WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow. This week’s contest was amazing! I had a terribly fun time reading through everyone’s entries …and an equally terrible time trying to pick just one winner.

But a winner there must be. And that is Deb Whittam.

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

Luke was like a piece of driftwood
He floated his way into my life
And marooned himself on my stretch
Of the beach
He lay there salient
Watchful, still
He didn’t leave
It was kind of disturbing
I considered starting a fire
I considered tossing him back in
I considered getting my dog to poop
next to him, but in the end
But being driftwood
I walked round him
Then the tide came in and
He drifted out again
Days passed
Honestly I didn’t notice he was
GONE

But that’s what driftwood is like
Forgettable
Just like Luke
SUCH IS LIFE
… (Pause here to blow a raspberry)

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

As I said earlier, there were many excellent entries. The level of awful poetry was astounding and made for a difficult decision. Great work mixing meters, muddling themes, and morphing rhymes! Deb’s over-the-top features were all those elements working so well together. Good/bad job!

And the remaining entrants were terrible in their own right. Enjoy:

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

I’m writing a poem that needs to be deep
It’s supposed to have rhythm and metrical feet
Through bang-head-here moments I moan and I weep
While googling synonyms that start with an e.

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

They study Mars
and neutron stars
and never ride with girls in cars

And, if they do acquire a wife
they are working each night for the rest of their life.

So, if studying a black hole
is your goal
prepare for it to crush your soul.

And, spending your life trying to prove dark matter
is even satter…

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

You are so well-rounded that you could be compared to a turnip,
and indeed you have earned it.
Everything you touch seems to turn to gold;
each and every talent that you hold.
Even when you play the violin
it’s so sensual it’s almost a sin.
When you simply fry an egg
it’s ten times tastier than when it’s fried by my Aunty Peg.

With a paint brush in your hand
you make Leonardo d’Vinci less a man;
not to mention when you do arithmetic
you are better at arithmetic than Arius was at being a heretic.
There’s very little you could be taught
when it comes to sport.
Compared to you the rest of us look dumb
so there’s no reason to walk around like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your bum.

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

Every week, Ms. Chelsea posts
Hey you lot, write something gross!
Do your worst and you’ll get our praise;
Do your best, you’ll get week old mayonnaise.

And so I do, and so it went
Until I gave my last two cents.
I’ve wrote about summer, literary masterpieces and the lot
I’ve won twice, and I’m besought

So tell me now and tell me true
Who is the worst poet for you?
Is it so terrible to terribly tell a little lie?
And say that perhaps it’s the great Kahunana himself, Mr. Billy Sly?

No one understands the guy who Shakes the Speares
He could be making it up after all the years
No one understands what he’s trying to say
Truly, he’s laughing from his grave and giggling all the way.

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

The ten amazing PM candidates
Needed since the dreadful May abdicates
Boris Johnson
Looking out for number one
Jeremy Hunt
No more than an embarrassing publicity stunt
Michael Gove
Slowly disappearing in all the cocaine lies you wove
Dominic Raab
Wouldn’t trust you with a kebab
Sajid Javid
You make our police so livid
Matt Hancock
Talks utter poppycock
Mark Harper
Completely incompetent usurper
Esther McVey
Only wants you to obey
Rory Stewart
The leadership qualities of a Raspberry Tart
Andrea Leadsom
Will only bring national doom
That is Britain Today
A country in complete disarray

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

Eee ha, ho down horse around,
dance the rainy reign reins away.

Rains rein in the picnic nit picks
but for every weed given rein to,
there will grow a rein-Carnation
and a carnation reincarnated as a weed.

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were from the southern part of the US I’d say something like, “Jiminy Christmas” instead of swearing. When I listened to a braggart I might think “he’s all hat and no cattle” and if someone got mad at me I’d smile and tell them that they can “just get happy in the same britches they got mad in”.

But I’m not from the southern part of the US.
Goodness gracious,
Although I am sometimes loquacious

I’m from the northern part of the US where I say stuff like, “You betcha” and where snow is called “snoooow” and where we all say “Yah” a lot and follow it up with “sure”, and where, when we talk to strangers, we begin every sentence with, “Oh”.

Like –

“Oh, how ’bout those Twins?”
or
“Oh, Olivia Johnson sure does make a good casserole.”
or
“Oh, didja see. . .”

Or “So”.

Like –

“So the Twins lost yesterday, eh?”
or
“So, didja hear Jim Larson got food poisoning from Olivia Johnson’s casserole?”
or
“So what’d’ya think of. . .”

And you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us pronounce “third” like “turd”.

So, yah, I’m from the northern part of the US.
You betcha,
And those little red dots you sometimes get on your skin? They’re petechia.

If I were from Mars I might talk and I might not talk because no one knows how Martians sound or if they even talk at all for that matter.

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

Slumped on sofa, feeling low,
Don’t wanna shop or outside go,
Shocking din beyond window;
Apocalypse? Malignant crows?
Curtains closed, so I don’t know,
But curiosity, so

I think take a look,
Rise to feet discarding book.
Need to eat, don’t want to cook.
Kitchen no cavern – more a nook…
Is it birds or fatal fluke?
Peak between drapes like cornered crook.

Three car pile-up – bedlam there,
Poking bones, blood-mussed hair.
Look away from sickening scare,
See ribbons of colour streaking the sky and I carelessly cease to care,
Horizon highlighting rhapsody rare;
Surprising sunset, breathtaking flare.

Pity poor victims; tarmac is read,
Rubberneckers shaking heads,
Twisted bodies lately dead.
Making sandwich, ready for bed,
Scraping mould from hunk of bread;
Provocative dreams if properly fed.

Pluck off blossoming, blue-grey yeast,
Anticipating impromptu feast,
Unforeseen shock – view faces east.
Time is thieving, night-fleecing beast.
Feel like a flock of silly geese;
Sunset west, sunrise east.

Radio wakes in hollow bedroom,
Morning call; warning tune.
Sat through night, blind to gloom.
Feel foreboding, forthcoming doom.
Skin feels pocked with autumn bloom.
Off to horrid office soon.

Better slough of sleepless grime;
Supper’s off; it’s breakfast time.

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

Roses are red
and white and pink.
Roses can also be
orange, I think?

Violets are blue,
And uh, tulips are…yellow?
I don’t know, I’m not a botanist. Or a poet.
So the end, bite me.

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

One two three four five
Counting seven syllables
Five four three two one

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

I cannot accurately say how far down it was.
At the time, I had no way to measure.
I could estimate, but that would be a guess.
Besides, I’d rather explain what I saw,
how I achieved a somewhat modest goal,
and enjoyed the unusual fruit harvested
from an unusual place which rewarded me
with a somewhat modest treasure.

Shining from the east, fiery streaks of sunlight slowly peeked
through clouds to warm the sandy sandstone bluffs,
the unstable wall between
Coast Highway and our planet’s largest ocean.

The salty surface of the massive sea was still and glassy as it slept.
I paused to pose in yoga stance
and stared at the horizon.

