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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for: the winner of this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest.

And that is:

Perpetually Deployed

by The Abject Muse

Kim’s ol’ butt:

As big as a barrel,

Round like a

Double-Stuffed Moon Pie

And wobbly as Jell-O.

Sort of like a

Humongous Air Bag.

If ever there were

An automobile accident she’d

Never feel a thing.

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

Honestly, almost all of the entrants this week were too GOOD. Many topics were terrible; but meter, word usage, and the way it all tied in worked in strangely cohesive ways. You all need to lower your standards, though (as always) that’s not necessarily a bad thing…

Madame Muse’s poem won for being the worst. Her winning points were her comparisons of Kim’s ample posterior to several unappealing and humorous objects, coupled with a poetic pattern abandoned at the end.

Here are the rest:

Poem

by Joem18b

Plug your nose
Hold your nostrils shut
Instead of breathing in
Loads of coke
Instead of air
Please
So you don’t
End up
Young but dead and
Mourned
Or also
Using that stuff
Right into your veins may give you a
High
Over the moon
For a while
Faster then the nose route but
Man while it’s
A wilder ride you will
Not be alive at its end

—–

This hill is famous (i.e. a celebrity)

by Bruce Goodman

Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu!
Ah!
Utterly long is the name of the hill not far from where I live.
Many shorten it to something
Actually a lot less difficult to pronounce:
Taumata.
And that’s where I’ll stop.

—–

Terrible Acrostic Defying All Logic

by Not Sheep Minded

Do not pass go
Or collect two hundred
Nailed to a cross
Another martyr mother Hubbard
Looking in the cupboard
Didn’t find what he’s looking for
The dirty bits on Biden
R they under there?
Under where?
Mister Trump just
Peed in his underwear

—–

Laughably Outrageous tRIckster

by Ruth Scribbles

Laughably Outrageous tRIckster

Lounges Outside in her Ugly Gangrenous
Haughty Linen Incremental Naughtiness

—–

FATS

by Deb Whittam

For those times when being politically incorrect wasn’t an issue, hey it was almost embraced

And he wrote real cool songs too

Though the suits became a bit blasé but what are you going to do

Send someone to the shops, it was the 1960’s for goodness sakes

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Arrogant
liar
extremist
x-rated
a charlatan
New Yorker
deluded
egotistical
racist

Brexit will make him millions
ought to make his pals billions
remain was always his position
it changed to suit his self mission
self deluded craving celebrity privileged Eton boy

Destined to play as Nero with his new burning country toy
england should be for the English he proudly shouts
privately whispering he’s actually not from these whereabouts
Funding his lovers and friends with public money
easily avoiding the rules like some corrupt Easter Bunny
fibbing and lying is his way to con the masses
flippantly poking fun at those from the working classes
evading visits from the police to one of his shouting matches
lovers are kept quiet maybe with gifts paid for from our hard earned taxes

Jovial and bumbling are what the media laps up
only reporting the fake image and never about how he is so corrupt
he said he couldn’t live on his huge ministerial wage
no thought for us as he takes us back to the Victorian Age
so a man without principles or any human decency
only interested in one person and slayer of our democracy
not a man of the people just a wannabe celebrity member of the aristocracy

—–

Anachrostic/Celebrity

by The Bag Lady

Gorgeous

Elegant

Older

Romantic

Gregarious

Exceptional

Charming

Likable

Oooh, just

Outstanding

Nice

Enjoyable

Yum

—–

Thank you all for entering! You are the highlight of my long, long week.

Come back tomorrow around 10 MST for the next theme.

ahmet-yalcinkaya-aNrRsB2wLDk-unsplash

Abject Muse: 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

After a day beginning with vertigo, middling to read many (many!) entries, and ending with the usual, busy parenting; this judge is finally ready to announce a winner.

And that is:

Yard Sale Blues Number 397

by Trent P. McDonald

what is
a kumquat peeler
a device to strip citrus
or an x-rated toy
and please
let me know
how to use an endive fork
a thing I never knew
was a thing
until now
someone else’s garbage
is my
garbage
but you are happy
a sign of yard sale is heaven
isn’t it
a lunchbox from a sitcom
from 1973 that nobody remembers
is only 95
dollars
thermos included
an earwax washer
only slightly used
a grey frilly table cloth
once white
a mexican poncho
from sears roebuck
really
You peel out the bills
like a kumquat
and fill the car
with junk
we’ll never
use

Extra points if you catch the reference to Frank Zappa 😉

—–

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

I received a bumper crop of rotten poetry this time around, which was fantastic! The downside of this, of course, was that that many poets increased competition. I began setting mental rules like not rhyming, staying on subject, and mimicking free verse enough to make a recitation painful.

