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

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:

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 Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Who’s ready for some terrible poetry? I know I am!

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, the twelfth iteration. I am super stoked for this week’s topic.

**IMPORTANT NOTE** I usually tell everyone to read, “How To Write Terrible Poetry” so’s you know what I’m looking for. This week, however, I wish to be more about a clever take and subject than about a rotten execution.

  1. Topic: Nursery Rhymes.
  2. Length? Let’s do a stanza or two, or three. We don’t need all 16 rounds of “Old Mother Hubbard,” for Peter Pumpkin Eater’s sake.
  3. This prompt is a special one.
    If you, the poet, wish to satirize an existing nursery rhyme; that is reasonable.
    If you, the poet, wish to vaguely reference an existing nursery rhyme; I am okay with your decision.
    If you, the poet, wish to go to No Man’s Land of poetry and leave us wondering if you even knew the prompt; more power to you.
  4. Whatever you decide, make us hurt while we’re laughing.
    Make Georgie Porgie want to cry with mirth. Give Jack and Jill a poetic thrill. Give those blind mice something to smile about.
  5. In terms of appropriateness, keep it PG- or G-rated. These are originally written for children, after all.

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

Post your poem or a link to it in the comments, or fill out the included form. I read them all and judge as impartially as I may.

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In the meantime and just for fun, here are a couple of poems the very busy but very talented Irish Procrastinator wrote last year:

Doggies

A doggie is lovely

It wags and it barks

It just wants a cuddle

And walks in the park

But the worst thing of all

(And everyone looks)

Is when it sits down

And does a big poop.

—–

Just Eat Some Toast Instead

I knew a girl

Who loved to eat boogers

At breakfast and lunch

She dug in her hooter

She wouldn’t eat fruit

And she wouldn’t eat bread

This girl just loved

To eat bogeys instead

One day while digging

Deep up in her nose

Her finger got stuck!

Her mummy said ‘blow!’

She huffed and she puffed

Her mummy said ‘more!’

She blew it so hard

Her nose flew out the door!

Lucky for her

Her mummy had glue

She stuck it back on

And nobody knew

So if you don’t want

To lose bits of your head

Take my advice

Use a tissue instead.

I keep telling her she needs to write modern children’s nursery rhymes, so we’ll hold out hope for when that happens.

 

Photo Credit:
Charles 🇵🇭

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

For several contests now, I’ve wanted to do a multi-person tie. You are all doing so terribly!

(That’s a compliment.)

But… since you’ve all skipped to this part anyway, the winner is Michael B. Fishman.

Don’t Skippy Over Me (or I’ll Be Back in a Jif)

by Michael B. Fishman

I like chunky peanut butter sometimes –
and sometimes I don’t.

Ask me why,
or don’t,
(I don’t care)

Peanut butter’s rough.
The chunks? A diamond in the rough.

That’s because I like peanuts and . . .
I
don’t
like
peanut
butter.

It’s not even butter!

Once upon a time there was a peanut farmer who became President. A giant named Fezzik came along and asked if he wanted a peanut. The President-to-be said no, but he asked the giant where he could fill up his empty peanuts. The giant didn’t know, but some other guy – I can’t visualize him so neither will you – came along and said “I know!” The President-to-be said, “Where?” and non-visualizable man said, “The Shell station!”

And they laughed.

And the peanuts laughed.

“Ha!” they all laughed

Laughter is like a diamond.
(I don’t know why but it makes for an interesting simile)
Life is just rough
(That’s not a simile, I don’t know what it is)

We eat peanut butter
and watch the butterfly flutter.
From the golf putter to the stonecutter
Some of us put it on bread and eat it with that white stuff that drips from a cow’s udder.

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

My multi-way tie desire was due to SO MANY of the poets messing with the meter in a very intelligent way, rhyming (then, not), and choosing such awful subjects that I wonder if Diana gave them lessons from last week….

Michael’s very slight push above the rest was how mismatched his poem was. We had a lovely poem going, then …a paragraph?, then back to another sort of poem (I think). Terrible!