As chilly darkness surrendered to blue sky dawn,
I shifted my physical position and left my previous posture
to the past and headed for an outhouse where I hoped
to leave the liquid remnants of my light roast coffee.

Surrounded by blue plastic walls and door,
and squinting in the midst of acrid chemicals which did not mask
or complete the task that they were manufactured for,
I did what I’ll admit I cannot resist the urge to do.

I took a look into the tank below–
down into the pit–
down into a swarm of buzzing flies
and abandoned human exhaust product.

And there is where I found it–
silent, lonely, floating
with other objects which are not usually
mistaken for candy bars or old potatoes,
I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.

I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

Attempts to win the lottery
have never worked for me.
The Universe has not exactly
blessed me with its blissful luck.

But on one amazing morning,
I rescued a celebrity’s accessory.

Fortunately,
I did not fall in or make a mess of me.

In fact, after ending
its encounter with the ugly muck,
I let it dry for half an hour.

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.
I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

—–

Thanks to all who entered and for sharing your amazing talents! Tomorrow at 10 a.m. starts next week’s contest!

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

It’s almost time for fun in the sun (or snow)! After reading through the entries this week, I may reconsider my vacation plans…

Especially after reading the poem of the winner, Peregrine Arc.

Oi’, Summah!

by Peregrine Arc

Lemunade and sugahs
Butterflies and sands
My dear, look at my toes
They’ve been completely eaten by crabs.

Oi, get yer feet off my beach blanket
Tide, do yer worst
For I’m a sun crisped lobster
A blue eyed, Caucasian curse.

Tantamount to the joyous degrees and aspects of the tiny filigreed hairs of a baby tarantula from Spain.
But never, ever with a yellow umbrella on Tuesday, for shame.

Is how much I enjoy my summer rain.

Drip. Drip. Drip…
….
….
….
Zazzle.

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

Honestly, I had three poems tied for first after my initial run-through. They were terrible, confusing but still readable, related to vacation, and had hidden messages. P’Arc’s winning elements were her deviance from a meter and her (hopefully intentional) misspellings.

Again, some of you were (hopefully intentionally) not that terrible. Bad or no, you’re all worth a read:

The perils of camping

by Bruce Goodman

We’re leaving town to go on summer vacation.
The traffic heading out is like a conflagration.
We’ve got the three kids in the back of the car.
We’re going to a lonely camping spot with no shops other than very far.

Arrive we have! now to erect the tents;
One for the kids and one, you know what is meant,
for me and the Missus.
Already she’s flooded me with kisses.

Well here we are getting down to business.
The kids are all fed and have washed up their dishes.
Oh oh… oh Honey, we’re safe in our tents
but I forgot to bring the condiments.

Chorus: Heigh ho! Heigh ho! Is it off back home we go
because Daddy forgot to bring his condiments?
Who wants stuff heated up around the camp fire
when eating a sausage without condiments is dire?
Heigh ho! Heigh ho! Is it off back home we go
because Daddy forgot to bring his condiments?

—–

The woe of winter holidays

by Deb Whittam

Holidays are upon us,
She whispers with dread
Perhaps it was time
To enforce a day in bed
The kids would be up to hijinks
The circus, the movies, the zoo
All great fun things
When it’s raining to do
What about arts and crafts
No need to get wet
The look they send you
Suggests this isn’t a safe bet
In the end you’re left with no choice
Honesty is the best they say
Go play on your computers
I’m staying in bed today.

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Time for the two of us
To be where we’re not
For privacy take long
treks
We’ll get all sweaty
And deliciously hot
While engaging in rigorous
Hikes

—–

I Really Wish You Were Here, Instead Of Me

by Joanne Fisher

Here I am just soaking in the brine

I really wish I was having a good time

It would be really nice if someone else was here

If only I had won a totally different tier

I am at this wonderful summer resort

All because one day I bought a torte

The prize was a holiday in the midst of winter

All I’m hoping is this isn’t going to make me bitter

I better go as I’m running out of space

I long to soon be back in an aeroplane’s carapace

By the time I get home I’ll be full of joy

but for now I should let go of this freezing buoy

—–

Summer vacation

by Violet Lentz

life has been one long endless summer vacation lost luggage canceled flights hotels with no HBO sandy beaches endless nights spent wading in hot water close calls getting caught up stopping short of letting go doing nothing so long that it finally gets boring taking off on a tear in a t-bar and bra make up and cigarettes toothbrush at the ready why hang on to dirty laundry just throw that shit out grabbing at straws as they strike at my fancy waking up wearing nothing but an old worn wild hair in hot pursuit of a synonym for i wanna get higher diving too deep in some roughneck’s water seeking someone i can drown in or maybe just drift- far away from myself.

—–

VACATION EXCITEMENT

by Ruth Scribbles

Summer vacation?

Excitement?

I hate summer in Texas

It’s blasted hot 🥵

If I leave Texas, then….

Oh Lordy, must I be wordy

Hot as hell…

How do I know?

My skin sizzles and smells

My energy disappears

I become a big wimp

Can’t even limp around

Oh wait, did you say vacation??

Woohoo! Alaska, here I come!

She said as she melted from the sun.

—–

I have so much fun reading through these every week and hope you have just as much fun writing them! Come back tomorrow at 10 for the next prompt.

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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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Harry Potter and Game of Thrones have nothing on our terrible poetry skills, especially not on this week’s winner.

And that is…. Trent McDonald.

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Oh muse!
Do not forget your poor creature, oh muse!
I am your tool
That you must use
So let my tongue
Sparkle like I was young.
What’s that?
Not my tongue?
Uhm, my pen?
Sing like a wren?
Ah! My computer
Sing your praises
In tones of pewter
Got it

This is the story of the Anger of Skywalker
The fleet-footed
Druid talker
Hear my tale!

Anakin had anger
Apollo, in the guise of Palpatine
Sent a plague on the Skywalker family
Killing his mother with an infestation of Sand People

Like Agamemnon and Bresies before
Kanobi took Padmé
Away
Ani didn’t like that
Said I’m going to get that boy

Oh yea fates!
When you tear away our mates!
And make us Dance on a Volcano
Wait, that was a song by Genesis
A prog rock band, not a Sith
Well, damned fates
When we fight on lava
Flowing from a crater
We might get burned
And become Darth Vader

But there are five more movies
With one more in the works
And I’m out of words
But then, Homer did write the Odyssey
So I will not
Abandon all hope

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

Several poems were funny, followed the topic, and made me cringe. Trent’s poem had them all, plus enough of an epic poem feel to hurt even more. My favorite aspect is his Star Wars events or character references subtly dropped into what seems a decent poem. Great work!

Not that the others weren’t nearly as terrible:

The Truth

by Deb Whittam

Fingertips coated in dust,
Scouring through magic, muck and mud
Knowing for sure
We are not alone
Venturing into that danger zone
Fox’s and Scully’s do not
Exaggerate
They trust in the truth
The truth that cannot wait
We may believe that it is all
Just a show
But they know it is real
Which just really blows
X-Files they were called
But wasn’t that really the truth
Flesh was kind of optional
Here’s your proof
Turned on, then it went off
But like all addictions
It returned, just like a real bad cough

—–

Bedtime reading

by Bruce Goodman

I must admit it’s rather fright’ning
when school libraries banish Enid Blyton.
And I feel there’s not a lotta
books go out by Beatrix Potter.
These days too it’s Dr Seuss
who’s racist and loves pet abuse.
So provided I cover up the cover
I read my kids “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”.

