WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The hour’s late, so I won’t hold you in suspense any longer.

This week there’s a three-way tie for winner:

Winter Wonderland (not)

by Anne Howkins

In the bleak midwinter,
The garden’s never looked minter.
The snow all pristine clean and white,
Until the dog answered a call of nature.
Nobody wants to go snow-balling
Where the cur’s been peeing.

The snow lays all deep and uneven
Stopping all the folks from leaving.
There’s no feeling quite as unpleasant
As ice filling up your boots
And stockings
When you’re scraping the path.

Ice cold wind makes us all moan,
Our gloved hands can’t text or make phone calls.
Don’t talk to me about ice-skating,
When you’re an hour or more
From the emergency room.

Dad forgot to check the pipes’ lagging,
And when the temperature is arising,
And when the ice is a-melting
The house will be flooded.
The boiler’ll be broken
And you’ll probably get pneumonia.

—–

Winter Terribleness

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were in the cussing mood I’d have a lot to say about winter.
But I’m not in that mood so I’ll just call it win-TURD.
I am in a Pinwheel cookie mood.
You ever had one of those?
If you have then you knows –

-just how good that marshmallow is on that cookie base
with the rich, creamy chocolate covering the face.

And when you eat them not a creature is stirring and wh

—–

Frigid French Philologies (a descort)

by Rob Stroud

Shards of bleak winter gestate day after day.
The citric cannonade gurgled melodies of complacency.
Echinodermata rides again.

Hagar was not so Horrible.
Beware 48°52.6′S 123°23.6′W.
Fini.
A Galapagos penguin reads about tobacco.

Captain Kirk sings the National Anthem.
Angkor longed to visit Tenochtitlán.
Sheepish wolves.
From lofty Mount Olympus descended Odin.

Soon comes the summer of our discontent.

—–

Congratulations, Anne, Fishman, and Rob! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

After my first read-through, I entertained the thought of declaring everyone a winner. I laughed, cringed, and cried. Then, I decided I couldn’t duck my responsibility. I looked more closely. Anne’s poem rhymes enough to make us think the occurrences may have been intentional, mis-meters enough to raise eyebrows, and definitely contains a terrible subject. Michael’s does the same, in a very different and more cringe-worthy way (and, might I add, kudos to him for rising to the challenge of a half-word at the end). Rob’s poem is hilarious to me; probably because he’s such a proper and educated writer, so the end result is what I’d imagine he might shout out in the middle of the night during a restless slumber.

Like I said, though, I’d have crowned you all victors. Read and enjoy:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Oh bloody hell
I slipped and fell
My bum feels bruised
You’d think I’d get used
To stupid New Hampshire winter
Damn, an icicle splinter
In my behind
I need to see if I can find
Just a bit of color
Not this bland view that’s duller
Than a black and white photo of the bruise
On my caboose
If I can be so bold
I really hate the cold!

—–

BRRR…

by Matt Snyder

its cloudy cloudy and cold it is
Swept up and under the deep dark dank chill of the absence of light
All I see is what you see, what you see is far from me as we waver uncontrollably from the bitter
The bitter bitter white
Depressed and withered from the bitter bitter
Hardly a stutter from your cold brittle lips
Chapped and muffled and our layers of clothes bundled tight
Like Randy in a Christmas Story, we are all very much as it seems, a sight
Like the bitter bitter air we see in breath
Bleak midwinter blues
Our hue of death

—–

Squeak Mouse

by Bruce Goodman

I seem to be undergoing a process of shivication
which is no cause for celebration.
Outside the weather is extremely bleak
– did I just hear a mouse squeak?
wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie –
and inside it’s no better because I’m shivering.

I have no wood for my fire
so I think I’ll burn my auntie;
I think I’ll burn my auntie.
Fa la la la la this will be no Silent Day
– the smell of burning mutton won’t go away –
put another leg on the fire Auntie May.

—–

A Certain Type of Warmth

by tiredhamster

A flooding
Of silent whiteness
Appears within this glassy window.
But something burns
Inside, hotter
Than any truth. I remember
When we used to go
Out into the snow. I would
Shiver and shake, but you braved
Those knife-like winds.
You wanted to build snowmen
And snow castles and tiny
Snow worlds to rule over.
But now this world is without
You. Just
Flat and damp. And the snow
piling atop.

—–

Cold Stuff

by Bryntin

the snow rains down
like sparkling frozen water
difficult to drive on
if it doesn’t instantly meltdown

the slipperiness of the road now
that is cover’d o’er with snow
makes it much more likely
to skid and hit a cow

the temperature gauge has binged
to register minus 3 centigrade
that’s 26.6 Fahrenheit
if you’re not metrically skinned

but this is what it’s like
driving the middle of the winter
you can’t see the road through the screen, so
probably safer to mountain bike

it’s not all bad of course,
there’s snowmen with snowballs
and really cold air
that can make your throat go hoarse

—–

Let There Be Light

by Peregrine Arc

I don’t mind the cold or that white stuff they call snow
What I mind is the lack of light, if it’s forty days in a row.
Something kicks in, some hibernational urge
And I find myself laying in bed
Snoring a symphonic dirge

—–

An Alaskan Winter

by Violet Lentz

There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun

A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.