Trent’s poem just barely beat out at least 5 finalists because it reminded me the most of a free verse poem; but in a terrible, terrible way. He and others threw in random secondhand junk. He and others rambled at what may have been a story. He and others utilized terrible elements. I’ve said it nearly every week and I’ll say it again: good job, everyone! This decision was very difficult to make!

Don’t believe me? Read on, if you are able:

Second hand sale in a garage

by Bruce Goodman

I went to a second hand sale.
It was in Peach Street.
It was in someone’s garage.
There was an old broom with a few bristles missing.
There was a garden fork with some of its prongs gone.
There were a couple of old cushions with the stuffing coming out.
And there was grandma!
Grandma! Grandma for sale!
Maybe your own grandma has croaked
and you want another.
Buy grandma!
She might be second hand,
but she can be a grandma to your kids
if their own grandma has kicked the bucket.
Also she knows how to help with the dishes.
And cook.
Although I’m into antiques
I didn’t buy her
because she wasn’t in very good condition.
But I certainly will be keeping an eye out
at other garage sales.
Besides, she was too expensive,
and I haven’t sold the kids’ maternal grandma yet.
Grandma! Grandma for sale!
Maybe your own grandma has croaked
and you want another.
Buy grandma!

—–

It was today, in fact:

by Jon

Dozens of us, gathered in one place hoping to divest
At least a part of the clutter gotten from yet another
Medium channeling second-hand nick for which
They had a knack, a paddy full of wack, whatever
Those are.

The iris bulbs we labored to pull from the stubborn
Crowded soil. Those went best, one dollar a dozen.
Most of the rest sat like a lump or hung from the rod.
Going nowhere. Everyone had much the same kind of
Unneeded stuff.

At least the local helper of the disadvantaged poor
Brought their empty trailer and left it parked.
I can feel good that the surplus winter gear can
Keep someone warm when they would otherwise
be exposed and freezing.

Best of all, I didn’t have
To take any of it back home.
Next time, we will go straight to give
Completely bypassing sell again
Altogether.

—–

merciless

by Deb Whittam

dawn, sun glinting just above the horizon
cars, chariots of the road, engines revving
it is a blood red sky
but green is the color of their eyes
they roam the highways, the back lanes,
parking on easements, with pure disregard
trolling through bins, bags, boxes, basements
hardened hearts, no regrets
mercy is not a word they comprehend
bitter voices, bartering, harsh words, recriminating
scuffle, hands grasping, eyes like chips of broken glass
victory doesn’t favor the brave, it favors them

—–

Yard Sale

by Joem18b

first light on the first day of the rest of my life.

i leap from my bed and fling up the sash.

my heart also leaps from its bed and flings up my mood.

the sun and birdsong and automatic-sprinkler sounds hit me in the face.

i fling off my pajamas and some lingering doubts.

skip breakfast although it’s the most important meal.

go out front and pull up the croquet wickets and collect the newspaper.

i’m clearing the front yard.

hurry to telephone poles around the neighborhood and tack up my signs.

and back home, roust out the kids and feed them.

and finally, out front with them where i attach all the price tags.

they’re expensive but worth it and even if i sell only one it would be a great start.

—–

Nothing

by Tiredhamster

One day I went to a garage sale where
a man was selling his nothing. “What
is it?” I asked him. He pointed at
his empty garage and said, “don’t
you see? It’s nothing. And it can be
all yours!” I looked at the nothing
then back at him then back at
the nothing. “What does it do?”
He looked at me. “Nothing. Nothing
does nothing.” I nodded. Makes sense.
“Well, what can you do with
nothing?” “Well,” he said, “you can
stare at it. You can walk around in it.
And you can even pretend that it’s
something.” After a moment, I said,
“how much is it?” “It’s free, nothing is
free.” “I don’t know if I have room
to put it.” He smiled. “You can put
it anywhere. After all, it’s nothing.”
Finally, I said, “no thanks.” “What?
Why not?” But, I didn’t have
an answer.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Wandering round the stalls and jammed full car boots

Sellers imploring you to hand over your hard earned loot

In one car boot an autobiography from Donald Trump

Read that, no way rather have a session with a stomach pump

Then a special offer on CDs from U2 and Bono

Give you money for that, you got more chance of seeing a flying Dodo

Then a car boot with a portrait of a politician, Jacob Rees Mogg

I’d rather have my leg humped by a rabid flee ridden Rottweiler Dog

Some numpty called Farage is selling knocked off cheap French red wine

He bought the bottles with loose change from his European Pension goldmine

Then finally a chance to buy the actual Boris Johnson our countries so called leader

I bought him for 10p he’s now planted pretending to be a Japanese ornamental Cedar.

