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!

 

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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.

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Ruth: 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

Come here, my poet, and prepare to enter the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #49! You’ll find a basic outline on terrible poeting here. Ready?

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Our Topic is Halloween. Write something SCARY!
  2. As is usual, the Length is up to you.
  3. Rhyming is also up to you. Frighten us with what you do.
  4. Just Make it terrible! Make the very souls of the Wal-mart imps moan in agony and terror at the thought of your verses.
  5. The Rating’s fine at PG-13 or cleaner.

You have till midnight of All Hallow’s Eve, 12:00 a.m. MST next Friday morning (November 1) to submit a poem.

Use the form below to be anonymous for a week.

For a more social experience and immediate fame, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. If you do not see a pingback within a day, drop a comment as well.

Roll up your casting sleeves, and have fun!

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Photo credit: NeONBRAND

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Well, partners, it’s been another rough ride on the prairie. I weren’t so sure we’d be able to rustle up a winner this week, what with how many terrible entries came ‘cross the line.

But a winner there needs to be, and that is:

Untitled piece

by Gary

Out in the dust field prairies of Dewsbury and Pontefract
The Yorkie badlands with rhubarb laden scrub tracks
Where scary predators stalk lonely unsuspecting riders
Those ferrets are deadly once in your trouser insiders
Old Cowboys on the trail for one last ride
Trying to avoid those wannabe Bonnie and Clyde’s
Clinging to a dying way of life like a stubborn Rooster Cogburn
Taking those pills for the constant bake bean farts and heartburn
Singing stories of the wonders of this cowboy lifestyles
While fighting the urge to scratch those lingering piles
Carrying the sweetheart photo of the long lost cowgirl
Forgetting she left you for an Accountant who could afford a pearl
All the ranches and rodeos have long since closed
Now 24 hour Big Macs are juxtaposed
Getting back in the saddle you do it for glory and the life which is true
But really the only excitement left is a solitary campfire game of Buckaroo

—–

Congratulations, Gary! Yer the most terrible poet of the week!

As is the case most times, I had a nail-bitin’ time namin’ just one poet as best. Mostly, I thunk, this was owin’ to how very diff’rent y’all took the prompt. I saw right smart ‘pproaches, dern awful ones, and many ref’rences to beans an’ how rough that old saddle is on a cowboy’s backside.

Gary’s poem won, overall, fer ramblin’ meter, ramblin’ subject, and fer those darned trouser ferrets. Trust an old cowpoke: you never wanna mess wit’ ferrets.

A’ course, this old judge really wanted to shake the hand of all the rest of these here poets. Go ahead; you’ll see what I mean:

Me & Fred

by Abject Muse

I’m ridin’ the range

that ain’t never gonna change

with my horse named Fred

Fred is red: Red Fred.

He’s my best friend

til the very end.

We set up camp

when nighttime comes

Fred can’t help

for lack of thumbs —

but I don’t mind,

that’s common in his kind.

I cook some beans

an’ throw in some greens

while Fred eats oats

that cause him to bloat.

And later on when coyotes howl

our camp is smellin’ foul

cuz beans an’ oats make us fart

it’s methane  art

an aromatic symphony.

I’m a cowboy, see?

Red Fred an’ Me.

What people think, I don’t care

Long as I got clean underwear.

Fruit of the Loom is what I like

Cuz Jockey briefs are too dang tight

for ridin’ the range —

Just outside LaGrange.

—–

Wild West

by Pensitivity

The theme this week is Wild West,
OK then, I’ll try my best,
Saddle up and trot my horse
Heading West is best, of course!
Bump along in landscape sparse,
Get blisters on my sorry arse,
Campin’ rough in a makeshift tent
Moaning cuz all my money’s spent.
Coffee brewing on the fire
Tastes like mud, so really dire
Watch for rattlers, injuns too
Tether my steed, his name is Boo,
Scared of shadows but loyal to me
Dang it, I need to have a wee……
Ain’t got far, but I had a go
We’re not used to the life you know,
Central heating, warm beds and such,
Don’t really care for this very much,
Yet starry skies and open air
Are pretty and cool when you’re out there.

—–

Gold Digger

by Matt Snyder

gold digger jigger fa shizle yo

“This old wildcat’s as bad as Sal.

Now keep your shirt on! I mean… don’t get yourself in a tizzle.”