—–

The Board with the Dings

by Dorinda Duclos

I have traveled many a mountain
Gotten lost along my merry way
Came across a pip of a board with dings
Stuck it in my pocket, among other things

Made it difficult to continue my journey
But I trolled my way along, as best I could
Stuck my hand in my pocket a few times
Kept pulling out splinters of wood

Thought about hitting up my friend, Bill
But the weather didn’t look very nice
Oh, and did I mention, I didn’t know
That there’s a fire burning in the mountain

Stumbled upon a rather bizarre little man
Globulin, or Global, or something like that
Kept trying to trick me, to get my board
I wonder if his parents know he’s a brat

And then there’s those trees, ugly are they
Beady eyes that kept staring at me
Maybe it’s because I have a piece of them
In my pocket, clinging, I won’t set it free

So much for my trek up the mountain
So much for the board in my jeans
I decided to build me a fire, I did
Sit around tootin’, yep, too many beans

—–

That Frigging Ring

by Peregrine Arc

Let’s walk to Mordor, Gandalf said.
I’ll accompany you and use my flashy staff to stave off your untimely deaths.
Gandalf has access to giant eagles
but I feel the need for more blisters on my barking beagles.

Wouldn’t it be wiser to fly above the volcano and airdrop the blasted ring?
Come, come now. If we did that, Tolkien wouldn’t have wrote a thing.
Do you want to star in this movie or not?
Get behind that orc and give him a clout.

Why didn’t we bring more wizards on this trip?
What, there’s only four? I don’t believe it.
Wait I’ve got it, there’s the eye that sees all, right?
Cast a curse of blindness and water.
And there you have it: that Sauron’s a goner.

Now let the Hobbits get back to eating and dancing
The elves to whining and adverting disaster.
The dwarves to counting gold and mining too deep
So Peter Jackson can get some sleep.

—–

not my god…

by Violet Lentz

He turned his back on his daughter,
his ‘Chavala’
to him, she is dead.
he did so, because she married Feyedka,
a Russian, not a Jew.
he did so, because his traditions dictated it.
he did so, because he believed with all of his heart it was the right thing-
the only thing to do.
he did so despite the fact
that it tore him apart
that it was inconceivable
that it made no sense.
he did so, because he honestly believed
it was required by his god to do so.

Who can logically explain to me
what god of love
of compassion
of creation
of order
would put one mans religious affiliation
so highly above another,
that he can forsake his own child?
what god would inflict this wound
upon his most cherished creation?
that which he “created in his own image”?

not my god…

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

As I drink my coffee

Still in sleep mode

I want to tell you

Potter didn’t smoke pot

But his wand was hot

Flew powder is the best

Just don’t sneeze

Pleeze

Now I’m off to Hogwarts

—–

Happy Wednesday

by Larry Trasciatti

Bald Uncle Fester has a light bulb in his mouth
Grandmama can stir you up bat stew.
Pugsley can translate Cousin Itt.
And Thing can even lend a hand for you.
And everything happens on Wednesday.

Gomez and his Morticia
They are such a sweet romance
Querida Mia and her Bubbele in love.
And Aristotle Octopus is Pugsley’s favorite pet
As Lurch learns all the latest dance steps.
And there is always something new on Wednesday.

So let us snap our fingers now
And let us visit them
And let us hearken to the baying wolves
As Lurch does play the harpsichord
With all its dulcet tones
And let us wait right here each week for Wednesday.

—–

Thank you for all the amazing entries! Check out next week’s contest, tomorrow at 10 a.m. MST.

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I asked for engineering failures and terrible poetry, and everyone delivered. In fact, you all delivered so well that I’ve been debating the same six poems back and forth for a few hours.

Since our literary failures do not mean a literal catastrophic result, however, I’ll leave you in suspense no longer. The winner is Bruce Goodman.

Thou wert my gate

by Bruce Goodman

Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life;
a doorway in the
corridor of existence;
a hole in the
wall of being

Now you have shut the
entrance to your heart
and I am shattered into a pile of quaking reinforced concrete .
No more will I hear your euphonious voice
wafting over the plastic barrier of time;
no more will my nostrils sense the scent
of your hair on the yellow brick road of vivacity.
Oh the audacity!

You have become an engineering failure,
a total engineering failure;
in fact you are the biggest engineering failure
I have ever encountered in my life.
And you are fat.
I wish you all the Botox you can lay your hands on.
You need it.

Strumpet! Strumpet!
You have no reason to blow your own trumpet
for thou art a total engineering failure!
Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life
but now you are just a pile of rocks –
to say nothing of your choice in tasteless frocks.

Like I said, many poems were contenders at the end. I liked the short and sweet of a few; the long and rambling of the others. I like the lessons taught, the meters distraught, and the rhymes that were naught …good.

Bruce’s contribution ultimately won because it sounds very serious and poetic in many ways: word choice, alliterative references, more serious meter. Then, we’ve got the completely misplaced “And you are fat. / I wish you all the Botox you can lay your hands on. / You need it.” His final stanza returns us to the original serious poeming with the humorous element he dropped on us like an indigestible rock.

Again, not that the other poems didn’t give Bruce a run for his nonexistent money. I loved them all, and know you will too:

An Engineer’s Lament

by Deb Whittam

Oh let us lament
The failures we must confront
Oft it is not us
The engineers proclaim
It’s that other thing
Which is to blame
We see your look of doubt
But let me tell you with clout
It’s true you see
It’s the pressure valves fault, not me.

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

They once built a bridge to a star
Oh, that’s so incredibly far
But relativity it seems
Is more than bad dreams
So the warped space time continuum over the light years, uhm, yeah, uhm, made it hard to reach by car?
yeah, that’s it, made it hard to reach by car.

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

I once built a bridge, that is true
One to reach from me over to you
But my skill was too weak
So it fell in the creek
And now I’m terribly blue

—–

First Thing’s First

by Peregrine Arc

I built a
Boat.
At first it wouldn’t bark
Then it wouldn’t hark
To anything I said.
It swam there, tarried there
And drove me to Timbuktu
When I wanted to go to Malibu.
So I shot it
In the hull
And now the problem, I think, is solved.
Glub, glub, glub.
Oh dear. What whim.
There’s only one thing for it: Can I swim?

—–

Casey Jones

by Michael B. Fishman

Casey Jones, you big dummy.
You drove the train too fast and you crashed.
And then you died.

(Note to reader: insert head shake here)

What’s that?
This poem’s apposed to be about engineering fails
and not engineer fails?

Well color me stupid.

I can’t carry a tune in a bucket
and I guess I can’t read directions so just…

…don’t buck it.