—–

Ode to Sweat

by The Abject Muse

O, Saturday Tag Sale:

my Nirvana, my Shangri-la.

The anticipation makes me euphoric:

all that junk to riffle through,

not to mention smelly, worn clothing!

My God, it makes me hot.

So, so hot; ain’t nothin’ hotter

than when the sun beats down

on my bald spot

mercilessly, and then

the salty sweat gets in

my eyes, runs down

my neck and back

and finally trickles,

(oh so delicately!)

into my shorts.

The sensation makes me want to squeal.

But I don’t.

—–

Me and Our Stuff

by Ruth Scribbles

Garage, I mean garbage sales blarg…
Flea markets be d*mned
If no garage available use your yard
If no yard, the front steps will suffice
My garbage is your treasure, really?
Have you ever tried to sell your garbage to the public?

I have had two garage sales
Maybe three if you count when I sold my toys
Without my mom knowing
And the toy store around the corner sold me crap

Garage sales hurt one’s back
Be careful what you say when browsing
Someone may hear you and start crying,
or snatch the treasure out of your hand
You get the item home and it stinks
Cigarette smoke galore
Oh the stench
now on the heap for the next
Bulk pickup

Freecycle anyone?

—–

Untitled piece

by Pensivity 101

Stalls left and right,
Goodies to be seen and had.
Certain things for pence or a pound,
A bargain if you knew what to look for.
Look at that!
I had one like it,
Time to get me a pair
If I can remember where I put the other.
Bookends or doorstops,
I’ll make use of it.
Ten pounds goes a long way
With Christmas coming,
Rubber ducks, paperbacks,
Toys and games in battered boxes,
Glasses, ornaments,
Something for everyone.
Beggars can’t be choosers,
Nice to be remembered
And it is the thought that counts.

—–

Fleas In My Basket

by Lou

I’m going to a yard sale today
I’ll come back with fleas in my basket
But I don’t mind about bugs
I think they are cute
With their bubbly eyes
And their vampire tendencies

I’m thinking about a new t-shirt
Or a bohemian floral dress
But I won’t try panties on
Because I’m not that poor
I make my own money ya know?
I’m kinda proud of this

If I had more cash on me
I would avoid the flea market
I would go to Nordstrom instead
And fill up a gigantic shopping cart
With Chanel makeup and… and…
And other unnecessary stuff!

Then, after an exhausting day
I would sit in front of the TV
With a pack of Oreo cookies,
And wait for my favourite cartoons
To magically appear on screen
Let the Moomins begins!

—–

Sailing

by Tedstrutz

I used to know a guy in Michigan
He asked me if I would like to go sailing with him some weekend
I asked what kind of boat
He said he used a pickup truck not a boat
I thought that was weird
What lake I asked
No lakes, garages he said
His name was Bruce
This is a true story

—–

The Garage Sale

by Michael

Tables roughly set,

All the junk I can find

Set out haphazardly

A mad woman’s breakfast, you might say.

At dawn, they begin to assemble

The junk dealers, predators

Looking for a free bargain,

If they can get it.

Haggling over the silliest things

Want something for nothing

Watch for the pilferers.

Grandma’s old vase, cracked and crazed

Still partially covered in sixty years of dust

Has a presence it hasn’t entertained in so long

The buyers understandably ignore it

I was thinking it would go in a flash

But no at days end it sits alone on the far table

Just as its always done,

Neglected, lonely, making a statement

No idea what,

“Grandma had poorer taste than I thought?”

No matter what we got rid of stuff

People happy to pay to take away my crap.

—–

The wonder of the Internet – the Electronic Age!

by LWBUT

No longer do we need to drive for miles

to buy that missing piece we need to fill up holes in our lives,

or just find something that amuses us.

No longer a need to trawl hundreds of tables, trays,

boots or booths full of random junk others have deemed

no longer worth keeping

(was it ever in the first place?)

so’s to strike it rich finding

the ‘one thing i really need today’.

