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.

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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.

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Alas, but thy judge hath been down and far past th’ability to think within reason; for, upon the eve past, she was blessed (or cursed!) with the foulest of head colds!

But, finally, she hath the time and mental strength to appoint a winner:

The Sonnet 73 butchering

by Gary

That time of year thou decides to do some baking and behold
Knowing the results will be that bad my shame do hang
Upon finding I forgot to turn the oven on and thy food is still cold
Bare ruined I shall burn all food until the cry PLEASE LORD NO MORE is sang
In me thou see’st the worst kitchen abominations performed anywhere in the land that day
As after sunset fadeth the Fire Engine arrives to put out the oven fires from the west
Which by and by blackend food is thrown away
Death’s icy grip can be seen in the stodgy bread as it refuses to rise as long as it do rest
In my donuts the taste of vileness and repulsiveness does such fire
That on the ashes of the badly overcooked Rhubard crumble do lie
As the death-bed do lyeth anyone who tastes the food with the use by date do expire
Consum’d is the food not by any sane man but dumped in the bin by any brave passersby
This thou has bakethed food with a nauseating odour so strong
To love the simple beauty of a frozen microwave meal I do long

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

I know I say so nearly every week, but I had such trouble choosing one winner. I laughed, in pain. I groaned on behalf of The Bard and what you all did to his name. Gary’s inched ahead by means of horribly rambling lines of no common length that I’m certain Shakespeare would never deign to consider, let alone pen.

The rest of the entrants may safely assume they won 1.5 place:

Based on Richard III

by Bruce Goodman

I had a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
I had a Barney, till a Tommy killed him:
Thous hadst a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
Thou hadst a Tommy, till a Tommy killed him.
She for a Molly weeps, and so do I;
I for a Chloe weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Chloe weep and so do I;
I for a Molly weep, so do not they.
I never realized until now just how many pet cats we’ve had over the years.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

It was a dagger to my throat,
They had departed
In the still darkness of a winter’s night
Gone, with nary a backwards glance
Whilst I supped with my comrades
Before the hearth burning bright
Angst tore my soul,
As my bloodless lips parted,
In a cry of mournful sorrow.
I recollect it well, for the first rays of light
Broke the clouds that hung darkly
For the commencement of the morrow.
I gnashed my teeth in fury,
As witches three berated me,
They had warned me of falsifying glory,
But I had ignored them in my nativity.
Whom was the portent devised
That the chocolate cake could so disappear
With one foul swoop,
Of one’s own mouth, it did so appear.

—–

Richard II’s Lament for Lost Socks

by Shaun Jex

For good gravy’s sake, let us sitteth upon the ground
And tell weepy type stories about the death of socks
Forsooth some were dropped behind the dryer and never found
Whilst some unraveled after being stuffed with pointy rocks
Some wore thin ‘til their sole was naught but a gaping hole
And thus were promptly tossed into yon dustbin to expire
Whilst other simply vanished like as though into a black hole
Still more grew to smell as though dragged through a mire
All vanished! For within the empty sock drawer
There sits naught but a few mismatched pairs
To be worn, like the raven said (oops wrong poet!) nevermore

—–

Below me (the rewrite)

by Ruth Scribbles

This below nothing:
to mine other be false,
And it canst be behind,
as the day is the night,
Thou must not then be true to any woman.

– – –
Why Did I Birth Thee??

Whoa is thee! Thou mad knave!
Gettest thee down into the cave.
Thou hast burned mine toast
Thou shouldest quake and tremble
I beyond sorrowful.
Thou art vile!!
I detest the day thee was birthed!!

—–

No More Brown Sugar Cinnamon…

by Masercot

With heavy heart I watched you go
Your five friends gone and eaten
I meant to have one but no
I ate the second like a cretin
Neither full nor hungry did I feel
From the first two frosted pastries
I resolved to eat the next two and make a meal
In a sullen fit of wastry
So, intact only two remained
The other four were spent
I, for dessert, ate the twained
And, that’s where all the Pop Tarts went

—–

Thank you all for a terrible experience. You’ve earned your rotten fruit for the week. Please return on the morrow for a new prompt.

hamlet-62850_1920

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

Wow. I’m not certain I want to go on vacation after reading this week’s batch of terrible poetry. From ‘wish you were(n’t) here’ to ‘wish I’d vacationed alone’ to …sheep? the poems this time around truly delivered.

But we’re not only here to lament our wasted work leave. We’re here to pick a winner, and that is:

Untitled piece

by Gary

Arrived in Pluto just 459 years late.
You wouldn’t believe what they are charging on the exchange rate
Can’t open the hotel windows as the air tends to dissipate
Can eat what I want as the low gravity gives me little weight
The beaches are empty so it feels a little desolate
The trip round the 5 moons was first rate
The nightlife is great at the disco you should see the locals gyrate
Tomorrow off to one of the poles to ice skate.

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

Competition was stiff between 2-3 at the end. Gary’s won for its wonderful every-line-rhyming, mostly. I also appreciated his consistent mis-meter, topped by an interesting message that was on topic.

Do you think you’d like to receive a postcard bearing any of the following?:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Just writing from my.
Little bit of paradise.
Just taking some.
Time for a note.
Just saying that.
Vacation is going.
Well.
Just need to let you know.
That I will be out.
Of the hospital.
Soon.