Spoken spitting like a true wild west un

That’s Gabby Hayes our high falooting pal

His only weapon the bottle

His breath knocked me dead full throttle

Hunting the yellow the specks worth a hundred

“All right all right don’t rush me, I’m-a-thinkin’ … and my head hurts”

Said Sam short on words

Wiggle my wiggle this poem’s a turd

—–

Campfire Quite, and Then…

by Trent McDonald

Quiet on the Plain
Gentle noises
From the lowing cattle
Cook takes his tin pan
Makes some noises
As he strikes it with a ladle
I wince in pain
My stomach makes noises
Slop and beans do rattle
Another cowhand shouts out profane
Screams with noise
The beans are ruining his saddle
No longer quiet on the Plain
Loud toots and other noises
The racket disturbs the cattle

—–

Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

by Bruce Goodman

My horse’s gone lame
So I’m ridin’ a kangaroo out west
It’s a bit boing boing boing
So goin’ clip clop clip clop gets a bit messed.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

My kangaroo’s gone lame
So I’m tryin’ to sit on the back of this hippopotamus
It’s a bit plod plod plod
So goin’ clip clop clip clop is a bit preposterous.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

My hippopotamus’s gone lame
So I’m ridin’ a rockin’ horse through the desert
It’s startin’ to squeak something naughty
So I’m givin’ it a squirt of WD-40.
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

WD-40 worked like a charm
Now it ain’t sqeakin’ and rowdy
I’ll just tie up my rockin’ horse on this hitchin’ post
And go into the saloon and say howdy.
Yippee! Yippee! Cheers!
Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

—–

The Cowboy Life

by Denny K

There once was a cowboy named Rex,
Who really preferred to be Tex.
This life with his horse,
Was special of course.
And easier to love than his ex.

—–

The Mad West

by Ruth Scribbles

West got mad
And sang
Don’t call me old
Yer mama taught u betta
Mama taught u betta
Mama taught u betta
The west ain’t old
Just mature in nature
Mama taught u betta
Go rope a cow

—–

The Internal Thirst

by Tiredhamster

sand…

sand…

dust…

The sun hangs over
As I ride my steed
Deeper into the valley
Hungry eyes lingering
On my head, wishin’
I was dead

sand…

sand…

so much sand…

This is the life
Of a desperado, an
Outlaw, a man without
Name or country, all i have
Is my horse, Larry, and the
Birds that fly over, taking
Bites out the sky, all because
I forgot to pay my tab

sand…

sand…

too much sand…

I’m no drunkard though,
I’m a free spirit, but sometimes
I gets a bit thirsty is all, not always
Sure for what though. A pain that
you can’t lasso or shoot at sundown
or avoid like Injuns in the night…
Maybe one day I will finds out
What this thing inside wants, maybe
Out here in the dreaded beige yonder…

sand…

sand…

more sand…

sand…

—–

Wild Wild West

by Deb Whittam

High noon
Whiskey swilling yokels
Voices breaking the shotgun silence
Painted floozies trip in the gutters
As dust hangs untamed
High above an eagle floats
Eyes seeking vermin
Even as a distant whistle of the train
Breaks his reverie
For a moment eyes strain
Horizon bending in the piercing sun
Then he spits his wad of tobacco out
Rubbing his brow as tumbleweed
Scatters down the street
Time to round up the brumbies
His gloved hand closes over the handle
Of the Walmart trolley
He turns

—–

On the Trail

by Michael B. Fishman

When ‘yer on the trail a-pushin’ cattle,
makin’ ‘yer way up to Seattle.

When saddle sores a-pop and ‘yer eyes start to droop,
and yer butt’s so sore it hurts to poop.

When yer bored watchin’ dust a-startin’ to twirl,
then y’all write a poem to yer old cowgirl.

Like I done did.
And I’ll demonstrate –
So you may equate –
And mebbe get yerself an idea that’ll pollenate –
One in which yer brain can lubricate –
And you can fay-ber-i-cate.
(Cuz you have my permission to do so)

Oh Maybelline, my horse needs a shoe.
Oh Maybelline, I smell like mildew.
I just a-wanted to tell ‘ya your love is overdue.

Oh Maybelline, I got a fever fer you.
Oh Maybelline, I smell like a gym shoe
I just a-wanted to tell ‘ya that first I’ll need a good shampoo.