—–

The New Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

by Larry Trasciatti

‘Twas a springtime morning out in old Lindenhurst when Tommy O’Leary decided to make him a car.
So he put on his very bestest greenest threads as he burst out with joy to all his assembled friends: ‘My Chitty Chitty Bang Bang moment awaits, I tell you!!’

The local townsfolk have sworn since then, that a raven and peacock flew by flew by, that a raven and peacock flew by.

‘Within five weeks my five step process’ , says he, ‘will yield a spectacular car, a car. It will yield a spectacular car.

To his shame he made it of light balsa wood and that didn’t bode well in a crash a crash. No that didn’t bode well in a crash.

—–

Bhopal

by H.R.R. Gorman

The December morning air smelled cool, fresh,
Coals of industry a faint background scent.
Bhopal contained an old pesticide plant
That employed locals and brought in money.

Poisonous intermediate
The methyl isocyanate
Built pressure in the old vessels,
But the aging pipes and valves failed.

They thought the meter
Failed and went on home
To leave the pressure
Building on and on.

But then
It popped
Poison
Leakage

Breath
Pain
Death
Vain

Agony of 3,787 deaths
Many more injuries, some severe

No litigation could repay this woe
But it failed to bring justice anyway.
Innocents were killed, but money was made,
Fulfilling the prophecy of profit.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

The master designer has failed
He really should be put into jail
He gave her six toes
And a long pointy nose
She now wears a long dark veil

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

The DNA put in her body
Was very very naughty
It made her get sick
Turned her muscles to ick
That is the end of this story

—–

Anatomical Mars vs Venus

by Violet Lentz

purported as divine creation
supposedly perfect in every way
I have reason to believe, the plans were drafted
on the of’t disputed creators, off day.

with the parts over here
being just enough off
from the parts they’re
to connect with over there

practice and patience
are often required-
which could take till long after
the ‘use by date’ had expired

so ‘creation one’ took the problem in hand
and after a hormonal cocktail or two
one upped creation with video porn, so now we look good-
doing what we still can’t figure out, how to do.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Epic fail I declare
The engineer used defective parts
Was he not aware
Of the pain I must bear
Or does he really not care

—–

Dear Nigel

by BereavedDad

Normally
I see the best in folk
Giving the benefit of doubt
Eagerly seeking the good
Leaving the bad to one side

F*** it in this case
A complete bellend
Raving racist
Arrogant and spiteful
Greedy and self serving
Egotistical political parasite

—–

Fail

by Joanne the Geek

This entire project was always quite cursed

There’s a crack in the dam it’s gonna burst!

As engineers go, I’m definitely the worst

They may as well have hired Fred Durst

So I’m off with my suitcase full of money

Off to the fabled land of milk and honey

In a way you could say it’s almost funny

Now I’m off to a place that’s quiet and sunny.

—–

Thanks everyone, you terrible poets you! Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt!

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

At looooong last, I’ve had time that I should have spent feeding my children and cleaning my house to spend on choosing a winner.

And that winner is: Deb Whittam.

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

i got you out when it
was darker than the darkest
night, when the silence
wasn’t golden, it was burnt
like toast forgotten in the
toaster, when all stared at me
not perplexed, kind of,
mean, if you know what I mean,
mean like Mexican bean beans.

it was you that brought
sunlight to my life, that made me
feel accepted and perhaps
even like liked
it was you who made others
smile, not that kind of smile
when they are placating you,
but that kind of smile when they
think what you said was actually
a little bit funny

where are you now, where could
you be hiding … in a suitcase perhaps
perhaps, then it was the best
of times, but now it is the worst
of times, for you, I miss you oh
sense of humor who stood by me when
I couldn’t think of what to say but,
now you are gone, gone as in absent, perhaps
forever, forever, ever

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

As is the norm every contest, the choosing felt brutal. I narrowed things down to about three poems; based on sounding like an elegy, losing something, and (of course) being terrible. Deb’s concoction had several bad poetry elements like repeated words that had no reason to repeat, and that it felt very much like a serious poem -but really was not.

As is also the norm every contest, the other entrants were hardly losers (winners?). Read below and see if you can keep a straight face:

An Allergy

by Bruce Goodman

Oh woe is me
For I have lost my Virginity
Somewhere between the pharmacy
And under the Linden Tree.

If you should see it running about
Give me a shout
Even if you are in doubt.
I have no idea how it got out.

It was here one minute and then gone
Quick as a flash, it didn’t take long.
Where could have I gone wrong?
I feel such a ning-nong.

I desperately want my Virginity back
To lose it is a great lack.
My mother says it’s my own fault, that’s a fact,
And anyway, she says, Virginity is a stupid name for a cat.

—–

Brain Matter

by Ruth Scribbles

Alas my brain
Was drained
through a strainer
Of multi media
Input and output.
What a pain!
It’s gone
With the wind
Wound up like a
String of yarn
Wrapped around
My phone
My brain was painfully
Drained!
Matter is spaced
It’s gone… my brains
Are gone
Pieces are sliding
I can’t catch them
Glue won’t help
My file cabinet has been
De-filed
I can’t even cry
Because my brain
Doesn’t know that–
It is gone gone gone

—–

I Miss My Phone

by Larry Trasciatti

My very heart and soul do break,
So forlorn and woebegone
When I , alone with my pajamas on
Have been begrudged my telephone.

I go to Google’s Hangouts and
Punch my number into the keys.
And hope and pray that maybe please
Its dulcet ring will soon arise.
O I suspect where it may be
Perchance in my pajama bottom
At least that’s where it was last autumn.
And just where are they when I need’em?

If it into my pants pockets was tossed
And only for a moment lost
I hope that soon our paths will have again crossed
And it will not in a machine get washed.

—–

Gone for Good, Gone for Bad

by Trent McDonald

Even keeled
In a fair wind
Keeping my balance
In all things emotional
I have lost thee!
How, oh how, could it be?

You are the one thing
That keeps me safe!
Without you
I would be beaten up
All of the time
You make me watch my mouth
my language
All of the time
I don’t insult bigger guys
Because of you
But now you are gone
To wherever such things go
No more
Gone

I see only red
I can’t find you
When the world is red!
Darn it,
I hate red!
And it is pissing me off
To no end!
The red is growing
I am trembling
I need to punch something
Because you are gone!!!!
GET BACK HERE!!!!!!!
Arrggggggghhhh!!

Ah, my temper
where can you be?
I have lost my temper once again
And the world
Will never be the same

—–

FLOWERS ON THE COFFIN

by Chirayu

May I live or die
But my love
will never die”

These words are
written on an
old maple leaf
which is still
on the coffin of the boy
who once said this
lines to his love.

Actual, this maple leaf is a valentine gift once given
by the boy to his girl
which last even after his death.

—–

Elegy For My Smartphone

by Joanne Fisher

Bitter the world becomes

when you lose your smartphone

Time and again at the days beginning

when I used to switch my phone on

to see the latest notifications

I must now mourn it’s absence

there is no one I can now

communicate to without Twitter

or Messenger

Without it how do I dare

open the doors of my heart?