By no means worse (better?), here are the rest of the entrants:

Precious Stones

by Greygirlieandme

It’s tough
Being a diamond in the rough.
I’d rather be an emerald
Set in fourteen carat gold
When I am old.
Or perhaps a sapphire
If you think I should aim a bit higher
What about a pearl?
If I was the mother of an earl
I’d give you a string
Made of oyster vomit
No, that’s not it
Is it?
It’s grit not vomit.
My precious….
My precious…
Oh sorry, that’s something different
From a nasty little gent.
Maybe he’s a diamond in the rough
Finding life a little tough.

—–

A heart-felt lamentation

by Bruce Goodman

Quite frankly my dear I don’t give a stuff
when you say to accept you as you are:
that you are a diamond in the rough.
But enough is enough.
Tough!
I want a divorce.

When you eat your food with your mouth open…
well! that’s not being a diamond in the rough
but straight out bad manners.
I’d rather eat with my horse.
Tough!
I want a divorce.

Just because you have no legs
and have no arms and have to be spoon fed
is no reason to eat with your mouth open.
Tough!
I want a divorce.

And you can keep the wheelchair.

—–

Untitled piece

by Dawn D

There once was a youngster
Who lived in a dumpster
She begged and clawed
Through the bitter cold
Till the day she morphed into a stunning princess.

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Diamond, ouch, you’re too rough.
Diamond, ouch, cut that out.
Diamond please, stop stop stop.
Wait, that’s not what this prompt is about?

Shiny, shine, shine shine.
I’m Rihanna’s Diamond in the Sky.
Gleam.

—–

A Mean Girl

by H.R.R. Gorman

I’m a diamond –
See my perfect shine!
I’m prettier than you,
No need to whine.

So get in line
I ain’t got the time!
You don’t want a dollar
Waitin’ on a dime!

Your face is a crime,
So listen to me.
Tan that white skin,
Get some vitamin D.

Fat like your mommy,
You can’t wear that top.
Ain’t gettin’ no boyfriend
When you look like slop.

C’mon girl, chop-chop!
Your pits smell like waste!
And you gotta lose inches
Off that extra-large waist!

No wonder you’re chaste.
That hair’s a nightmare
With all that va-voom!
It’s like you don’t even care.

What’s that you declare?
You say I’m bad stuff?
Not even a diamond
In form most rough?

Shut up you’re stupid.
Your mom’s stupid.
Go home, idiot,
I hate you.

—–

Please Mrs Patterson

by TanGental

Please Mrs Patterson
Roger’s an awful little pest;
He’s only gone and stapled
My earlobes to his desk.
*
Please Mrs Patterson
Roger really is too much;
He’s liquidized our gerbil
And sprayed him on my crotch.
*
Please Mrs Paterson
I’m not sure we can take much more;
Roger’s borrowed Harry’s toolbox
And nailed Gemma to the floor
*
Please Mrs Patterson
Things are getting out of hand;
Roger’s kidnapped Maisie Wellbeloved
And buried her in sand.
*
Please Mrs Patterson
You’ll really have to stop it;
Roger’s only gone and taken Bob
And strapped him to a rocket.
*
Please Mrs Patterson
You must stop being craven
Roger’s stuffed poor Bill with pitted dates
And put him in the oven.
*
Please Mrs Patterson
I know he’s had it tough
But Roger’s more your psychopath
Than a diamond in the rough.

—–

Ordinary

by Anneberly

A diamond in the rough
Isn’t that tough

As he dances in the daylight
And even at night

He thinks he’s quite elegant
Ha! Like an elephant

His mannerisms aren’t too shabby
Pretty lazy like a tabby

His intellect isn’t book smarts
He’s got a gigantic heart

People think he’s quite gruff
This diamond in the rough

—–

My Fair Lady

by Jordy

I once met a lass who was really darn crass.
Liked her so asked her to go fishing for bass.

Pretty fine, want to make her mine. But my Ma won’t agree. Her mouth is to rotten and her spit always hits my knee.

She thought she was haute but tore up her coat.
Was how she stepped on the boat. You know.

I went to get gun powder to fix it all up.
But it began to sizzle and got her all frup.

She screamed and hollered at lil ole me.
Then walloped me a good one that set my lights free.