Signed,
with aller my love,
Your luvin’ Cowboy guy,
Earl E. Earle

XXX (Them X’s, they’s kisses fer you, Maybelline)

—–

The Wild West

by LWBUT

Oh, give me a home where the kangaroo roam
and the beer and the and the Swan River flooooowwwwww.
Where jackaroo’s*  herd with a helicopter or whirlybird
a fifty thousand strong head herd of emu’s!

Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.

The Australian outback, ancestral home of our Mad Max,
has a beauty that few ever find.
And at night after sundown, when you’re feeling totally run down,
looking upward will so blow your mind!

Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.

All these wide open spaces almost devoid of friendly faces
seem to stretch out for mile after mile.
The hot burning sun will fry your brains just for fun
and make you mad as a cut snake after a while.

Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms can last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.

If you lower your defences while you’re out fixing fences,
although you might start to feeling quite chuffed.
When you realise that you aughta have remembered to bring water,
but you forgot and now you know that you’re stuffed.

Home, home on the plains
where the dust storms last fourteen days.
Where the koala and wombat get ready for combat
with the crocodiles, dingoes and snakes.

* (jackaroo = Aussie cowboy, jillaroo = Aussie cowgirl)

Little known bit of trivia:  My home state of Western Australia is over three times the land area of  Texas.

—–

High Plains Drifter

by Jane Basil

A drifter came whose hooded eyes
bore a hole through town-folks faces
and though the distant cloudless skies
revealed no darkening, shadowed traces,
and dusty streets withheld a warning,
the tides of change were set that morning.

Puffed up folks with secret past
came dressed up all respectable,
but in his soul, his truth held fast
he knew they were despicable.
They placed a star upon his chest
and paid him well to do his best.

He vowed that he would free the gang
of an opposing, greedy clan,
then chose a stunted, clownish man
as deputy, to serve his private plan.
Yet no-one but this man could see
the mist that held a mystery.

Though no-one guessed his hidden aim
his friend came close and boldly did say
“Stranger, you never spoke your name.”
The drifter squinted and turned away
towards the boneyard on the hill,
where recall held his gaze so still.

The townsfolk rallied to his call
to learn to shoot a rifle straight;
he fooled the people one and all,
and then he ordered scarlet paint.
They dipped their brushes when he said
that they should paint the buildings red.

A heavy gang rode down the hill,
and stared upon a scarlet joke.
They came to raid and maim and kill;
amid the mayhem, the foreshortened bloke
recalled the townsfolk’s shameful past
and recognised the drifter at last.

Some years before, one rain drenched night
a man was beaten in the square.
Although he begged with all his might,
he could find no mercy there.
Declared as dead, they buried him
beneath the bone-yard on the hill.

Corpse and drifter were one and the same;
vengeance was wrought by the man with no name.

—–

I’m much obliged to y’all. Come on by the house after sunup, and we’ll fix you up wit’ another contest.

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Gary: 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

Howdy, partners! Welcome to this here terrible poetry contest. We at the ranch have been rounding up bad poetry fer 48 weeks now.

Ready to rodeo? You’ll wanna read a run-down here. Then, saddle up and get yer lasso ready fer fun!

Here some ‘spifics for this round:

  1. The Topic‘s The Old West. Or, do The New West. Heck, do Midwest if that’s how you ride. Think of a song to sing on a campfire-smoke night, a shout to yell at those darn coyotes, or a rhyme to a cowboy from his sweetheart back home.
  2. Length is up to you, but many a cowpoke will doze off mid-ride if the trail gets too long.
  3. Rhymin’s up to you, partner.
  4. Most importan’ly, Make ‘er terrible. I don’t wanna see yer sorry hide back here till it is.
  5. Many a rough-rider can have a rough tongue, but sometimes lady folk read this blog. Keep yer comments to a civilized PG-13.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 25) to submit a poem.

Use the form below to stay low from The Law.

For instant fame an’ notoriety, leave yer poem or a link in the comments. Ye olde WordPress ain’t always good at pingbacks, if you know what I mean.

Yee-ha!

 

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Photo credit: Image by skeeze from Pixabay

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Oh, man. The poems this week were the best/worst! I laughed so hard, then realized I had to pick a winner. Those who submitted a poem did so ‘well,’ I feel like I’m picking a favorite child.