When before I used to happily post away

not ever needing to guard my thoughts

but with it’s loss my world dwindles

day by day, and passes away

Where has my Facebook gone? Where is Twitter?

Where has Tumblr gone? Where the texts? Where my

player of music?

Where the Uber Eats? And where the pleasures of

my solitaire app?

Sad at heart I bind my feelings in fetters

I dream I still have my phone

then I wake and it’s absence

is more heavy on my heart

aching for it’s touch screen

and it’s comfortable place in my hand

Nothing is easy in this world when

even our phones are in the hands of fate

here tweets are fleeting, here texts are

fleeting, here Snapchat is fleeting,

without my smartphone the whole world

becomes a wilderness.

—–

By Any Other Name

by Jon

Euphemisms abound around this truth that’s hard to face;
My admission – I avoid it – staring blankly into space.
My loss has now beset me. My lament has brought me low.
Ever more do others notice. Clearly they’re no longer stowed.
Ere I pursued that line of thought, I prob’ly should have paused,
Alas too late, as now is clear, my marbles I have lost!

—–

Thar’ She Blows

by Peregrine Arc

I’ve had it up to here
My patience has disappeared.
No longer am I diplomatic;
no longer are we being quite so pragmatic.

You’ll get it done, you’ll jot it here
Two weeks later and it’s–oh dear!
It isn’t done, it isn’t well?
Well who could’ve bloody telled?

It’s no matter, I forgive
Just sign this paper here, no motive.
For my patience has gave, it is no more
For your incompetence has made me forlorn.

I’ll measure your shoulders, I’ll dig the hole
And into your coffin with prayers you’ll go.
For I’m tired of hearing you’ll do something soon
When you’d just as well promise me the moon.

—–

Elegy to My Last Pair of Glasses

by Leanna Jones

Farewell my glasses, farewell to thee,
I hope you know what you meant to me.
When you entered my life, I was delighted
But now your departure has left me short sighted.
I can’t watch EastEnders or read the news.
I can’t put on lipstick or lace up my shoes.
I now live in darkness, and perpetual blur,
With only the memories of how good things were.
Oh why did you go! Why did you flee!
I’m lost without you, quite literally.
An empty space on the side of my bed
And nothing to touch on the top of my …
Oh silly me, they’re always found there
I’ll check first next time, before I buy a new pair.

—–

Leon Hodges

by Violet Lentz

Ain’t never knowed no one like ol’ Leon Hodges. All piss, vinegar, and moonshine. Had a mouth a man shouldn’t a et with, couldn’t read a book, d’nt know a letter from a line.

He told some great tall tales tho’, ‘bout women, an wine, an song. Don’t know the truth of nar a one, ‘ccept ’bout how his first marriage up an’ done gone wrong.

Don’t know if he had any chi’drn, if he did, he never spoke a none to me, and I’d a have ta say he woulda, as I was prolly close to him, as another man could be.

When the news come of his passin’, it come down hard up on my heart- I ain’t gone lie. I’ll tell ya the truth, that mans leavin’ done tore this man apart.

All the times I shook my head and said, ‘You damn ol’ bastard liar!’, I’d give anything for one more night, with ol’ Leon, spinnin’ yarns in front o’ a good hot fire.

He was a good man, bl’eive that, cause I wouldn’t tell you no lie, was the best damn friend I ever had. Gol dang it Leon! Why’d ya up ‘n die?

—–

To Misplace is to Lose

by Michael B. Fishman

Hark thee temper, I loseth
thee
free…
quentlee.

Careless me.

Lo temper, a canker-blossom
you’re really pretty awesome
and more so even if you could come
across some
patience.

Look at that car! Says my beastly patience crassly. Oops, lost.

These lousy lines aren’t moving. Obnoxious and clumsy patience, plump and scary. Oops, lost.

He was out at home? What? That flabby umpire is blindingly blind! Oops, lost.

My lusty patience. Silly and sometimes witty. Mysteriously mysterious. And imperious. Why so serious? You joker.

Oh proud patience: my paltry pretender of a painfully prickly persistence. Would you obey me if I didn’t mislay thee?

—–

Thank you to so many entries this week! You certainly made the contest difficult to judge! Please tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Most weeks I cannot quite make up my mind and this time was no exception. I read through each poem several times before deciding upon a winner.

And that winner is Michael B. Fishman.

I’m Not a Bird or a Plane

by Michael B. Fishman

I really like to kiss my aunts ‘cuz I am Captain Underpants.
Why just the other day,
I was sitting,
on the
toilet
and I looked
down and I said
to the toilet, I said,
“Hey, man, you look a bit
flushed.”
The toilet laughed and said
to me,
he said,
“Hey, man, why are you so
corny?”
And we both laughed.
So I’m a superhero don’t mess with me
cuz I can shrink as small as a garden pea.
And I can fly and turn invisible if I want
and
bend metal and save people who need saving and
I
can do it all while swimming across the Mediterranean Sea.
And be done in time for afternoon tea.
Do-re-mi.
And I can do it in the open air in my underwear.
So move over Batman.
Now I’m going under there.
Under wear?
Hahaha made ‘ya say “underwear”!

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

All eight poems submitted this week were pretty terrible. Only one or two didn’t make the final cut. Michael’s squeezed by on a hair, that hair being on a mental coin flip of which to choose… He, like many others, had awful rhymes. He, like many others, rambled somewhere that may have been a subject. And he, like many others, played with whatever meter may have been there to the point of utter irritation.

Great work everyone. Here you all are:

How doth a superhero

by Bruce Goodman

How doth a superhero
squeeze into body-hugging spandex all those magnificent body parts?
And what happens if he or she farts?
Does it blow up like a balloon
so that everyone knows you’ve been eating prunes?

I could never be a superhero;
not because I don’t have the body or audacity
but because of my incapacity
to squeeze everything into that lycra.
Although I just might. Ya
know I couldn’t stand having everyone gawk at bits of my anatomy
even though body-hugging polymer polyurethane would flatter me.

And yet, my dove,
such is my love
that I would save you even without the suit.
Ain’t that beaut?
Spandex would be a sin
if I could rescue you wearing just my own skin.

—–

Dun dun dun dun DUNH DE DUNH

by Peregrine Arc

Oh, look. A spider.
Oh, look. A hammer.
Oh, look. A Russian spy.
Oh, look. A witch with red eyes.
He hee. Ho hum.
Quiet, Loki.

Are we all here? Can the camera fit them all?
Nay, pan out, camera man.
Let’s get all the ladies in this shot.
Don’t forget the tree. Almost did, didn’t we?
Tee hee.

There are more salaries in here than one can fathom.
Even for those who get twenty second clips at random.
And less words than Stan Lee,
who let us imagine and see.

Hee hee, ho la.
Pray tell, where’s my hammah?