—–

In the Bleak Midwinter

by Joanne the Geek

It’s the bleak midwinter

cold winds are blowing

snow is falling, everyone

is miserable and frozen –

but not me

here in the southern hemisphere

it’s summer and I’m in short shorts

and a close fitting tank top

sitting out in the hot sun

getting tanned

and I think of you all up there

in the frozen north

cold and miserable

and I smile at the thought of you –

because I am an arsehole.

—–

A Bleak MidWhat

by Ruth Scribbles

Twas January in Texas
And all though the house
The AC was running
And it was cloudy and raining

Last week we had snow flurries
And temps in the thirties
Then up the thermometer zoomed
And gave us the sixties

The children all cried
Cause the snow didn’t stick
Where is winter?
They cried

The adults wondered too
And sagely said
“it’s Texas you sillies”
Get used to it

So others get blizzards
And we go to Dairy Queen
And order blizzards
To freeze our tongues
And fatten our bellies

Maybe this year or next
Who knows
And that is the story of our bleak MidWhat!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Boy it’s bleeding bleak

Low chance of me doing a streak

Every day it rains

An everybody complains

Keep hoping for some snow

More chance of seeing Marilyn Monroe

In every lane and field

Dreaded mud congealed

Wind so strong

It blows over King Kong

No chance of seeing the sun

This is no bloody fun

Every day is exactly the same

Redonculous Boris that’s whose to blame

—–

God bleakly ignoring midwinter

by Doug Jacquier

The bleak midwinter arrived in

the middle of winter

and it was bleak.

Not moor bleak;

more bleak than that.

The wind was keen,

not in that American neat way

nor like mustard,

but sharp

and bleak

because it was midwinter.

I watched it being bleak midwinter

but I don’t think God did.

—–

Thank you all for playing along!! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s theme.

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

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

You all might be in the wrong career, because these terrible commercial jingles were so hilarious they were almost too good to win!

But, of course we need a winner! And that is:

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

If you got an awful case of halitosis
From devouring Garlic and limburger
And dang your breath is atrocious
Then have a chew
On our wintry minty gum called Goo
And know that you did stink
Its not just some psychosis.
Goo Gum available in cherry, watermelon, orange and blue

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

It’s credit to everyone’s creativity and awfulness (that verged on great skill) that I read through all the poems several times. Matt’s stuck out for its changing meter and messed-up rhyming patterns, as well as a bit of help from its topic.

‘Twas a close contest, though. See what I mean:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Smoke the cig that’s the best
Go ahead and forget the rest!
It’s your life we try to fit
Even though we shorten it by a little bit
Everyone will know you are cool
(While we kill and rob you like a fool)
A great product that tastes like dung
And destroys every cell of your lung!
So go ahead and take a toke
Of our great name brand smoke!

—–

Buy our cat food

by Bruce Goodman

Cat food! Cat food! Buy our Cat food!
Be a cool dude and buy our Cat food!
I don’t want to be rude
But other brands of Cat food
Aren’t as goo-ed.

It’s more than they could wish
When you put it in their Cat food dish.
So fill those hungry tummies
With Cat food that’s yummy.

Cat food! Cat food! Buy our Cat food!
Be a cool dude and buy our Cat food!

When you’ve finished feeding those hungry boys
Let’s hope there’s something left over for the Cat.

—–

Untitled piece

by Geoff LePard

We can stick it up our noses
We can rub it on our gums
We can sprinkle it like sugar
And lick it with our tongues

It’s dusty white and naughty
It doesn’t carry tax
It’s far less calorific
Than your average Pepsi Max.

The moral of this ditty
Is when you go for broke
Ignore all other stimulants
And stick with good old Coke

—–

Plant the Seed

by Annette Rochelle Aben

Enjoy a healthy cleansing poo
When you eat the seed of ancient Peru
It was used to grow hair on heads of terra cotta
Now, people eat it to help them poop a lotta
You can find it in most stores throughout North America
This tiny little powerhouse known as CHIA!
(Cleans you out without emptying out your wallet)

©2020 Annette Rochelle Aben

—–

Fast Food, Fast Fat

by Peregrine Arc

Oh what’s the best solution to a dietary convolution?
Why the things that make your taste buds scream!
Designed by evolution to make your constitution stronger than any in this here institution.
It’s fats, oils and salts, delivered in abundance by your friend and pal, Ray Kroc!
Come on over, you’ll get addicted to the sugar;
Twenty years of your life–taken!–and diabetes is what we’ll serve ya!
So come on down and oh, have a bite
It’s the devil’s way of having a res-pite.

—–

Untitled piece

by Makeshiftdriver

You don’t got time to waste
So we better just cut to the chase
Get a load of our spackling paste!
Hey!

Fill a hole or fix your wall
It’s a wonder you don’t just use it all
On a hole that you punched in your hall-
Way!

So grab some spackling paste today!
Okay!

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

When Mother
Talks to Jupiter
Or one of its moons

And you see your brother
Out back
Answering the loons

Show them you care
Dress them in style

We hold them dear
With fabric by the mile

Don’t go for half
Nelson’s is best!

Tailors of craft
Fuller than the rest

So when another
family member
Croons

From the cover
Of uranium enriched
Dunes

Don’t throw them in a sack-ette
Put them in a Nelson’s
Full Straight Jacket!

—–

Vanish

by Gary

For that time when the runner has gone thud
And his clothes are covered in filthy mud
When soap and water won’t do the job
And that runner doesn’t want to look a slob
In need of rescue after that mossy wall
Which hero are you going to call?
With just 5 scoops your colours will banish
But that mud will be gone thanks to VANISH.