Which, of course, every parent has. So, this week’s winner is:

Baa-baa inclusive sheep

by MagicQuill17

Baa, baa, black sheep,
(Or brown sheep,
or white sheep,
or Asian sheep,
because it’s important to be inclusive)
Have you any wool?
{Or cotton, for that matter
for the people living in tropical climates,
Plus just wool won’t do any good to those living in the Arctic
Or the Antarctic
Also, we need semi-cold fabrics
For temperate climates)

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full!
(Or ma’am,
Or revered person who’s neither
Ma’am or sir)
One for the master,
(Or mistress,
Or genderqueer person,
Or bigender person,
Or agender person)
And one for the dame,
(Or sir,
Or Mx.
Or Ind.)

One for the little boy
(Or girl,
Or-better yet- child)

Who lives down the lane.
(Nothing politically incorrect here,
But do save a wool blanket for me, sheep
Because I have insomnia
From being too woke.)

—–

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

This poem won for ruining itself with political correctness. A bold move; one that worked to bring it to first place against so many clever contenders. I especially liked how inclusively annoying Anisha was over and over.

And here are the rest of my favorites:

Ma said I wasn’t a good righter… Boy did I proof her wrong!

by Heather Bergen

Little Boo Creep,
Likes to kick Sheep,
But missed and kicked right beside them,
She kicked a stone,
And broke her own bone,
Now she sits on a tuffet.
Like a sad baby muppet,
Eating her actions all day.
Along came a farmer,
Who wanted to harm her.
But instead gave her sheep some more…Hay Diddle diddle
Boo Creep starts to fiddle,
The sheep have plenty of room.
The farmer was glad to see such a sight.
And randomly jumped to the
moonlight, so bright
One moon I see tonight
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
This awful rhyme,
Forget tonight.

🤦🏼‍♀️

—–

Harper, Turn The Espresso Machine On

by Joem18b

Harper, turn the espresso machine on,
Harper, turn the espresso machine on,
Harper, turn the espresso machine on,
We’ll all have a double latte.

Mackenzie, turn the espresso machine off again,
Mackenzie, turn the espresso machine off again,
Mackenzie, turn the espresso machine off again,
They’ve all gone away.

Plug in the toaster oven and make malted toast,
Put the croissants on to warm but don’t roast,
Plug in the toaster oven and make malted toast,
We’ll all have a double latte.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Mary had a little lamb
Which went and got itself lost
Mary thought with a grunt
Damn thing just goes and sods off

Mary thought about the job
Of finding the little sheep
Decided it wasn’t worth the bother
She had others she could fleece

Mary went off to the casino
Wearing a bright red dress
Mary had a knack for cards
That had long been repressed

Mary made a killing
Which the casino didn’t appreciate
They went and found her lamb
Hoping they could set her straight

Mary took one look a little lamb-beau
Snorted with derision
She didn’t want the lamb back
Just kill it with precision

Mary’s words mortified all
They all grew alarmed
Mary didn’t really care
She had come forearmed

She took the loot, she took their money
And then Mary scrammed
She heard about some great cave
Owned by a guy called Aladdin

—–

Little Bo Peep, Unemployed

by Kristian

Little Bo Peep

Had lost her sheep,

But she knew just where to find them

They’d been taken away

The other day

For slaughter, so she no longer had to mind them.

—–

Untitled Nursery Rhyme

by Michael B. Fishman

Hickory dickory dock,
I got a hole in my sock.
I let it go and stubbed my toe
and fell on my old banjo.

Then Mary’s lamb came prancing by and took a look at me.
“Help!” I said but the lamb just turned and nibbled on my
forgotten peanut butter and onion panini.

I couldn’t believe it, the lamb wouldn’t help, that lousy, fleecy
snob.
So I crawled over slowly and with my hands turned that lamb into a
kebab.

Then Mary came a-running in, “Oh I loved that lamb a lot.”
She cried and cried and with the back of her hand wiped away a gob of snot.

That made me sick, that gooey drool, wet boogers on the back of her wrist
and I wondered for a minute if she ever gave her boyfriend a sloppy wet bugger-y kiss.

She probably did. That poor old fella, I hope he carries a hanky,
and not just any hanky but one as big as my light blue naptime blanky.

That’s my story and now I’m tired and I’ve still got a hole in my sock
and guess what?
I just saw a cloud
drift past wearing
a raincoat and I said
to the cloud,

“Hey what are you wearing under your raincoat and the cloud said,
“Thunderwear”.

And I said,
“You’re lighter than air”.

And the cloud said, “You’re a poet.”

And I said, “But a terrible one.”