*Lightning crash*
*Fade out into random poses with strong jaw lines*

—–

Superheroes by the Score

by Trent McDonald

There is the Universe by DC
There is one for Marvel
And then, there is Reality

The superheroes in our Universe
The ones every day
Though not quite as rare, are oh so much worse

There is Man of Bog
Killing people with the stench
Of his great fart formed fog

Library Lady is a great in anyone’s book
Her super power is to stop all conversation
With just one sharp look

Political Man will give you pause
With his power to twist illogic
To promote his unworthy cause

Diet Woman can in a single bound
Defy all physics that can be found
Turning an ounce of salad into fat by the pound

There are so many more out there
Superheroes by the score
But I no longer care
So will tell you no more

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

Lorisman,
Fights crime!
Eventually

—–

Untitled piece,
Read to the tune of the theme song from Barney. Yes, the big purple dinosaur Barney.

by Dorinda Duclos

I love Batman, you love Robin

We’re gonna fight, just wait and see

With a BAM! And a SWOOSH!

Like Cat Woman with her claws

And a Wonder Woman whooping, just because

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

The sky is dark,
Ominously dark,
So dark that it could almost be night
But it isn’t.

The atmosphere is hostile
Crisply hostile
So hostile that the citizens hide indoors to be safe
They aren’t

Our villain
Handsomely evil
Oozes along the sidewalk seeking vengeance
Malignantly angry

Our hero
Vibrantly purposefully
Steps forth to meet his foe
Heroically brave

They clash
Wham, bam, POW
A kaleidoscope of color and action as they wrestle for dominance
Success/defeat

—–

Poetryman or Better a Woman

by ESP

Men need food, drink, shelter and internet to live,
but they need the myths and mythology to be men.
The god though is abstract and the holy books
are filled with instructive stories instead of heroes,
with the stars losing their sheen in the movies,
big names failing to make as much as their pay,
the world needed heroes who were more than human.

Enters marvel, making even the reluctant become a fan,
as its teams put the nordic and greek god-makers to shame
and when they ran out of ideas included the gods to the game.
What we have now is more superheroes than men,
myths to choose from alphabetic lists that goes over pages
and if not sure you may go for the never ending avengers.

Not trying to be terrible here, I am anything but sincere.
This’s the best I come up with, read my posts if you care,
my friends and followers do, going through this rhyming pain.
Poetry is the damsel in distress, all over wordpress,
what we need is a poetryman or better a capered woman,
a superhero to save it from assaults in the name of prompts.

—–

Congratulations to the winner and near-winners and thank you all for playing. Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt!

boy-child-childhood-346796

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Well, well, well, class. This week you have made me truly proud. The level of terribleness was almost palpable; the rhymes painful; the “swearing” so very entertaining. Thank you.

As almost always, however, there can only be one winner. This week, that winner is Ruth Scribbles.

YO MAMA

by Ruth Scribbles

Slam and a bam
And a hip hop cam

A buck and a tuck
And a Fock Fock Fock

Boo rah chee rah
Bum boom bah

My mama don’t like
Your mama thinks
She better

Rama mama not yo mama
Yo yo mama nana

Daddio patio
Whoop whoop whoooo

Im done with this rap
A tat a tat a tat tat
TAT

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

I had a difficult time narrowing results down with the level of talent/cringe-ness for this round. After all was said and rhymed; Ruth’s winning points were her second stanza (A buck and a tuck / And a fock fock fock), her cliché rap references, and her poem’s overall terribleness.

At least two others were close finalists; and all made me laugh through my tears of pain. Read below, and enjoy them as well:

Untitled piece

by Nitin

Yo, yo, this is for all them fellas in the hood,
Don’t let the Five-O ruin your mood,
Let’s keep it gangsta till the end
Let’s fight them snitches and beat the reverend???
Yo, yo, I know I can’t rap for nuts
But I think my anaconda likes them big butts

—–

Untitled piece

by Doug

**** cool
stitch in time, mind ****
dress to the nines, fine
Chantilly lace hangin’
ditty bop well hung ****
hanging ****
banging ****
want you babe bad
bad *** jerky ****
chill hot

—–

It’s a Clean House, Yo

by Peregrine Arc

Yo, yo I stubbed my toe
Gotta get back now to shine my halo.
I mix my speaks, get down in my sneaks
And then I start the hammer on my
Beautiful Louisiana

Vroom, vroom now grab the broom
Word, we’ve got laundry to do.
We must clothe a thousand men
With all the clothes in this here pig pen.

So grab that broom,
Cause you know how we do.
And before you know it, girl…
We got this house shining like a pearl!

My, my, my the house look so fly
That’s what happens when you clean.
So serene, so lean, so pristine
I need to call my girl, Justine.

Now check yourself before you wreck yourself–to the chorus!

Wax on…wax off.
Wax on…wax off.
Momma didn’t raise no fool now–
Wax on…wax off.
Wax on…wax off.

Word to your Hoover.

—–

The Anti-Rap Rap (audio version)

by Trent McDonald

I don’t do rap
But some of the time
Put the pencil to the paper
For some pretty mean rhyme

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap

I try to go deep
But it’s often Willy-nilly
I Can look pretty stupid
Or write very silly

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap
*Something like this* Techno

Often my verse
Comes out perverse

Send it away in a Hearst!
With a loud curse

For
I might say “you lose with booze”
Or you might bring me good news
But the words I use
Show my views
Have no Clues!

They stick out
Like Sore Tooths!

See?
It’s not to be!
Don’t have the key
No good rhyme for me!

More techno
Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap
Techno solo

I spew this stuff
Shovel it up in a pile
But my one big hope
Is Today….

Today…

I made you smile!!

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap

—–

Fa la la la la – A rap

by Bruce Goodman

Verse:
You say you don’t want me in your life
Well that cuts like a knife
You say that life’s a breeze
You can say what you please
It won’t bring me to my knees
You’re such a sleaze.
You’re just like the old woman who lived in a shoe
I don’t know why she reminds me of you.
You think I’m going on and on with this rap
Well just cut the crap
I too can talk the talk
And I don’t give a fork.

Chorus:
I don’t give a fork
I don’t give a fork
Fa la la la la
I don’t give a fork.
You dork.

—–

Camel Meat with Thyme

by D. Wallace Peach

It a crime not to rhyme
Or do time in the clamor slammer
For the chime of the hammer
Don’t be a mammal
Better trammel
On a camel. Huh.

What you yammer in a verse
Don’t need to rhyme perverse
Keep the curse in your purse
How you like my meat
Cooking camel in the heat
Serve it with a beet. Huh.

Sometime gotta play the game
Gotta eat the meat, Pete
We rap a beat the same
With a handle for our name
Wolfing camel or parakeet
Ain’t it a culinary treat. Huh.

—–

Oi

by Deb Whittam

My mom said a ok
You will cook or I’ll make you pay
You do nuthin but twitter and insta
So I think its time you all cooked me dinna.

—–

Thank you all. Peace out.

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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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Sorry for the delay, but I will hold you all in suspense no longer! After a close bet between three finalists, the winner is: Bruce Goodman.

Acrostic to an unnamed personage

by Bruce Goodman

Hell!
I don’t really detest anyone much.
Look, I’m not happy with the unfashionable woollen fabric
Like what some people wear;
About as frumpy as possible I reckon.
Really, I guess that means a detestation,
You know, of some sort.