—–

Thank you so much for your contributions!! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s theme.

victoria-kubiaki-yeFJNtA3604-unsplash

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

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest: Anniversary Edition

For our one year celebration, entrants did not disappoint. You all made choosing a winner terribly difficult.

Which may be why there is a three-way tie:

My son is Not called Adolf

by Giselle Marks

I have five Kids but didn’t give birth
Stop laughing, that is not a Cause for mirth
And Each squalling BRAT had to B named
Ex and myself could not agree, Adoph! Never! You’ve no shame!
Don’t dig the Garden or my ex you’ll unearth.

—–

Birth

by Bruce

When Bruce said he’d like to give birth
It created considerable mirth.
There’s no need to curse –
Not a baby but verse
Except when it came to creating a possible concluding line to his exquisite limerick he couldn’t think of anything of worth.

—–

Untitled piece

by Michael Fishman

The man and the woman were naked
the man said, “If I’m not mistaken,
I find you attractive
so how’s about we get active
and make ourselves one beautiful kid?”

Congratulations, Giselle, Bruce, and Michael! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Giselle’s poem employed my recommended elements: bad structure, some spelling/grammar issues, and messed-up meter. Bruce’s, meanwhile, mostly nailed first with his aberrant final line. Michael submitted several poems, and this one rose through the ranks for its mis-meter and non-rhyming last line.

As is usual, the others are more than a close second:

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Telling poems with mirth
About how I came to this Earth
To meet Chelsea’s rating
I’ll skip what happens while dating
And get to the part about birth

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Those dirty limericks, so bold
Say where babies come from, I’m told
With language so crude
Some think it quite rude
But without sex, there’d be no one to hold

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Grunt groan, all I can do is moan
Wail cry, all the while
Scream shriek, beyond relief
Then you ask, what’s my beef?
Childbirth, it’s beyond belief.

—–

There once was a tiny ball…

by Tiredhamster

There was once a tiny ball
Who decided to end it all
So with all its might
It squeezed real tight
Now we dance upon its pall

—–

Ooh, Baby

by Michael Fishman

Their bodies they did so adorn
and maybe they watched them some porn
the months they rolled by
nine of them to quantify
and then a little baby was born.

—–

I knew this gal from Fort Worth
she ate pancakes drowned in Mrs. Butterworth
She made me an offer
her body she did proffer
with an end result of her giving birth

—–

“Wanna roll?” she said, and I said “Maybe”.
“Is it safe,” I said, “You won’t give me rabies?”
She said, “It’s OK, we can skip the foreplay
I’m just looking to have me a baby.”

—–

He’s generally a really nice gent
She’s honest and won’t misrepresent.
One fine day they wed
then rushed home and into bed
now they’re counting the days ‘till their blessed event.

—–

The Neon Nose

by Susan

I’ve a birthmark upon nose

and in the dark it glows

I want to remove it

but the doctors say screw it

for when my nose runs I’ll know where it goes!

—–

TBD (terrible birth diatribe)

by Ruth Scribbles

When Chelsea decided to write
She thought “ah me thinks they should fight”
She birth-ed this mess
Named terrible poetic-ick-ness
It’s all just a blather and blight

—–

Borne

by Violet Lentz

Borne more of angst than understanding
Employing methods, far off from upstanding
The young anarchists ploy
Was to seek and destroy
Whilst obtaining all they were demanding

The first threw himself on the tile
At Walmart, in the Christmas toy aisle
He screamed and he pitched
Held his breath till he twitched
As his mother did her best to smile

The second locked himself in the loo
And screamed out, “There’s nothing you can do!
I will not wear that Tee!
Kids will make fun of me!”
Till his mother, her demand she withdrew

Now sister thought herself a bit slicker
She’d not fight mom, instead she’d just trick her
Off to study she’d go
And little would mother know
Till she came home awash in malt liquor!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Boris Johnson was asked how many kids he has fathered
It wasn’t a surprise when the posh fart spectacularly dithered
Rich entitled Eton Boy has had fingers in many pies
Trouble is that people are starting to see through his web of lies
He may well have the last laugh by making us all Brexit buggered

—–

Untitled piece

by The Bag Lady

There once was a pregnant lady

Not happy to birth more babies

A control split the seam

Now she’s just acting mean

Too bad for the coming baby.

No more children said to her hubby

He insists on getting more huggy

So now she is groaning

With birth pain she’s moaning

And here comes a baby so chubby.

—–

Whoops

by Richmond Road

By day she’s disarmingly mild
At night unexpectedly wild
Unpredictability frisky
Ill advisedly risky
So now she’s expecting a child

—–

Thank you all, so much!! I will not be posting a new prompt tomorrow. Please come back at the first of the year (2020) for the next one.

nick-fewings-kmLUcvhqhSo-unsplash

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

©2019, the respective authors and their poem(s)

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Merry? Christmas to all! I knew that most of my followers weren’t into all the commercialism that seeps into this season and was happy to see so many of the poems reflect that. However, this also made judging as difficult as knowing which Paw Patrol puppy your daughter said her little Stephen wanted.

After much deliberation and decision, this week’s winner is:

The 12 days of Ca$hmas

by Matt Snyder

Oh holy hell

What’s a child’s wish for old saint nick ?