We rasseled and rolled when she tried to pull off my head and throw it in a bowl.

Hell bells, diamond in the rough!
Darn if she ain’t the fair lady for me!

—–

On the links

by Bladud Fleas

On a tee I swunged
at the moment you did cough
and sliced my diamond in the rough
many minutes we sought
and didn’t find it
but I had another one
so didn’t mind it

where is that diamond now
I now wonder
that one I lost cos of your blunder
it makes me cry I don’t know
why, it’s not a game I like
it’s a spoiled hike, I’d prefer
to ride my bike. Across the fairway
just about when you’re gonna strike.

—–

Untitled piece

by Violet Lentz

Little Gemma Johnson
Was quite the catch, I’d heard them say
Though a little rough around the edges
She’d make a fine wife someday

Little did I know- t’was me
They’d arranged as her betroth
never having laid my eyes, on
This little diamond in the rough

The matrimonial day arrived
Our families filled the church
She lifted her veil for our first kiss
And my guts lept to a lurch

Eyes askance, under twisted brow
Nose bent off to the side somehow
Lips so thick she couldn’t pucker
I knew right then, there’s no way I could……

Whoa is me I can’t be wed
Alone is how I’ll stay in bed
She’s no diamond- rough or other
If I have to wed, I’ll take her brother!

—–

Too classy to have friends.

by Molly Stevens

It’s hard to be the only one
Refinded mongst the diamonds in the rough.
You say tomato,
I say tomahtopuff.

Tomahtopuff’s not a word, of course,
But I wanted things to rhyme.
You’d know that if you were in my class,
Instead of subpar subslime.

I’ve looked for others who are equal
To my decree of finesse,
But alas they’re moving parts unknown
Without a forwarding address.

You may think it’s craps
Sitting alone atop that pinochle.
But it’s not in the cards
To lower my standards.

—–

Untitled piece

by RhScribbles

Diamond in the rough

Rough diamond

Cracking windows is tough

I need a diamond

One with rough edges

Edges to scratch glass

Glass walls that keep me out

Out and not in

In with the gang

Gang of a thousand

Thousands of diamonds that sparkle

Sparkle and shine illuminating

My world with possibilities

Life is rough,

I mean tough

—–

Again: what I say pushes a poem to first is not what I always look for. The other entrants and their highly creative measures change the standards each time!

Good work, and tune in tomorrow to see next week’s prompt.

Geode

There’s that geode again.

 

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good Saturday morning to you all, even if you are not necessarily reading this on a morning nor a Saturday.

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, episode Eleven.

What is terrible poetry? Please read my helpful article, “How To Write Terrible Poetry.” Lower your standards, trash your meter, near-rhyme your audience to tears, and then read the rules for this week:

  1. Topic: Diamond in the Rough.
  2. Length should be greater than 5 words but fewer than 200 words. (5<poem<200)
  3. Rhyme if you want. Don’t if you don’t want.
  4. Make it terrible.
    Your dear old granny who never said anything bad about anybody (excepting for using passive-aggression, of course; bless her heart) will want to tell you not to worry; not everyone can be a poet and isn’t it good you have other talents to fall back on, Dearie?
  5. Terrible can still be granny-approved. Keep it PG-rated.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (February 2, 2019) to submit a poem.

Post your poem or a link to it in the comments, or fill out the included form. I read them all and judge as impartially and blindly as I may.

Geode

Yes, I know it’s a geode. It’s the thought that counts.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow.

I’m speechless, so it’s a good thing I’m able to type.

I read through all the entries this week several times, and kept thinking that I need to make a ten-way tie. Only two or three of the submitted poems were too fancy for our dubious standards, and even those were just barely so.

The winner this week is D. Wallace Peach.