No! – now we have e-Bay!

E-Bay, where everything in the entire world

(North Korea possibly excepted)

you could ever need,

and even more that you never will,

is categorised, alphabetised, price-listed (up or down!),

even auctioned –

(Starting at just 99cents – Ends in 3 days time!)

Best of all – it can be posted

with no need to leave your living room,

or bedroom for that matter,

depending upon lifestyle,

or lack of.

—–

More Than What You Bargained For

by Peregrine Arc

Yes, ma’am what we have here is a bonafide Tupperware collection of warped plastic. They were used to store the leftover bread from the feeding of the 5,000.
And over here? Well that’s my collection of Pet Rocks. They all have Ph.D.’s. Piled High Deeper, you know. That’s a rock thing.
Oh, that milk jug there? Glad you asked. Lincoln drank out out of that. And that toothbrush? Made out of Washington’s false teeth, the wooden kind.
This here gun was used in the Revolution; and this necklace? Worn on the neck of the queen herself. Queen Cleopatra that is. Victoria’s sold yesterday, I’m afraid.

Well here, how about this book : it’s an ancient copy of Chelsea Owen’s “Terrible Poetry Guide.” It was printed nearly a hundred years ago. She defines free verse on page 63.

And this ain’t it, son.

—–

Thank you so much for entering! Please, come back tomorrow around 10 for next week’s prompt.

phad-pichetbovornkul-m2iqRdVGprU-unsplash

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

Millions have gathered today to hear The Answer to who the wrote the most terrible poem in the galaxy; and, believe me, it was worth the seven and a half million year wait.

After much Deep Thought, I must conclude the winners to be:

Celebrate your body

by Joem18b

Celebrate your body every morning
Wet it then dry it ever so slowly
Begin with your hair or if you are bald your pate
Dry your neck wattles lovingly
Dry your front and back
Dry your loins with a sawing motion
If you are limber enough dry your legs
Do not attempt to dry your feet you could fall over and break a hip
Use a new towel every day or the same towel every day no exceptions
Towel should be heavy no less than 1,000 GSM (grams per square meter)
Should have densely woven loops of 3-ply yarns for strength and durability
Luxurious, spa-like warm and cozy experience is essential
100% Egyptian cotton or for political reasons Tibetan cotton
Must absorb. Pile must drift like cloud over your corpus
Never hang on a hook
Never allow bleach, cleaning agents or acne salicylic acid treatments near it
Must remain plush after laundering. How to wash a towel is cleaning 101 especially if mildew is common where you live (vinegar and baking soda)
Optional classic piqué border
Never wrap around your body! it is not a dress or suit!
Must be certified by TexSufi, globally trusted and recognized testing system for ecologically safe textiles
Never use on a pet. (Small, jewel-like birds excepted)
Your towel is your friend, your companion, your lover
On second thought, also celebrate your body every evening

AND

Untitled piece

by Tiredhamster

Chapter One:

My life can be seen
In the laundry basket over there, tossed
Like a forgotten banana peel on a hot
Summer morning, sad and lonely
and brown, getting real dry
with a bad
Odor that makes everyone
sad

Chapter Two:

I look closer and see an old used
towel, dry, yet moist, begging
to be used,
but it has already been used, and
is too old and foul, maybe
i should toss it
into the trash, but i won’t because
It is my towel, the only one
i have and
No one can take it, not even
The government or
My ex-wife.

Chapter three:

I was wrong,
all the used
Towels had to go,
Said the president, so i
Mailed my old towel
To the government
Like a good
american
Now i am
Left hear, with an
Empty laundry basket
And my skin
Dripping
Making the floor wet
Forever.

—–

Congratulations, Joem and Hamster! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

“Celebrate your body” was just plain awful. It read like a towel’s instruction label, but worse -especially considering its hints at still being a poem.
Tiredhamster’s piece was just as bad but in a different way: its form and meter speak of free verse. Its message, not so much.

Almost all of the poems were terrible enough to make a Vogon cry -if, perhaps, a Vogon possessed compassion or tear glands. Although what was left of our judges could not award first place to all, they certainly came close enough to warrant a few limbs-gnawing-off recitations.