Rampant shopping by his parents, 5 months in advance…retail has gone bonkers

With a wink of the eye

Black Friday is every day or so it seems so near

Christmas in July with a bottle of beer and the three wise ho’s

With a yank and a tug and on some poor bastards head, mauled over and dead what dread.

With sappy hallmark cards and zippy Starbucks drinks

Purple and white trees, the whole kitchen

Sink. Holes

Burnt in pockets

Egg nog delight

Jesus rolls in his

Grave or returns for the night

Has become silent

I wish you well

To all a good night

Ain’t that right Charlie Brown ?

Bah.

—–

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

Like last week, entrants took the prompt in a few directions. I enjoyed the references to carols, shopping, and even a bit of politics. Matt’s poem followed my usual terrible requirements (intentional rhyme, meter, and subject issues), with an overall ‘bad poetry’ feel to it.

So many of the following were a very close second. Read, if you can, and see if you don’t agree:

Stuff

by Deb Whittam

So you’re caught up in the Christmas hype,
Buying stuff you don’t need.
Remember, if you don’t cough up,
They’re going to gripe and it’s all about trying to please.
The shops are announcing their sales
Wares that you can’t really afford
I mean it’s not like they got it wrong.
Buy, buy, buy, that’s the law
What do you mean that the church
Decided 25th was the day
To circumvent pagan worship
Isn’t that a bit unchristian?
What do you mean that it’s all about
Penance and peace? Don’t you mean purchasing and
Spending your hard earned cash for
Profiteering doesn’t happen by itself, does it?
And let’s be honest, we’re here for them.
(Sorry, clarification required) the shops, not your family.

—–

Joseph’s Christmas Lament

by Bruce Goodman

It’s impossible to find accommodation around here.
With crowds converging for the census people are selling their wares
all over the place – a Bethlehem-Census never fails
to promote discounted toga sales.
My wife’s just had a baby and now the jolly farmers are visiting us in droves
– next thing there’ll be hosts of angels singing their heads off.
How are we meant to feed all these visitors
not to mention the farm animals?
And it’s freezing cold in the night.
I’m looking forward to Christmases in the future.
Everyone says future Christmases will be all peace and quiet.

—–

Ding Dong

by Jane Basil

One silent night,
the virgin Mary had a baby boy,
an infant holy, infant lowly.
It came upon a midnight clear,
once in royal David’s city.
Ding dong merrily on high.

Go –
tell it on the mountain, the night
before Christmas:
Santa Claus
is coming to town.
Ding dong merrily high.
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

So I’m in a shopping mall you see,
An agglomeration of shops and shops to be,
There’s a boozy Santa in the corner with a kiddy on his lap,
The kiddy is either waiting for his present or is taking a nap
“Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum,”
Screams a vagabond, a bum
I’m tired shopping for the wifey
Shops, shops and shops are all I see,
I’m exhausted and need a break
But what should I get my kiddie
Maybe I’ll just give him a little money
The kiddie and the wifey want freebies
And we’re living in a damn capitalist economy!
They’re a bunch of cold blooded democrats
I believe that Trump’s the man, you WORK to become an aristocrat
Anyhow I’m stuck in this marriage with shops all around me
I’ll think I’ll sing a line from Hey Jude
“When I find myself in trouble mother Mary comes to me”
Wait that’s Let it Be

—–

Happy Dust Collector’s Shopping

by Ruth Scribbles

Ding dong ding dong
The text chimes are
Driving me absolutely crazy
Spend money here
Or there
The halls have been decked
All year! Why?
I don’t want your crap
Do you want mine?
Save your pennies and buy
Medicine or food ?
Your children don’t want
Beanie weenies
And please don’t burn the piano
To buy aunt Matilda
A new nose ring
To catch her snot
While she sings
Joy to the world
The cash registers are bulging
And people are destroying
Their ability to warm their
Houses

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Blimey the adverts have started already

Only just done Halloween I’m so unready

Reindeers standing where the tinned soup used to be

I only want some food for dinner not a giant inflatable Christmas tree

Santa hats seem to have replaced my usual supply of herbal tea

*

Jingle bells bellows out on loop from the supermarket speakers

Ornamental singing elves more important than things like carpet sweepers

Hilarious festive ties are everywhere all playing an out of tune carol

Nearly every aisle is full of wine and spirits and lager by the barrel

Suddenly the only cheese you can buy must contain apricots and cranberries

Over priced selection boxes become the only source of confectionaries

Nuts by the bucket full which is no good for delicate tummies like that of Gary’s

*

Is it too much to ask for one single deodorant not those annoying Old Spice Gift sets

Suddenly on every aisle corner you see stacks of Home Alone Video Cassettes

*

All the shop staff are forced to be decked out as Santa’s little helpers

*

Gone are the discounts as it’s full pricing in all its splendour

It’s a crime not to stock up for that big day in December

To much much for me as it’s still just pigging November

—–

Untitled piece

by Chetyl

Groceries hidden by Christmas fare

Oh, oh, see chocolate cherries there

A once a year treat I can’t resist

But is it too early? I need to resist

Passing by the long toy aisles

Stuffed animals with sewn on smiles

Since when are they giant sized

Maybe bedrooms are bigger, I surmised

After Thanksgiving I must indulge

Texan dancing Santa with tummy bulge?

I think I’ll stick with my mini tree

Add a few lights, happy me.