And the cloud said, “Well I didn’t want to say anything, but–”

And we both smiled.

And the cloud floated away
with a promise to
come on back another day

and Mary started washing her face, washing her face, washing
her face on this cold and frosty morning. And then she started
to dance around a Mulberry bush and I called her Mulberry Mary.

—–

Grumpy Humpty

by Bruce Goodman

Humpty Dumpty sat on the fence
And the top wire was barbed and went right through his pants.
All the king’s nurses with skills so superior
Refused to bandage up Humpty’s posterior.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

There Was a Young Lady Who Lived in a Sandal

She had so many toes it really was a scandal

She wrapped them all up with tape and some gauze

After cutting them off without any cause.

—–

Itsy Bitsy

by Matt Snyder

Itsy bitsy, no, it’s a great big freakin’ spider

It’s just there stuck with all its legs against our wall

I let out a greatly enormous incredibly loud scream

Hoping and praying it don’t fall

And then it began to rain

The pitter patter of the drops

Against the window pane

Sorry, I was distracted

Itsy bitsy great big freakin’ spider

Never to be seen again

—–

Nip and tuck

by Violet Lentz

There was once a princess from Poughkeepsie,
Who went in for a li’l nip and tuck, see?
Instead of lifting her breast
they lowered the rest
Now her boobies are where her knees, should be.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Row, row, row your brexit
Gently wants to make me scream
Terribly, terribly, terribly, terribly
Life is but a dirty scheme
Bankers, fill, fill fill your boots
Gently wrecking our kids dreams
Horribly, horribly, horribly, horribly
Life is ruled by corrupt regimes
Row, row, row your lies
Gently down the pan
Stupidly, stupidly, stupidly, stupidly
Life is run by an ignorant racist madman
Hedge funds , screw, screw screw your world
Gently throw the climate down the garbage can
Corruptly, corruptly, corruptly, corruptly
Life is a dream if you are the bogeyman

—–

Sing a Song of Christmas ( or Four and Twenty Relatives)

by LWBUT

Sing a song of Christmas,
A stocking full of gifts.
Parents folding wrapping paper,
Taking it in shifts.

Children demanding i-Phones,
Lego kits and Apps;
Money is no object,
At least while the credit lasts.

The relatives are coming
Quick! Lock the door!
There’s only eight of them
But they eat like there’s twenty four!

Too much ham, turkey and stuffing
Pudding up to here.
Wine and beer flowed in a torrent,
Overdone it again this year.

Take the lights and decorations down,
Stuff ’em in a box;
Then find a nice, dark, quiet place,
with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a strip of ten Stilnox.

—–

Thank you all so much! You’ve done Mother Goose a horrible service today!

Come back tomorrow morning for next week’s prompt.

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MagicQuill17: 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 to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #47!

Are you confused about how to terribly poem? I’ve got you covered with a basic overview, here. Mostly, I seek the complete destruction of a poem’s construction over the revulsion of the subject.

Here are the specifics:

  1. At the excellent suggestion of Deb Whittam, our Topic is fractured nursery rhymes. Since I’ve done this category before, the rule is that you must take an existing nursery rhyme as your base.
    Mess up Mary’s lamb. Make Jack and Jill lose their heads; literally. Turn Little Jack Horner’s plum into a shark.
  2. The Length is determined by the rhyme you choose. No, you needn’t do every stanza of “Old Mother Hubbard.” It’s up to you.
  3. In terms of Rhyming, that is also dependent on the one you choose. All the ones I’ve read rhyme, so you can count on doing the same.
  4. Please, young writers, Make it terrible! Mother Goose will spontaneously molt at the very mention of your name and children everywhere will be permanently scarred for six months.
  5. The target audience is children, so a G-Rating is necessary.

You have till 9:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 18) 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 post to your site, since WordPress’ pingbacks are not reliable.

Have fun!

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Photo credit: Charles 🇵🇭

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Boil, boil, toil and terrible! This week’s poems were enough to take the eyes off a newt or the wool from a bat. Yet only one poet raised a horrible enough incantation to incite the Wal-mart imps, and that was:

Crackles & Cackles

by Peregrine Arc

Tooth, fang, eye of toad.
Hurry, hurry, PETA’s on the phone!
Come, come, more evil things we need
To finish this spell, to hasten its speed.
What do we choose? Bloody armor, a bloody mary, or even unwashed unmentionables?
A rope, fresh from a hanging, the ectoplasm of a ghost or a wing of a bat?
Oh Heavens and Hades, we need something more evil than that!