See for yourself, if you have the sanity:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Snap …
Right buttock burns
Crack …
Broken china on the floor
Yip …
Drip … drip … drip
Hung on line to
Dry
Fluffiness restored

Ahhhhhhhhhhh

—–

Good morning

by Bruce Goodman

Now that I’m old and extremely fat
I find the towel too small to wrap
around my waist after a shower.
To get fresh clothes, I don’t know how
I’m going to get to my tallboys
where I keep my clean corduroys.
So I waddle towel-less along the corridor
and, fearless as a matador,
march through the dining room to get to my bedroom.
Some of the 46 other hostel inhabitants start to swoon
because my towel-less-ness is quite surreal,
and they are put off from eating their breakfast cereal.
A larger towel would cover many sins
and save the visiting old ladies from having to drink too many gins.

—–

Towel Be Soft or Not Towel Be Soft, That is the Question

by Babbitman

Wet hands, wet face
Reaching out into space
Clawing, grasping
For my towel in its place
On the towel rail.

Don’t panic! I have it!
Water drips from my nose
Onto the carpet
While I fumble to bring it
(the towel)
To my moistened visage
And rub.

But what is this?
The water on my face
Is simply moved around.
No absorption, no drying
I feel like I’m dying
Even though I’m trying
Really quite hard.

It’s unusually soft
And smells of artificial flowers.
Damn!
It’s been treated with
Fabric conditioner.
Sad Nick. Petitioner:
“Please stop making my towels soft”

I look in the mirror
And sigh, “damn!” again
For ’tis a new towel
And my face is cover’d
In fluff.
I wash my face again.
And sob, tears lost
Amongst a bit more water
From the tap.

I’m trapped
In a vicious circle
How many times will I have
To go round?
Probably 42.

—–

Towels Slewot

by Peregrine Arc

Crisp, white, pinstriped
Mashed as mashed potatoes white.
Down it goes, down I say
To cover the floor, to cover the hay.
Beach, shower, hand, tip
All types we have, all types we mint.
But did I ever say to you
Your hair is as bleached and spotted as the ones on this by torn up rag?
My dear, my love, that is enough;
Let’s “towel” it a day.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

My friend stayed at a Trump Hotel and pinched one of the towels
When the President finds out he will give him one of those scowls
On the Vice Presidents visit to Ireland he stayed at another Trump Hotel
I wonder if he had a towel in his bag when he bid the hotel farewell
Now the army has to bunk at Trumps Golf Resort in Scotland
Hundreds of fluffy white ones will go missing as mistakes are not learned
Poor Donald looses so many towels I hope he has a good supplier
Probably from China but he won’t know as he is such a crap buyer
And I wonder as Trump played golf while Hurricane Dorian continued to magnify
What was he thinking as he dried his grip with one of the finest towels money can buy

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Whirling and twisting
Around and thru
Up and down
Round and Round
Swishing splashing

Mind in the gutter??

— the —

Kids playing in the rain
Time to wrap them
In towels
Dry
Them
Off

Towels in washer

Whirling and twisting
Around and thru
Up and down
Round and Round
Swishing splashing

—–

Towel, towel every place

by M.R. Kessell

There’s fresh towels in the hall closet
And one draped upon my bedroom door
Dish towels in on the kitchen counter
And that one mysteriously draped, languidly, longingly on the living room floor

There’s a wholly ratty towel for the doggy
And then, suddenly, in the dining room hutch
All those fancy, decorative towels and such
That I’m am forbidden to
handle

There’s Emergency towels in the cars
And ginormously big towels for the beach
But as I step from the shower freezingly
Not a single one’s within reach

—–

You’ve Really Got To Know Where Your Towel Is

by Joanne Fisher

I use my towel for everything –

I dry myself with it, or wipe dirt off

sometimes I wear it as a short dress,

an improvised hat, or use it as a blanket

I even like to take it to sports events and

twirl it above my head in excitement

people say my towel is dirty, that it smells

but you don’t wash towels

do you?

when it gets damp I dry it outside

and then I wrap it around my head

Actually, they’re right

it does stink.

—–

Been There, Eaten That

by Charles masercot

At midnight my stomach started to growl
Too groggy to think, I ate a dish towel

It tasted like an apple garbage pizza, deep fried
(a combination from every dish I’d dried)

My hunger is satisfied, I think
But, I really am craving something to drink

And, even though I’m about to burst
After a gallon of water, I still might die of thirst…

To all of those kids eating dish towels for thrills
Remember that super-absorbency kills!

—–

Just dripping

by Richmond Road

Not trying to be rude
Just nude
Not skinny-dipping
Just dripping
On the bathroom floor
You are here no more
To adore
And complete the chore
Of washing
Hence leave me sloshing
About
As I shout
Of sorrow
Until tomorrow
Again to howl
Where’s my towel?