—–

The Lonely Elf

by Michael B. Fishman

There was an elf
who lived by himself
he whittled wood toys that he set on a shelf.

One night he thought:
“These toys can’t be bought
so I’ll give them to those who have naught.”

So one cloudy day
he gave them away
went back home and read E. Hemingway

While still all alone
his gloom it had flown
so he moved out to Sierra Leone.

There he lived on an isthmus
and he waited for Christmas
so he could help Santa with the gift-giving business.

—–

The Christmas Gate

by Daniel Kemp

’Twas Christmas Eve behind Stephen’s gate,
The shops were closed. The hour was late.
The money counters were stressed and tired,
Stephen wished more he’d hired!

Sacks of notes were piled high on trucks,
Millions of pounds and millions of bucks.
He toasted his wife he praised his staff,
But as the drivers drove off they began to laugh.

They loaded the spaceship and off high it went,
Around the world tipping out all the money that was spent.
In the morning the cash laid deep and crisp and even
Good King Wenceslas had a look and said it was the fault of Stephen.

—–

Thank you for contributing your terribleness. Come back tomorrow for our ONE YEAR anniversary of this contest, plus the final prompt of 2019.

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

©2019 Each poet, and his/her respective poem

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

At long last and after long deliberation, I have picked a winner for this week’s contest: FIFTY!

No more suspense. The winner is:

I’m Gonna

by The Abject Muse

Now I’m gonna

write a poem

in exactly 50 words.

I cannot think of anything.

Hey look! Outside there’s birds!

What’s that falling from their butts?

Could it be airborne turds?

And there’s a squirrel eating nuts;

he’s grateful they aren’t curds.

Such is life in my backyard

in fifty words.

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

Now, you may all think Susan won for her terrible subject -but that’s not the case. I actually tend to not pick poems if they’ve made me feel ill, mostly to ensure I was not swayed by nausea. Instead, I felt that hers embodied most of what we strive for in this contest: differing line lengths, rhymes and near-rhymes and rhymes that did not fit (oh, how I hate people adding ‘poetic’ lines, just to make a rhyme!), and a subject that tried to stay on topic but just couldn’t.

Well done her, but also well done to those who barely lost. Seriously; some of you gave me the distinct impression of channeling a twisted Dr. Suess. You are all worth a read, and maybe a strong drink:

A Desperate Poet

by Heather Dawn

Forty-nine bad poems I’ve written,
For the bad poetry competition,
Forty-nine times, disappointment repetition.
I even lose at being bad,
At poetry, now that is sad.
But I am a poetic mess,
I cannot stop rhyming, I must confess!
I will win this time!
Maybe, this fiftieth time, I will!

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

Some say it’s pretty nifty turning fifty.
Alas! Alack! I can’t remember that far back.
I probably got socks, underpants and tie;
You see, it’s the thought that counts. Oh me! Oh my!
It remains to be seen next week when I turn seventy
If I get given a hemorrhoidectomy.

—–

Fifty, A Study in Awfulness

by Trent P. McDonald

Seven, a perfect number
So I’ve heard
Like Seven wonders
By Zeus’ beard!
Seventh heaven
Better than paradise, weird
But wouldn’t seven square
Be better there?
Forty nine
Doesn’t sound great
Like a gold mine
A football team, mate
Does adding one
To squared Perfection
Make it better
Or dereliction?

—–

The Big – 5-0

by Deb Whittam

Fifty,
Knees Crack,
Lost my knack,
Can’t seem to get it back.

Fifty,
Hearing going,
My age is showing,
Don’t want to do the mowing.

Fifty,
Need my glasses,
When I read,
Pee myself whenever I sneeze.

Fifty,
Can’t sit long,
Can’t stand long either,
It’s my knees you know

—–

A Wild Ride

by Tiredhamster

Half a century has passed
And now I’m all outta gas
It’s been a wild ride
Especially with you by my side
But now it’s time to die
And say my last goodbye
Cause i’m all old now
And my car is in tow
Just thought you should know,
Joe

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

For the fiftieth time, must I say
That you have fifty ways
Of walking down fifty street
Where fifty men dangle their meat
I mean meat not fifty inch meat
You know skewers that are sweet
Meat kebabs and puddin
Yeah that’s right darlin
Fifty shades of grey, ho hey

—–

Nifty

by DennyK

Fifty is nifty
Keen, cool and thrifty
Slumped shoulders
Big ears and a nose to match
Pants up to my armpits
I am truly a catch

Fifty is nifty
Because I don’t care
Greying, thinning, wild-ass hair
Socks with my sandals
Baggy blue jeans
Don’t tell me what doesn’t match

—–

The Big Five – Oh!

by LWBUT

Latin starts with an ‘L’,
which is also how Romans spell ’50’.
That’s pretty nifty!

Ten plus ten then double it again,
then add ten for a quick, shifty 50.

They say it’s not cricket, to have lost your wicket
one run short of a hundred.

I’m lucky if i even make 50!

—–

Only 50 Words

by Ruth Scribbles

I started at the beginning

And missed one or two

But I’m fairly consistent

Because it’s such fun to do

Chelsea is a fiend, I mean friend

I mean she’s mean

We all try hard and I’m

Supposed to be writing

About 50 but well

I failed.

That. Is. All.

—–

Nearly 50

by msnyder1970

I’m only 49

Nearly fifty, kinda nifty ya ask me.

Did you know

There are 50 words for snow ?

