines.

Photo Credit:
Jez Timms

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome, one and all, to the infamous Terrible Poetry Contest!

I am giggling with excitement this morning because of this week’s prompt. I really am. Yes, silent giggling is a thing.

So, without further ado, here are the rules:

  1. Topic: LOVE POEM. A sonnet, preferably, but go where your heart tells you.
  2. The length ought to stay below 200 words. After all, you wouldn’t want your potential lover to fall asleep mid-verse.
  3. Roses may be red, violets may be blue; but I don’t care if you rhyme or not, because violets are clearly purple.
    In other words, rhyming is not mandatory.
  4. As always, make it terrible! I want your intended to cry as s/he reads what you’ve ardently penned -and for neither of you to know if they are tears of joy or pain.
  5. Love is in the air… but this blog is intended for general audiences, so keep it PG-rated.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (February 15, 2019) to submit a poem.

Post your poem or a link to it in the comments. Since this contest ends the day after V-Day, I’d like everyone to read (and cringe) in preparation for the blessed event.

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Just to get your creative juices flowing, here’s a little ‘love poem’ I penned to my weekly beau, The Garbage Truck:

The morning is frosty; the air so chill.
But, ’tisn’t winter that makes my heart still.

As I lay warming in blankets’ embrace,
One thing will get me to leave this soft place.

Hark! Hear the fragrant beau’s noisy approach:
He squeaks as he rolls his big, stinky coach!

I rush down the stairs; I dress for outside.
I must get there soon! I lengthen my stride.

Quickly now! Line up the cans by the road!
They ought to be decent, for their bethrothed.

He’s nearly here -at the end of the street.
I’ve made my offer and now must retreat.

Back inside for me, still in my p.j.’s
Till we meet, my love, in seven more days.

And, for those still struggling, I will also share a very romantic sentiment from Weird Al:

Photo credit:
Jesse Goll

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Mother Goose ain’t got nothing on this week’s terrible poetry contest, yet another event where I found myself torn between at least five entries.

What’s the fun of a contest without a designated winner, though? And that winner is ….Violet Lentz.

Mary McGrath

by Violet Lentz

I once knew a girl
Named Mary McGrath
Who’d do anything
To avoid taking a bath

She’d run and she’d hide
She’d slip and she’d slither
Till her father was fit
And her mom in a dither

A brown crust it settled
Between the cracks in her toes
Wax dried in her ears
And snots in her nose.

Her hair a birds nest
Even fleas would avoid
Her breath so atrocious
Even dogs were annoyed

This went on for years
Her games and her ploys
Till one day she grew up
and discovered boys!

Well that changed it all
Today she couldn’t be neater
All plaited and pressed
And she smell so much sweeter!

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

As I first read through everyone’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad entries; I thought to give a tie to two who trashed everything our inner child held dear. Ultimately, however, I decided to turn to The Rules.

When I introduced the contest last week, I specifically said, “This week… I wish to be more about a clever take and subject than about a rotten execution.” I therefore changed my judging glasses out for a pair that looked for rhymes that could be of the nursery sort, though hopefully no parent would ever recite them to his child.

Violet’s fit the bill, which is no surprise considering how very talented a poet she is.

Not to be outdone, of course, are all the rest. I laughed, I cried, I groaned; and I felt terrible for not being able to award so talented a crowd first place all around.

Don’t believe me? Read for yourself and see:

Hush Now

by Donna Matthews

Hush now my cantankerous one
Have you lost all your fun?
You’re as enjoyable as the flu
Your attitude smelling like poo
Relax and chill out
Or get the hell out.

Hush now moody and blue
Or else, begone and say adieu
Go on and get lost
before you get tossed
Better improve your mood
Or you’re gonna be screwed

Hush now my beautiful one
I’m tired and more than done
Now really…I mean you no harm
Come here into my arms
Ain’t nobody got time for this
Now be sweet and give me a kiss

—–

Untitled piece

by Greygirlieandme

Jack and Jill
Looked at the hill.
Where there was a well.
For Mary’s little lamb needs water.
Jack said well
It’s the task from hell
And Jill said ‘Yes it is, sort of.

Mary’s lamb is always thirsty,
She’s fed up of its antics.
It follows her everywhere she goes,
She’s got an ovine stalker.

Jack huffed and puffed
When Mary cried and Jill
Had a temper tantrum.
He got an idea
Of what life is like
With two premenstrual women.

He cursed the lamb,
Damn you lamb.
Damn you sheep.
You haunt me in my sleep.

Mary and Jill
Skipped up the hill.
They said ‘Typical man
To not water the lamb,
Or see the site’s potential.
As long as you could get planning consent.
Which is really hard.
We’ll have to see the council.