Poots

by D. Wallace Peach

There once was a hairy old coot
Who loved to squeeze out a poot
It was stinky and smelly
Gurgled like jelly
And popped off a sound like a toot

But he wasn’t close to the worst
My granny caught poots in her purse
She saved up the sound
For when grandkids came ‘round
Then out of her purse they would burst

Now MY poots are dainty as roses
No trouble for delicate noses
They make a small putter
Wheeze or soft flutter
But they won’t curl your hair or your toeses

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

I don’t want to encourage next week’s poets to utilize this strategy, but I had to force myself to go through reading hers the second time. 😀

All of you employed bad meter, mismatched rhyming, theme that rambled somewhere and then got lost but came back in a related way, and plenty of references and word usages to make artistic nerves cringe. On top of that extremely high bar, Diana won with the added benefit of -well, if you read it, you know.

I am not pandering in any way when I say the rest of the entries were AMAZING. As a poet sponsor, I am so proud of you all!

Here you are, in whatever order I could use to catch ’em all:

THE LOCKLOOSE GOOSE TRUCE!

by southernwriter122051046

I was hunting in far off Lockloose,
In the woods near St. Patty’s dam,
When I spied me an aging goose,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am,

And I was so damn hungry,
So, I wasn’t a bit choose-y,
So, I grabbed my gun, see,
And shot that ole’ goose-y,

But then it grabbed my gun,
And shot me back, damn!
So, we both lay bleedin’ at the settin’ sun,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

So, now, me and ole’ goose-y
Are bestest chums, by damn,
If you can’t eat ’em, don’t be choose-y,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Listen…

Hark! Hark! Listen to that bark.

For sooth, or is it for sure? The tea kettle is boiling over, I assure…

Drip. Drip. Drip.

KLANG! KLANG! KLANG!

Ring, ring, ring.

Ka-boom, pop, boom!

Noises! Ack! What, where, how?

My ears are crying green pus, how doth one make it stop now?

Oh, I have my instrument pointed at Earth. It’s picking up all the audio waves. ‘Tis a terribly noisy planet, ’tis sooth, I’m afraid.

Quick Makbobblec3ft0, point the spaceship the other way. We shouldn’t have taken a left at Mars, nay neigh.

For sooth.

KLANG!

—–

Untitled piece

by Greygirlieandme

What’s that noise?
The car started it.
I felt such a twit when
The intermittent twanging
From the bang
When I put my foot down
Was actually
Nothing.
And then the kettle
Got really annoying
When it sang an aria rather than
Its normal whistle.
Don’t they know
It hurts my head
When their infernal row
Makes me see Scarlett.
Bet she didn’t have
These issues at Tara.
All her noises went away in the wind.
And she had a butler to sort them out
Anyway.
All day.
Not like me.
Stupid noises.

—–

The hootin’ toothy tootin’ lady

by RhScribbles

There was an old lady who tooted
The kids all thought it was a hoot
She sniffled and coughed
And ate applesauce
And went to sleep over there
On the sofa
Her bed was piled with laundry

—–

Bawls before kickoff

by Molly Stevens

They’re sitting in the stands,
All settled in their rows,
Bundled in sensible layers
Wearing adorable chapeaus.

The crowd noise is thunderous,
Delighting in their teams,
When a star takes center stage
And utters a piercing scream.

Has there been a threat to life?
A gunman on the loose?
From whence sprung this shrill shriek?
Some sort of harsh abuse?

The throng is shocked into silence
Hoping no one throws a tantrum,
As the screeching goes on and on and on and on
To execute the national anthem.

Oh, say, can you sing?
No! The group decrees.
Hire an opera singer
Who can reach the last high E!

—–

Squirrels go whirling

by RhScribbles

The squirrel in the attic
Became full of static
From running around in the insulation
Itching and scratching
He left the attic because the people
Heard him running
And they went to chase him out
But it was a nightmare because
He caused sparks that sizzled
From the static in the attic
And then I woke up.

—–

Untitled piece

by Anne Copeland

Terrible noises.
They seem to follow me secretly.
They can be farts
Or doggies squatting
with terrible noises that don’t come out
But I can smell.
Or they can be loud and rude
Especially when the back
of the one I love
is turned directly to my face.
It gives me warning,
but it is too late.
I’m afraid terrible noises
are to be my lifetime fate!

—–

The Bottom Burp

by TanGental

At heart
The fart
Was really very small

And well
It’s smell
Was nothing at all.