Yeah, heard that on the radio, Once

Upon a time lived an old geezer of a gent

Sniffing glue from his shoe turning a deep hue of blue

Mumbled incoherently as I awoke…

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

I like Blancmange but it has more than 50 calories
I have 50 really annoying allergies
I only have 50 hairs on my sad old head
Can’t get any sleep on my 50 quid bed
No money so have to be thrifty
Bugger I feel like I am over FIFTY

—–

Don’t Look Back

by The Bag Lady

Everyone says fifty is nifty

I think it’s the “all’s downhill from now on” instead

You’ve probably met the love of your life

Handled your job with strife and stress

Married and divorced your first spouse

Cynicism rules the day

Life pushes you around

Where are dreams you were promised?

—–

I preferred eighteen.

by Brutus Richmond

Being fifty is no fun
It’s even worse at fifty-one
And really, what is one to do
On reaching birthday fifty-two?
Goodness Gracious. Dearie Me
I’m really dreading fifty-three
Giving up. Won’t take no more
No plans of reaching fifty-four
Wont be around. Shan’t be alive
To celebrate at fifty-five

—–

Untitled piece

by Pensitivity101

I left fifty behind years ago
Basically didn’t want to know:
Not the best year I have to say
But looking back, guess it was OK:
Lately though, everything’s changed,
Bits falling off, falling out, rearranged:
Greyer and thinner, a bald patch or two
That’s what old age can do.

—–

You all, truly, deserve at least fifty rounds of applause. Well done. Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week’s prompt.

50-art-close-up-1339866

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

 

©2019 The respective authors of each poem

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

My apologies, as always, for the delay. I had an astounding number of very scary entries to review this week, unsure of who might haunt me after I chose a winner…

And that winner is:

Halloween Queen

by Ruth Scribbles

I’ll be a queen
On Halloween
Oh that’s just mean
Did she declare
How dare you try
To be so high
And mighty
You’re a witch
You b*itch
Go scratch your
Head and
Think
Again
Queens are not scary

Or are they??
“Off with your head”
She screamed at her
“Your head will roll”
She raged at the troll
Oh me oh my
She makes me cry
I’d rather be a witch
Of course

—–

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

While I had great (scary) fun reading all the marvelous (scary) entries, Ruth’s won for an overall effort of bad poetry. She missed the meter, missed the rhymes, and missed a coherent story arc. Well done!

I had many favorites who nearly won; see if you can get through them:

Resurrected for Halloween

by Bruce Goodman

Like a guy-rope swing eternally from a pendulum
With the fiery blast swelling, Superman sank
Into percussion of fiery anticipation
And landed with a plonk at the bottom of the hall.

Like a dreadnaught, it nosed its way, silently weeping,
And wished, well-wishing it had never left the ceiling.
Deep! Oh Deep down it thundered in the mall
Then landed with a plonk at the bottom of the hall.

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

Spooky nefarious ghosts
And their terrifyingly odd boasts
Blood, gore, grim and sin
But for them it’s a win-win
Awful phantasms
Ruining the coal-miner’s orgasms
Terrible, ghastly ruins
Deadly, doleful tunes
This is the season of rust
And don’t you dare say, ‘psst!’
You’ll find out why soon enough
When the one-eyed crone lets her dogs loose, ruff ruff

—–

Simplicity

by The Abject Muse

O, what shall I be

for Hallowe’en?

A monster, a princess

or a Lima bean?

With pumpkins carved

and burning bright

if one tips over

the porch will ignite.

Trick-or-treaters won’t come

if the house is on fire

unless they’re as stupid

as an old flat tire.

Fake skeletons dangle

from the dead oak trees

One’s leg is on backwards

and his head’s stuck to his knee

Sometimes directions

are too hard to read.

O’ what shall I be

for Hallow’en?

Probably something simple.

Like me.

—–

I Love You Lorena

by Matt Snyder

We met in jail, I a drunken serial cheater, she a thief

The night I said I do, I shook like a leaf

Earlier that day I slept with her sister

What can I say I’m that kind of Mister

It was our wedded day of dread when they threw the rice

I felt like I was skating on thin ice

That night things got kinky, she tied me to the bed

I lied there awhile lost in my head

I called out her name and got no response

Then she came back with her sister both spouting hateful taunts

I tried to break free, I was quaking in my socks

Her sister handed her a knife and with a devilish grin she cut off my…

—–

Why I hate Halloween – A Protest

by Deb Whittam

I’m an Australian
The shops are full of chocolate treats
Designed to guilt trip me
Into participating in an event
That is for another county

I’m an Australian
The internet is obsessing
Over a tradition that
Means nothing to me
Can’t get away from it, can’t be free

I’m an Australian
Kids will be knocking on my door
Yelling trick or treat
I tell them to emigrate
I just don’t care you see

I’m an Australia
Why should I be involved in this farce?
I’d rather the kids went out and exercised
Than shoving more junk in their gobs
To mimic a country
That does nothing for me.

—–

This is Childrening
(A terrible homage to the song “This is Halloween”)

by Peregrine Arc

Pumpkins, ghouls and spaghetti strands
Oh my lot loves doing handstands
With jellied fingers and muddied hands
I find their artwork all over this land
Come with me and you will see, in this land of Childrening

Mustard stains, broken glass
Footballs punted into the nightstand
Come with me and you will see
The reason for my punctual screams

This is Childrening, this is Childrening!
Everybody scream, everybody scream
In this land of Childrening

Parents cry in the Dead of night
Wondering how they’ll survive the fright
Round that corner is their toddler of two
Wondering if he can fit more jelly into mom’s shoes

This is Childrening, this is Childrening!
Everybody scream, everybody scream
In this land of Childrening.