Mary and Jill
Now live on the hill.
Their restaurant’s famous
For lamb navarin.

Jack ran away
To discover himself.
‘Golly, I’m gay,
Hip, hip hooray,
I can wear that turqoise eyeliner.
And they all lived happily, after
Seeing a family counsellor.

—–

Untitled piece

by jena c. henry

Jack Spratt and his wife
Could eat no Keto
Whole 30 or Paleo
No more ‘licking the plate clean’ life.

“My fair lady! Let’s practice self-care.”
“Ok” said Jack’s wife, “I’m for cardio.”
So they marched up the hill- go!
And then ringed around the rosie there.

They met Humpty Dumpty, and tried
yolk-a on the wall, oh no!
Along came a downward doggo
And sat down beside her, fried.

Organic clothes would be fantastic!
Said Jack, “Baa baa Black Sheep do
You have any wool?”
“No sir. No sir. Just recycled fibers of plastic.”

Jack’s wife decided to meditate
And live alone in a shoe.
Jack didn’t know what to do.
So he said, “That’s the way the bough breaks.”

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
That looks very uncomfortable, said Little Bo Peep.
Believe me, said Humpty Dumpty,
It’s not half as bad as sitting on Little Miss Muffet’s tuffet.

You, said Mother Goose, should keep
Wee Willie Winkie under control.
So also says Bruce.

—–

There was an old man

by RhScribbles

There was an old man
Who lived in a boot
He had so many relatives
That he didn’t give a wit
As to whether he lived
Or died as a smelly old coot

He picked his nose and
Chewed his cud
He went to bed in the mud
He awoke with a cough
And said, “that’s enough”
He bought a newspaper
And went on a caper
He had to sell his boot
Cause he had no loot

All that was left was
To scream and hoot
Hooting and tooting
As a jolly old soul
He became the
Walmart Santa Claus

—–

The old woman who lived in a shoe

by Julia

(with apologies to Sylvia Plath, from whom I stole the first verse, which fit so perfectly — no pun intended!)

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

And that was before all these toes came along,
These children, like toes, like the notes of a song
Multiplying like rabbits, my food to divide
Until broth without bread was all I’d provide.
Then I sent them to bed, though I knew I was wrong.

Yes, I whipped them, quite soundly, it’s true.
But what would you do, were it you in this shoe?
In this shoe thirty years, give or take one or two?
Say what you will, I know just what you’d do
You’d do the same thing, were it you in this shoe.

—–

There was an old woman who lived in a boot

by Molly Stevens

There was an old woman
Who lived in a boot.
She had a lot of children
But they didn’t give a hoot.

In their defense
She was quite contrary,
With a curl smack dab in the middle
Of her forehead.

She sat alone
Day after day
Eating her curds
And slurping her whey.

When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter,
She sprang from her tuffet
To see what was the matter.

In her haste to explore
She swallowed a fly.
Why, oh why?
Did she swallow that fly?

She feared she’d die!

She called Little Jack Horner
The local MD.
He said, “I’m plumb out of ideas,
You’d best go to the ED.”

She’d no way to get there
One shoe off and the other shoe on,
Diddle diddle dumpling
She called her son, John.

John told her to wait for him
Sitting on a wall,
But possessing poor balance
The old woman had a great fall.

A walrus and a carpenter
Walked by and saw her plight,
“I don’t know what happened
But she doesn’t seem quite right.”

While thinking things could not be worse
For the woman who was comatose,
Down came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.

“The time has come,” the walrus said,
“To talk of many things,
But first to stay above suspicion
I suggest we trot along home again.”

I wish there were a happy ending
But alas the woman died.
Let this be a lesson,
Don’t swallow a fly!

—–

Itsy Bitsy Spider – Mediocre Rap Version

by H.R.R. Gorman

Sleep is for the weak
SON
So listen to these ill tweaks
To the story of the real OG.

Itsy bitsy spider
In the house.

Climb up that waterspout.
Going up clean aluminum,
Ain’t touching that nasty grout.

But here comes the rain!
Aluminum’s too slick now!
Give them a world of PAIN!

Gonna bust a cap
In the weatherman
Lying to me bout this crap.

How am I gonna spin a web
When it’s wet outside?
Let me call up buddy Jeb!

Ring Ring
Ring Ring
Ring Ring

“Hello? Nuclear Fire you say?
That’s the way I like it –
Radiation everyday!”

Dry up that pipe and climb
Reach the top of the drain
And rejoice with sick rhyme.

Word.