But parps
That start
On the tiny side

May grow
You know
And be difficult to hide

Don’t think
The stink
Will give you away

It’s the sound
That’s bound
To make you pay.

Try, my boys
To keep the noise
Under some control

Or you’ll find
Mankind
Won’t be very impressed and may well think you’re some kind of uncivilised idiot.

—–

Cola Etiquette

by Jon

It’s OK to slurp
at the bottom of the cup.
But try not to burp,
or let some come back up.

If you drink it too fast,
a cola will fizz,
and run out your nose,
that’s just how it is.

—–

An ode to Aunt Marlene

by Bruce Goodman

I worry some about worrisome noise, boys.
Cars are not toys
No matter if they bring you joys.
They are dangerous and when one hears a worrisome noise
When driving along the road
One knows instantly that it’s either the engine producing too much heat
Or old Aunt Marlene in the back seat.

The other day while driving along the road,
Just after leaving my abode,
Something went clack clack clack.
Oh what a worrisome noise!
No, it wasn’t old Aunt Marlene in the back.
I’d run over Aunt Marlene’s cat.

Old Aunt Marlene likes to read poetry out loud
When she’s in the back sitting proud.
Last week she read “The Ballad of Dick Turpin”.
It went on and on.
I said, “Can’t you shut up, Aunt Marlene, you’re driving us nuts?”
She said “It’s by Alfred Noyes”.
And I said “Well he’s a most worrisome Noyes.”

Drop the “I” out of NOISE and you get a WORRISOME NOSE.
Blow it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

here is a poem to sing
grundle pip boing thwack and ping
brrrp tinkle whap hmmp prr-dong
and that’s about the end of the song

no, wait, there’s another verse
and the noises they get a whole lot worse
but so we don’t increase our fears
we’ll just think them so no one hears

—–

Noises Everywhere

by Anneberly

What’s with these ear piercing, skin crawling sounds?
They are eating me alive, I just can’t stick around.

Where would I go? These noises are everywhere.
They’ve even made appearances in my nightmares.

Please save me from these “schlik, squish, slurp” type noises,
Before I become psychotic, and start hearing them as voices.

—–

Visit tomorrow for next week’s prompt, and keep up the terrible work!!

clark-young-143623-unsplash

Home Life Poetry

The Laundry

I start the clothes
Then, finds some holes
In folds and soles
Then thinks
Or yells,
-‘Midst stinks
And smells-
“It’s time to switch up roles!”

nik-macmillan-153579-unsplash.jpg


 

Stay At Home Mothering Melancholia

Some days I sit or stand or write and sigh.
I feel the world; it turns without an I.
Yet stand I still and sigh as still I stand
And wonder at my world of self-made sand.

A day in ten, I’ll press against the glass;
See others, walking, smiling, talking past.
They wave; I raise a hand, a shy half-smile.
Some beckon; No, I say, to thoughts erstwhile.

I’ll stay and stand and sigh and write today;
I’ll watch and lift my mouth a twitch and wave;
I’ll cry and sift some sand from out’ the way;
I’ll forget this melanchol’ia. I’m okay.

jules-marchioni-697854-unsplash

Photo Credit
Nik MacMillan
Jules Marchioni

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day to you all. This here’s The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, tenth edition.

Don’t know what ‘terrible poetry’ means? Read mah handy article, “How To Write Terrible Poetry.”

Here are the rules for this week:

  1. Topic: Worrisome Noises. They could be anything, from anywhere.
  2. Keep it reasonable in length. No ballads, please. (That means we don’t want a poem in excess of 200 or 300 words.)
  3. Should it rhyme? I don’t care. It’s yours to let us read.
  4. This may be the most important rule: make it terrible.
    I want the neighborhood auto mechanic to beg you to bring in a hundred engines with ‘funny noises’ driven by grandmothers who don’t know which body part is aching while their grandchildren drop something in the backseat that makes a suspiciously-messy *sploosh* sound.
  5. Keep it PG-rated. The grandmas might read it.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 25, 2019) to submit a poem.

Post your poem or a link to it in the comments, or fill out the included form. I read them all and judge as impartially and blindly as I may.

 

clark-young-143623-unsplash

 

Photo Credit:
Clark Young