—–

Bed

by Rogblog666

Bed, bed what have you under thee.
A reflection of my peculiar mind?
Or just a hidey hole for your scary bits,
Do you mirror me, do you parallel me?
Or are you my dark side?
Boo no just a dust bunny
Bed, bed what have you under thee,
Is it my mothers’ reflection?
Is it a portal from another dimension?
Is it a collection of your what ifs?
being seen from the planet regret.
Boo no just dust bunny
Bed, bed what have you under thee,
Am I just shadows of something lost,
Or just shadows of something to come,
Am I a shadow of something more solid,
Or just a shadow of your imagination.
BOO I am no shadow I am you, killer dust bunny

© 2017 r leach

—–

The Vampire’s Night Out

by Joanne Fisher

There once was a hungry vampire

of fresh blood he could never tire

one night from his dark castle he flew

looking for a fair maiden that was new

until through a bedroom window he did see

a slumbering maiden who looked a beauty

so he crept into the room to have a bite

lucky for him she obviously had an early night

she was motionless and lying fast asleep

so right up to her he did silently creep

his fangs chomped down on her exposed neck

only to find the skin was hard, and his teeth now a wreck!

She was only a mannequin left lying in the room

he quickly left, flying in shock back to his tomb.

That experience left him feeling so pitiful

without his fangs, he now gets blood bags from the hospital.

—–

Dead Man’s Jamboree

by Violet Lentz

rattle me bones and shiver me timbers
it’s a dead man’s jamboree
from dusk till dawn
around the graves
a dancing they will be
a raspy throated woodwind howls
as drums are banged with bones
and out there in the mist somewhere-
another dead man moans
with but one night, the whole year thru
this gay thread to weave
they dance the jig, and tip the jug
in gleeful toast to moon above-
‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

The moon is full
It’s time for blood on the wool
Halloween terror
Your in the wrong place, a deadly error
Knifes sharpen
The atmosphere slowly darkens
The clock ticks
While the madman plays his tricks
This is sick
As bad as the worst horror flick
Witches potion
An unpredictable explosion
Straight from hell
Too horrific for Slasher Motel
Frankenstein creation
A Poltergeist apparition
Beyond X rated
The result is pure evil hatred
All hope is forsake
Dads been trying to bake a SPONGE CAKE

—–

Definitely scary! Thank you all for the frights, and come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

neonbrand-ASNSoeead70-unsplash

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

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

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

Untitled piece

by Gary

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

—–

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

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

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

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

Me & Fred

by Abject Muse

I’m ridin’ the range

that ain’t never gonna change

with my horse named Fred

Fred is red: Red Fred.

He’s my best friend

til the very end.

We set up camp

when nighttime comes

Fred can’t help

for lack of thumbs —

but I don’t mind,

that’s common in his kind.

I cook some beans

an’ throw in some greens

while Fred eats oats

that cause him to bloat.

And later on when coyotes howl

our camp is smellin’ foul

cuz beans an’ oats make us fart

it’s methane  art

an aromatic symphony.

I’m a cowboy, see?

Red Fred an’ Me.

What people think, I don’t care

Long as I got clean underwear.

Fruit of the Loom is what I like

Cuz Jockey briefs are too dang tight

for ridin’ the range —

Just outside LaGrange.

—–

Wild West

by Pensitivity

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

—–

Gold Digger

by Matt Snyder

gold digger jigger fa shizle yo

“This old wildcat’s as bad as Sal.

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

Spoken spitting like a true wild west un

That’s Gabby Hayes our high falooting pal

His only weapon the bottle

His breath knocked me dead full throttle

Hunting the yellow the specks worth a hundred

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

Said Sam short on words

Wiggle my wiggle this poem’s a turd

—–

Campfire Quite, and Then…

by Trent McDonald

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

—–

Yeehaw! Yippee yi yo kayah!

by Bruce Goodman

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

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

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

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

—–

The Cowboy Life

by Denny K

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

—–

The Mad West

by Ruth Scribbles

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

—–

The Internal Thirst

by Tiredhamster

sand…

sand…

dust…

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

sand…

sand…

so much sand…

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

sand…

sand…

too much sand…

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

sand…

sand…

more sand…

sand…

—–

Wild Wild West

by Deb Whittam

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

—–

On the Trail

by Michael B. Fishman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

The Wild West

by LWBUT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

High Plains Drifter

by Jane Basil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

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

cowboy-746992_1280

Gary: 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

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

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

Baa-baa inclusive sheep

by MagicQuill17

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

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

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

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

—–

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

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

And here are the rest of my favorites:

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

by Heather Bergen

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

🤦🏼‍♀️

—–

Harper, Turn The Espresso Machine On

by Joem18b

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

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

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

Little Bo Peep, Unemployed

by Kristian

Little Bo Peep

Had lost her sheep,

But she knew just where to find them

They’d been taken away

The other day

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

—–

Untitled Nursery Rhyme

by Michael B. Fishman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the cloud said, “You’re a poet.”

And I said, “But a terrible one.”

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

And we both smiled.