—–

Untitled piece

by Fractured Faith Blog

Little Bo Beep
Lost her sheep
They were all butchered in the abbatoir
And sold for meat.
By a clown….
With a chainsaw.
Fin

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Old Pres Donald had a wall
I owe IOU
And from the top he saw a cactus
I owe IOU
With a billion here and a billion there
Here a debt there a debt
Everywhere some deficit
I owe IOU

Old Pres Donald had a germ
I owe IOU
And no health care we all got sick
I owe IOU
With a cough cough here and a hack hack there
Here a phlegm, there a phlegm
Everywhere some green phlegm
I owe IOU

Old Pres Donald had a tax cut
I owe IOU
And no one got it but the rich
I owe IOU
With a bill bill here and bill bill there
Here a notice, there a notice
Everywhere a payment’s due
I owe IOU

Old Pres Donald had a personality disorder
I owe IOU
Can’t sympathize or tell the truth
I owe IOU
With a lie lie here and a lie lie there
Here a Putin, there a Putin
Everywhere a favorite Russian
I owe IOU

—–

Untitled piece

by Michael B. Fishman

Frankie holds his undies out, mom takes them with a frown.
Her nose is wrinkled, her eyes are closed, a reaction to the brown.

“Why, Frankie, dear these pants do smell oh my, what did you do?”

“I’m sorry mom I just bent down and out came some tiny poo.”

Tiny’s right, Frank’s mommie thinks, they look like baby ants.
Or maybe, she laughs, like something dropped from Captain Underpants.

—–

Untitled piece

by Michael B. Fishman

Frankie stepped down off the curb he didn’t look left or right.
A speeding driver came down the street and drove right through the light.
People shouted out to Frankie; many more folks screamed
But Frankie was listening to a baseball broadcast and wound up getting creamed.

Frankie got run over.
There wasn’t much left over.
Sort of like a cherry turnover
(only with blood and bones and torn and wrinkled skin instead of cherries)

They used a mop to clean up Frankie, the driver went away in chains
And all that was left at the end of the day was a bit of Frankie’s brains.
So when you cross the street my friends be sure to look both ways
unless you want to wind up as a blob of bloody mayonnaise.

—–

Now we’ll have to get an artist on board to help illustrate these.

In the meantime, tune in tomorrow. I am SO SO so excited for next week’s prompt!

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

The Case of the Kitchen Cacophony

Frank stopped to listen; the drip drip drip of the old faucet echoing in an empty kitchen. A possibly empty kitchen, of course. Frank remembered The Escapade of ’18 like it was last year and wasn’t taking any chances.

He peered around a finger-smudged corner; first an ear, then his cheek, then his left eye.

Now that his ear was exposed, a click click click from the old kitchen clock played backup music to the faucet. A whirr whirr swoosh whispered from beyond the old kitchen window. An ergh creak moan drifted from the old kitchen floor.

Now that his eye was exposed, he watched the glint squint of dancing stove light caught in leaking faucet drips. He saw the spooky lift and shake of branches sighing in window wind. His attention flicked to the stuttering movement of clock hand inchings. His feet felt, surely, an undulation or two from the beams beneath them in the groaning floor.

What ear and eye did not see, to their owner’s relief, was any sign of HER. Frank sighed softly. Softly, so as not to alert HER to his presence.

His left sneaker inched to and around his peering-corner. Amidst the drip click whoosh creak of kitchen cacophony his squeak-toed sneakers barely spoke. Soon; his left arm, knee, side, and nose came out. He still saw no whole person; no HER. He decided to fully enter.

Thus he stood, midst stove light shadows and singing sighs. Thus he found things just as he spied. Thus he moved, more stealthily still, across an ergh creak moan floor-sea in squeak squeak shoes past click click hands and drip drip sink.

And reached the silent ceramic pot, alone. Alone, with the sounds; which now, for dramatic suspense, all held their noise and watched.

He stretched an arm.

He opened a fist.

He grasped the white ceramic lid.

He lifted.

Standing just a bit taller on tips of toes, Frank used his eyes to peer inside.

And gasped.

All at once, the old kitchen orchestra strummed to life. All at once, they played in time. And, as Frank returned ‘cross noisome space, their song came clear to his sad ear; a rhyme he knew from preschool years yet hadn’t recalled till now it played in drip click moan:

♪Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?♫

And, sad little Frank answered truthfully, “Not me.”

 

Thanks to Peregrine Arc, for a great prompt idea.

For this week’s prompt, I want you to imagine you are a thief. Whatever motive you have, good, bad, or both, is up to you. Whatever setting and condition the safe is in is also up to you. It could be underwater, in a mine, in a delapidated mansion…Take the wheel of literature and drive us there!

But here’s the twist: you don’t get what’s inside the safe. Do you crack it and the contents are missing? Or do you lose your nerve and get caught? Ponderings. Take it and fly and add a psychological twist for $1000, Alex.