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