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

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

—–

Grumpy Humpty

by Bruce Goodman

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

There Was a Young Lady Who Lived in a Sandal

She had so many toes it really was a scandal

She wrapped them all up with tape and some gauze

After cutting them off without any cause.

—–

Itsy Bitsy

by Matt Snyder

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

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

I let out a greatly enormous incredibly loud scream

Hoping and praying it don’t fall

And then it began to rain

The pitter patter of the drops

Against the window pane

Sorry, I was distracted

Itsy bitsy great big freakin’ spider

Never to be seen again

—–

Nip and tuck

by Violet Lentz

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

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

—–

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

by LWBUT

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

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

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

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

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

—–

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

Come back tomorrow morning for next week’s prompt.

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MagicQuill17: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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

Crackles & Cackles

by Peregrine Arc

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

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

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

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

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

Well done, young apprentice.

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

A Nasty Spell

by Trent McDonald

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

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

We say the spell

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

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

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

—–

Spell of Invisibility

by Joem18b

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

note: avoid invisibility cloaks. your feet hang out.

—–

Spell

by Deb Whittam

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

Liar liar pants onfire

by Ruth Scribbles

Hocus locust

Holy smack

Sun of night

Moon of day

Shed your light

On this my prey

Curse the liar

Within my Lair

Burn the tongue

Of the young

Evil one

Begone!

—–

Orisha

by Aderonke

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

—–

An Evil Brew

by LWBUT

Orcs from Moria,
Goblins from The High Pass.

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

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

Schutzstaffel SS,
Brownshirts and Gestapo.

Blood-sucking vampires,
Zombies and the soulless dead.

Combine all together,
give them a common cause,

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

… Washington sure has changed lately.

—–

Gremlins: A Teenage Mythology

by Lifelessons

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

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

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

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

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

—–

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

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The world thought it had experienced the worst in pumpkin spice once cinnamon and cloves crossed over into Cheerios, Twinkies, and SPAM. If only the general population had anticipated this week’s terrible poetry…

Of which, at long last, there is a winner. And that is:

Spicing the Pumpkin

by The Abject Muse

Autumn aroma

fills the air with Halloween

making one nauseous:

too much candy and chasing

it with ten beers then puking.

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

Everyone who entered brought their worst. I had such trouble choosing from all the wonderful, beautiful, bad poetry. Susan’s poem won after my third reading of the entries, and my deciding it made me cringe the most.

Since the theme was a tanka, hers stood out as one that appeared to be a typical tanka yet was most definitely not. She made me think it a serious sample with her “Autumn aroma” beginning; but, by the end, we were puking. Great work!

Even more pumpkin spice is to be had! Read the rest of the poems below:

A Coffee Snob Tanka

by Heather Dawn

Pumpkin spice coffee
Is the worst kind of coffee…
When from Tim Hortons,
Or other fast food places.
But I like it at Starbucks.

—–

Something spicy in my pumpkin

by Bruce Goodman

Pumpkin spice! Pumpkin
spice! Syllable counting in
Germanic languag-
es is a meaningless pro-
position. It works in the

Romance languages
however, where syllables
matter. Which is pos-
sibly why we eat pumpkin
as a vegetable over

here, and to think of
it as being something in a
dessert is a fair-
ly repugnant thought! This then
is my triptych tanka. Yeah!

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Undernourished, the
Pantry’s bare, no there’s something
right up in the back
Relief … what is it? Let me
Reach … Pumpkin spice, hunger strike

—–

Love Tanka

by Joem18b

oh my dearest love
i want to give you my heart
but how to do it
rip it out hand it over
or sprinkle with pumpkin spice

—–

Pumpkin Spice (A Poem)

by Not Sheep Minded

Vanilla sweet spice

Pumpkin puree and whipped cream

What is that brown stuff?

I can’t be sure but It might

Be nutmeg or cinnamon

—–

And Then There Were Six

by LWBUT

“There’s a new spice in

town”. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“and it’s Pumpkin Spice!”

“So tell me what you want. ” “What??”

“What you really, really want.”

—–

Yuumy

by Ruth Scribbles

October oraange
English muuffins flavored sooo
Puumpkins grow on vines
Lattes and coffee oooh my
Hot Pumpkin spice soups are too

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

sunset orange with explosive hot red
unsettling and overpowering
angry and sickly sweet arrogance
rule spiced by lies
sick of Pumpkin Heads presidency

—–

Pumpkin Spice, A Terrible Tanka

by Jim Sponseller

Pumpkin spice is great,

I mean it tastes really good

Add some to coffee,

Or that milky thing, latte?

Then drink it down, no regrets!

—–

Untitled piece

by Cheryl

Pumpkin latte eww

Pumpkin soup would be better

Pumpkin candles nice

Everything October likes

Carving a pumpkin is fun.

—–

Terrible Cook. Look. Worse poet.

by Richmond Road

Peel it. Slice it up

A cup. Of sugar or two

You. Boil it to hell.

For smell? Scented candles get.

Yet more spice. Pumpkin slice. Nice.

—–

Tanka about Pumpkin Spice

by Joanne Fisher

Pumpkin Spice is nice
I’m told by people who drink
overpriced coffees
I’ve never tried it and won’t
I’m too judgmental of them

—–

Hopefully, we’ve not put anyone off their favorite fall treat. Thank you to all the fantastic poets who entered; come back around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

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