Congratulations, Bruce! You are once again the most terrible poet of the week!

As I mentioned, it was a close race at the end. The two others had some intentionally misused words and some rotten rhyming. Bruce ultimately won because of his overall terrible poem. It wants to sound like a poem; it makes us think it might possibly be poetic. Then, it leaves the mind hanging like a sandwich at lunch that may have had some not-quite-in-date mayonnaise.

I mention finalists but the others weren’t half bad, either. I eliminated most on minor technicalities like not being terrible enough or not really reading like a poem. You all know I have trouble picking a favorite child each week.

Read through the terribleness and see for yourself:

Voldemort

by Peregrine Arc

Very tyrannical are you, bald headed twit
Oh, look at your Death Eaters running away again, you idiot
Lost is Nagini, curled around your toes
Dementors would have nothing to suck out of your remaining soul.
Everyone knows you were a spoiled brat
Many a time you could have turned back.
Or did you not care?
Really, I don’t think you ever loved another in your life
Twould have been just another game for you to ruin and set fire to with strife.

—–

Untitled piece

by Cynical Wordsmith

Does she have to scream at every meeting?
I can’t handle it
Am I allowed to punch her?
No but I can get up and walk out
Evadable

—–

Scientia Pontentia Est

by Violet Lentz

Could I possibly implore you
Oh ye of little sense
Not to fall for every 
Schemers
Ploy, as you peruse the
Internet?
Really, I’m not the only one that thinks, you
Are coming off half cocked
Claiming insider information
You most assuredly haven’t got

The ‘truths’ you’re privy to online
Have to be weighed with common sense
Evidently, in which you’re lacking-
Or you’d have thought of this yourself.
Really, I’m not judging- 
I just absolutely believe, that when Sr. Francis Bacon
Said, “Scientia potentia est”- he knew 
That knowledge can only be power, when your
Sources are correct.

—–

Marilyn

by Ruth Scribbles

M alevolent woman
A ppalling stink*
R ight-always
I nstigator-you name it
L iar (because she’s not always right)
Y acker-constant
N icotine addict*

—–

Tove

by Ruth Scribbles

T errible
O pinionated
V indictive
E vil

—–

To My Enemies

by Fresh Hell

Thou fiend
Of hell

May you never see light
Yearn for …light

Even I don’t like you
Now go away
Ease my workplace drama
Mind your own business
I think you
Stink

—–

Henry Clay

by H.R.R. Gorman

He looks like a dead opossum
E
xcept with much less hair
N
ever won a duel in his life
R
otten butthole of a man
Y
outhful joy never became him

Corrupt bargains were his specialty
L
ost more elections than Nader
A
llied with gilded corruption
Y
our political party is dead

—–

John C. Calhoun

by H.R.R. Gorman

Just a rotten son of a gun
Obsolete before he was born
H
air was an absolute mess
Nullification was the sword he fell on

Campaigned against himself

Carolina was his weapon
Attempted to dissolve the union
Lied about Adams and Monroe
How ’bout that Vice Presidency?
Oh, you did nothing?
Until you became a traitor?
Nullification was so stupid

—–

Don

by Michael B. Fishman

Diarrhea complexion & smelly mouth. Why do you talk so much about so little?
Oafish lapdog smile, your man-boobs wiggle and you’re not funny so stop trying.
Nasty Muzak is more interesting than listening to you drone on and on and on…

—–

Thank you for the laughs, the cleverness, and the horrible feeling in my gut. Perhaps the latter is indigestion and not at all related to the poems.

Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt!

friend-2754278_1280

Bruce: 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, Week 22.

Please remove all dignified, appropriate rules about poetry and drop them behind a dumpster somewhere, read how to terribly poem, and look at the specifics below:

  1. This week, we are going to make an acrostic poem. The Topic of said poem is a person you detest.
    If his name were Bob, your poem might read:
    lessed waste of
    O rgans is
    ob
  2. For Length, your masterpiece must be no longer than the person’s name.
    Also, keep the number of people you hate and therefore wish to honor with a poetic address to three.
  3. Rhyme if you wish; don’t if you’d rather not.
  4. As always, make it terrible. The person you hate must sense, by aura of recitation alone, your loathing and aversion. He (or she) must follow the scent of vitriol to your computer and vow revenge upon your children’s children.
  5. Keep things PG-13 or nicer, if you please.

My children have Spring Break next week, which means I do not. Therefore, the deadline for this ‘weekly’ contest will be in two weeks. You have till 8:00 a.m. MST Friday (April 26) to submit a poem.

If you are shy, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did as well, just to be certain. I will be able to tell you whether I received it.

For a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
Pixabay

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: The winner is everyone who entered.

You are all the most terrible poets of the week!

I am amazed, impressed a thousandfold, and speechless. I tried to think of a winner, I truly did. I tried narrowing by rules, by terribleness, by rhyming or not or rhyming not -to no avail.

I think I was simply laughing too hard.

To pick just one among such talent would be to insult the rest. I kid thee not; see for yourself:

Coffee For (In the Style of John Masefield’s “Sea Fever“)

by John S.

I must go down the street again, to the coffeehouse near the Y,
And what I need is a yogurt scone and a grande latte chai;
With a mule’s kick and a banshee song and the white milk that’s shaking,
There’s a grim look on the barista’s face, and the coffee press is breaking.
I must go down the street again, for a caffé mocha, iced.
It’s 2 pm on a Wednesday, this cannot be denied;
And here it is a promotions day with the caramel clouds flying,
And soccer moms with their matcha green, and the frappuccinos vying.
I must go down the street again, this vagrant caffeine strife,
For the blended way and the fruit juice way where the drink is a whetted knife;
And all I ask is an espresso shot that keeps me stone cold sober,
And doubly-steeped herbal mango tea or a smoothie I could go for.

—–

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening

by Bruce Goodman

Whose woods these are I have no clue.
And if truth be known, nor do you.
It’s sheltered enough for me to hop off my gig
And stretch the legs for a minute or two.

My little horse must think I’m queer
To stop with no pub in sight and no beer
With snow all over the place
In the middle of nowhere.

The woods are lovely, so to speak,
And you might think I’m some sort of creep,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak.

—–

Zodiac Killer (from Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales“)

by H.R.R. Gorman

1 One derke and tempestuous Aprill night,
2 The shirreve clutched his herte in awful fright.
3 The licour of woman’s veynes bathed walls,
4 And with blodde the Ram of spring marked the halles.
5 The shirreve sees drawen to memorie
6 Another mordre with sign of Pisces,
7 Capricornne brot a deth most treasonous,
8 And dede man drowned, sign of Aquarius.
9 He seche and he trowe evidence,
10 But the Zodiac killer’s japed him since.
11 The shirreeve made many pilgrimages
12 To question witnesses in low corages
13 And find preve of the killer’s vileynye
14 To bring him to justise thurgh agonie.
15 Nonne can descrive circumstances of deth,
16 And all cry out hevynesse through bated breeth.
17 Upon giving up and laying to snoose,
18 He at last trowed the killer was Ted Cruz.