—–

Untitled piece

by The Bag Lady

Sniffing, ewww

Was that you

The inconsiderate who

Used my towel?

Now it’s damp and dirty

Smells disgusting, diserty

Odors quite unfamiliar

Reminiscent of feet–I shiver

Did you ever think of soap

Not reachable on a rope?

That must be your excuse

My towels are not for you to use!

—–

Now; you may either die in the recesses of space, or tell everyone what you thought of their poems. …or, just come back tomorrow to enter next week’s contest.

FilmVogonPoetry

Joem and TiredH: 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

So sorry for the delay in this announcement. The judge had a busy day and a headache-d night.

At long last you may know that the winner is:

Woe is everyone

by Deb Whittam

Long have the halls been silent,
The chairs empty, the locker doors thrown open.
Long have the weeds grown,
Unchecked, through the days of winter, cold and dull.
Long has the toilets been clean,
The stains and smears of adolescence finally washed away.
Peace has reigned.
As the bell sounds for the first time,
The rodents, the cleaners, the teachers,
Grimace their despair.
School’s back.
So sad.

—–

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

Many poets’ works made me grimace today, but Deb’s stood out. She made me believe I was reading a serious poem, then artfully threw the meter off course whilst adding elements like rodents and “smears of adolescence” in there.

But the terrible poetry doesn’t stop there! Read the others, if you are able:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Teacher, teacher,
Be aware
I just dropped my pencil
Under there
Ha!
I made the teacher
Say “Underwear”!
Principle, Principle
Don’t be blue
I know I took advantage
Of the teacher who’s new
Darn!
He sent my butt home
For my mother to chew
Mother, Mother
Don’t be mad
Only nine months to summer
Then we’ll be glad
Huh!
What’s she mean
It won’t be the worst nine months
She ever had….

—–

SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!

by Bruce Goodman

Hello Everyone! Welcome back to school!
Murray, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Paula, I hope your summer time was cool!
Wayne, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Shirley, you’re acting like a fool.
Frank, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
William, you’re full of bull.
Jeanette, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Winifred, no you can’t; it’s against the rule.
Neil, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Oh for goodness sake! I can’t wait for the Christmas break when we celebrate Yule.
EVERYONE! SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Let’s see who does the bester
In this first semester.
YOU’RE HERE TO LEARN SO SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Is it really back to school
In that uniform so uncool
Yep
Do I have to Combe my hair
I’m not allowed to rock in my chair
Yep
Come again, I have to get up at Half past Six
Then get on the school bus with the other lunatics
Yep
Have to eat a healthy school lunch
And in the class I’m not allowed to munch
Yep
I have to learn my nine times tables
And I need to write my name on all the coat labels
Yep
I’m not allowed to pick my nose
While having to write boring prose
Yep
Not allowed to play games of my mobile phone
And if the teacher shouts I’m not allowed to moan
Yep
Must not run and play along the school corridors
And no pulling funny faces at the other choristers
Yep
When I ask a question I must raise my hand
Even when in Latin it’s impossible to understand
Yep
I have to fully button up my school shirt
Always keep the blazer on to hide all the dirt
Yep
Not supposed to throw objects at the head-boy
Be nice to your classmates and certainly don’t annoy
Yep
On no grounds can I fight or swear
Don’t attack the other kids with the set square
Yep
Need to pick my feet up so no scrapping only the floorboards
And certainly I’m not supposed to do rude doodles on the blackboards
Yep
I HATE SCHOOL……

—–

Back to school

by Ruth Scribbles

“Why oh why?”

The children cry

“Yipee Skippy!”

The parents are trippin’

“Kids are goin’ back to school!”

School daze begin again

Hallelujah! Amen!!

Wait!

What?

You need clean clothes

And play clothes TOO!

paper and pencils

And have to work at home too??

OH! NO!!!

BACK to school BLUES!!

—–

Going Back

by Joem18b

my dad was on parole
which was a rigamarole

then he goofed up
but then he fessed up

and back he went to the Big House
quiet as a mouse

i know how he felt, it was a bummer
like with me at the end of each summer

—–

The Fall

by LWBUT

The Summer joys shelv’d

like books to a library.

Autumn faces droop.

—–

Thank you to everyone for playing. Come back tomorrow for next week’s contest!!

kids-1093758_1920

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