Nay, bring me that tome from the vault, yes, the one right over there, in-between the mummy’s teeth and the vampire’s sash. But not to be confused with the earrings of Sinbad.

TERRIBLE POETRY 101, the spine reads in blood.
I cackle, I chortle; oh this is such fun!
Yes, that’ll do the trick. This spell is now done.

Congratulations, P’Arc! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

The head witch required multiple readings through all entries this week. After brewing a potion to revive her sensibilities, she selected P’Arc’s contribution as first by merit of its terrible meter overall. Where is the subject going? Does it have one? What in the name of spell-dom will this brew?

Well done, young apprentice.

Now; if ye need yet another chant after hers, here are the rest:

A Nasty Spell

by Trent McDonald

Boil, boil
A bit of basil
Add more olive oil
Some witch hazel
Tooth of hen
Toe of frog
Mud from the fen
And earwax from a dog
Some eye of Newt

No, not Gingrich!
Disgusting, you wit
Such a nasty witch!

We say the spell

And, ehhh,
That eye, Hell!
It’s watching you!

Remind me to never
Create a hex
With you ever
You don’t follow the text

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

O fortl tew hir jatl ebuvi the hurozum,
dicurelomg and chiiromg the isivelid
sphiri thi hed jatl bigam lu nuvi om;
gsolliromg soki the nurmomg tler – fass
uf sofi and tpsimduar and juy.
Bal, uh, whel e rivusaloum!

—–

Spell of Invisibility

by Joem18b

to become unseen first remove your clotheen
this spell does not work on your tutu or muumuu

if you’re a kid don’t you dare become bare
spells come from hell so you have messed up
get back dressed up

now that you grownups are naked it’s time to get bak-ed
find some prime chronic and smoke it like tonic

repeat that last step, beth, but this time with meth
now crunched, dude, you got to get krunked

repeat that last step, bloke, but this time with coke
now blowed, vato, you got to get throwed

and now you’re ready to go, baby
and i don’t mean maybe

walk out on the street
go on
no one can see you
but take it slow, bro

note: avoid invisibility cloaks. your feet hang out.

—–

Spell

by Deb Whittam

A pinch of aniseed
A clove of garlic
The urine from a deer
Newly departed

A touch of sauerkraut
A roasted black bean
A lock of Hugh Jackman’s hair
Newly cleaned

A touch of hops
A bit of fennel
A bit of dust from the
Nearest dog kennel

A pluck of onion
A scattering of rye
A brand new ipad
Thrown from the sky

Stir it up
Mix it twice
Then drink it up
Vomiting it really nice

Now thrown down the mag
Throw it down hard
I wish all that gossip was true
And Matt Damon was in my front yard

—–

Liar liar pants onfire

by Ruth Scribbles

Hocus locust

Holy smack

Sun of night

Moon of day

Shed your light

On this my prey

Curse the liar

Within my Lair

Burn the tongue

Of the young

Evil one

Begone!

—–

Orisha

by Aderonke

Moody voodoo
Angry Juju
Turn this happiness
Into blue
From the east
To the west
And the deep blue sea
Make these tears run
For all to see

—–

An Evil Brew

by LWBUT

Orcs from Moria,
Goblins from The High Pass.

Wraiths of the Nether-world
Nazgul, Servants of Sauron.

Footpads, ne’er-do-wells,
Conmen, liars and theives.

Schutzstaffel SS,
Brownshirts and Gestapo.

Blood-sucking vampires,
Zombies and the soulless dead.

Combine all together,
give them a common cause,

And one Lord to rule them,
who leaves his Dark Tower…

… Washington sure has changed lately.

—–

Gremlins: A Teenage Mythology

by Lifelessons

A sneeze is how a poltergeist gets outside of you.
At night a different stinky elf sleeps inside each shoe.

Every creaking rafter supports its resident ghost,
and it’s little gremlins who make you burn the toast.

Each night those tricky fairies put snarls in your hair,
while pixies in your sock drawer unsort every pair.

Midnight curtain billows are caused by banshee whistles.
Vampires use your toothbrush and put cooties in its bristles.

Truths all come in singles. It’s lies that come in pairs.
That’s a zombie, not a teenager, sneaking up the stairs.

—–

Many thanks for entering. Return on the morn, as the dial points to 10, for next week’s inspiration.

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