—–

The Agent (Based on Edgar Alan Poe, “The Raven“)

by Trent P. McDonald

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered how to write my query
To sell my quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I edited typos and participles hanging, suddenly there came a clanging
As of some one harshly banging, banging at my apartment door
“’Tis the landlord,” I sputtered, “clanking at my apartment door –
I better hide since my cash is no more.”

Ah, I wish I could remember, was it May or December?
And each separate rejected note lied crumpled on the floor
How I dreaded the marrow: – I’d have to pay back the cash I did borrow
And not selling my book caused me sorry – sorrow for “The Art of the Bore”-
For that bit of putrid fiction had that name “The Art of the Bore”-
A stupid name evermore

-a bunch of skipped verses…-

“Please don’t’ let that word be our parting, my pretend friend,” I shrieked, embarrassingly
“Please read my manuscript, it’s not a Plutonium store!
See what my black plume has transcribed, as my soul has spoken!
Don’t leave me lonely and broken – take it with you out my door!
Take this bleak writing of my heart, take the my book, no matter how poor!
Quoth the Agent “Nevermore”

—–

If” (Or When The Truth Finally Dawns)

by Geoff

If you can fly a drone yet not drone on about that skill
And capture some celebs’ nips, for your Insta feed to fill;

If you can face the surgeon’s knife and also find the wedge
To have your gender altered, adding meat and two root veg;

If you can make an online bet, and keep on loss on loss
And find some time for other games and still not give a toss;

If you can change allegiance from Arsenal to Spurs
And face the chants of ‘traitor’ and some witch’s paid-for curse;

If you can hold the notion, that your MPs moral compass
Is still intact when it’s bloody plain he’s just a cheating short-arse;

If you can read the dailies and absorb a constant diet
Of fake news and propaganda, yet still you want to buy it;

If you can be a vegan yet not let veganing be your master
Adopt a healthy lifestyle, yet let blue pills make you harder;

If you control the TV remote to the manor born
And pass your nights with sport and paid-for Scandi-porn;

If passing days in a sweaty haze of gyms and protein shakes
Let’s you think that guns and tucked in tums are all it really takes;

If you can drink your weight in beer, and finish with a curry
Wake up drunk, go to work and still not think to worry;

If you can take on a lifetime’s debt, for a poxy little degree
And never think that you’ve been had then I’m sure you will agree,

That you’ve won life’s lottery and you’ve proved that you’re a man
And really don’t you think, you dick, that it’s time that you began

To realise that the world is sick and everything that’s in it
Should now be run by women, so that maybe they can fix it.

—–

Cousin MacDuncan

by Doug

The Witches:
All hail, Duncan, Bane of Craw
Whence camest thou, worthy Prince?

From the castle I sayeth.
Pray tell, I am needeth
the spell of Puxogt, my birthright:
stir the pot to bestow the incantations
that you’d wilt the will of nature
doth have me know the words
though be it darkest magic I demand.
Giveth I say the boil, the power
as foretold in the prophesy.

Witches:
Beware the idles of auto-carraiges.
Though many knights save their seats
against rebellion and lavish treachery
speak quickly in tragedy before the second stab.

But I had not known the puzzle of the boils.
And thus in folly, all was thought well
though the traitors lurked in hatred of the Priestess.

I was to escort Her Sacredness to her doom the raff assumed
’twas twisted chicanery looming as explosive as the petard.

We’d gone in a convoy, but with a bomb
the doors of Her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can NOT be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:
“T’ukmpuxogt!”

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

—–

Dog, Be Not Proud (Parody of “Death be not proud” by John Donne)

by Peregrine Arc

Dog, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost stinky by
Die not, poor human, nor yet canst the dog’s Flatuence kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy doggy dreams be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow from thy waggily tail
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their noses, and soul’s too early delivery.
Thou’art slave to smell, poo, gas, and dead things,
And dost with poison, gas, and sulphur dwell,
And skunk ‘or carcass can make us smell as well
And better than thy fumes; why smellest thou then?
One short stink past, we breathe eternally,
And doggy gas shall be no more; doggy, thou shalt go poo.

—–

Will I Sweat a Sweet Summer’s Day? (Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18)

by Doug

Indeed I’d liken thee to a hot intemperate day.
Thy art work hangs on the wall by the bed:
In the heat and torrents of Summer’s bray
The painting warps ‘n tilts though glee outspreads

Though furies of heaven are too hot tempered to tame
And often the sea would rush in with scorn
A perfect day fickled with clouds that disclaim
A Nature’s bearded willow teased forlorn

But thou art hotter than the Sun
An eternal fire of thy soul consumes not;
Thy burning bush still fertile not done
Nor will death retrieve heat God wot:
One summer’s day none can tame
As there’d be forever one dame.

—–

Starlight (“Tyger” by William Blake)

by Ruth Scribbles

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Why the hell do you light up my room?

My wings are frail
My hands are weak
Do you dare to tweak
My heart?

You are evil, yes indeed
Your light in my eyes
Makes me need
My sunglasses at night

What are you thinking
You bright dim wit?
Shining on my terrors
So I see my errors?

The clouds the clouds
Will dim your light
And hide you and my fright
In the middle of the night

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Hell lights up my room?

—–

Bukowski (“Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski)

by Violet Lentz

bukowski said,,
he had a bluebird
in his heart….
he said,
he tried
to drown it
in cheap whiskey-
to smother it
in the smoke,
of a myriad
of hand rolled
cigarettes.. yet,
in the end,
he told us,
he knew,
that it was there.
and he knew-
it was a bluebird…

still i wonder,
just how deep
he had to sink
into the quagmire
of his own
scarred psyche-
how many nights
he had to lay awake
staring into
the cold, black,
eyes of self-
before he heard
that single blessed note…
before it broke thru.
before it rose above
the mire of
life’s melancholy
melody…and when it did-

when at last,
it broke thru,
his delusion distilled,
and for the first time
he held it close
late at night
in the dark
when no one else
was around-

was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he was trying
to drown
in cheap whiskey
or to smother
in the fog
of yet another
hand rolled cigarette?
was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he desired
to hold ever so tightly
to himself
as he drifted
off to sleep
listening to
the bittersweet song
that only he
could hear
alone, in the dark
when no one else
could see?

and if it was then,
did he weep?
i for one
believe he did….

—–

Untitled piece (also Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″)

by Nakedinfiniverse

You’re as hot as I get when I win a race,
You’re pretty and you’re always sober.
Gales blow petals all over the place –
it’s like, as soon’s you blink summer’s over.
One minute I’m sweatin’ like a goat,
The next the weather goes all cloudy;
You always need to take a coat
‘Cos accidents and nature make stuff dowdy.
But your beauty will always and forever stay,
And they’ll never take you from the sunshine.
You won’t even die, ‘cos you will stay
Alive thanks to this pretty rhyme;
As long as there’s still people around,
My poem will hold you on the ground.

—–

Marvelous, fantastic, amazing, marginally-terrible work! Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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