—–

Greetings from Bermuda

by Peregrine Arc

I finally made it to Bermuda, my dear little one.
Everyone has shorts and triangles for sale, it’s odd.
I should be back next Tuesday, make sure you feed the cat.
The plane just needs to get us out of this isoceles, stat.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Mary packed her bags
Mary had had enough
Damn the little lost sheep
They could cut their own fluff
She was going abroad
To sunshine and wine
She was going abroad
She was going to have a swell time
All was going well
But then the hotel demanded payment
Mary huffed and puffed
She was being treated like a vagrant
Mary decided to take a stand
There was more than one way to call a bluff
She went to the local zoo
To find the right stuff
Filling her room with creatures
She dared them to remove her now
Mary landed herself in jail
Damn those damn sheep
They were all going to hell

—–

A postcard to the wife

by Bruce Goodman

I wanted a hassle-free vacation
so that’s why I’m not telling you my location.
I don’t care if you’re alone;
I’m glad I left you at home.
I don’t miss you constantly talking garbage,
although I do miss having you here to carry my luggage.
When I get back home next Friday
I hope the house is nice and tidy.
So aloha from some hidden beach
that hopefully you won’t be able to reach.

—–

Vacation Limerick

by Riley4892

My family went away on vacay,
And the sun shone most every day.
Until there was rain,
It drove us insane,
And now we stay inside to play.

—–

Déjà vu

by Joanne the Geek

It’s like I’ve been here before
all the beaches I’m at, all seem the same
they all have sand and rocks and water
and bathers slowly roasting themselves in the sun
and then there are the hotels –
all offering services and rooms that all
look the same no matter where you go
and all the people are the same too
I’m not actually saying they are literally all the same people
but that they are all the same types of people, that’s
what I’m getting at
I don’t mean to sound neurotic
but sometimes I wonder if I’m in a simulation

—–

A Postcard from Finland

by Shaun Jex

Hello Dear –
I fear
You would not like it here
Helsinki
Is way way way too stinky
This time of year
But I guess it’s good to know
No matter how far and wide I roam
There is always a little something
That reminds me of our home.

—–

My Summer Vacation

by Ruth Scribbles

Various

Anxious

Catastrophic

Antics

Tempted

Indecent

Outlandish

Nonsense

On my summer vacation

A best staycation ever

The jealousy abounded

And I was hounded

Indecently

For my details

V

….A

……..C

…………A

…………….T

………………..I

……………………O

………………………..Ns

—–

Thank you to all the wonderful/terrible poets! Come on by tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week’s prompt.

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

Another week, another round of great entries! You all free versed enough to set iridescent butterflies wafting round a blushing summertime rosebush.

Yet, there can only be one winner. And that is:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

latitude and longitude, dormant darkness
of desserts concaved with sand. frosted
waves pounding cliff faces rugged
as gulls mournfully cry their solemn
lament. giants rustle leaves in hollow
reproach, as winter exhales. in a basement
a cheerless rodent sneezes, a whirlwind of
dust. below grim encrusted tunnels feet
scamper, fleeing the angry beast, who bellows
its angst in short blasts three. The umpire shouts TIME.

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

All the entries this week were fantastic! Deb’s poem won for how well she took traditional free verse and destroyed it. The icing on the cake was her “a cheerless rodent sneezes.” Well done!

If you thought hers was terrible, see if you can get through the rest:

Sugar cubed

by Bruce Goodman

You are the teaspoon that stirs sweet sugar in my cup of tea;
imagine how yucky the tea would be without you
to stir the saccharine cubes in the beverage for me to drink.

That is why you are my honey-bee hovering near my cup and saucer,
my stirring implement that is wild and free
and goeth round and around all syrupy with glee and delight.

My teaspoon! My teaspoon! from A to Z*!
(*pronounced ZED because we’re not allowed to rhyme this week)
Every time I come back from having a pee
there’s always a further five or six sugared hot cups of tea waiting to be imbibed.

Thank you for being my sugar cube agitator, adorable Constantia.
When I see you dissolve sugar I dissolve into a sticky mess.
Will you take time out from stirring my sugar cubes to marry me?

—–

Hola

by Peregrine Arc

Goldfish, mirrors of angelic happenings
Twittering ’round my pâté
and never I did I want to become a bat.
A florid, Florida bat with a floral dress
Flowery, shimmer, summery.
Striking Cover Girl poses at a laundromat recycling bin.
But alas here I am, at a restaurant poking a salad at a beach
80 years old, playing Bingo with Uncle Mingo
A flowery, fruity, in more ways than sooth
Ol’ bat.
Cha, Cha, cha. Ole!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

In our darkest times you bring unbroken sunshine
With a bouquet unrivalled amongst the finest wine
Like a fragrant flower sat below the finest red pine
How can something so small be so life enriching
Your smell, your taste so utterly bewitching
Just one drop is so completely uplifting
You shine out on our world like the stars of the southern cross
You are as wondrous and spectacular as the wandering albatross
You paint the world with a sparking diamond jewel embossed gloss
In the kitchen you are the unrivalled boss
Riding across the sky like the ancient god Helios
You are our light oh Great Tabasco Sauce

—–

Ode to Doublemint

by Ruth Scribbles

Elixir of arousal
Enticing my buds to
Long for the burst of delightful
Flavor
My orifice masticates
Releasing angst and queasiness
You are fettered for my sustenance
My perseverance in chasing you
Is made worthwhile

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Ah, fast and furious
Flicking around
You scurry to and fro
Like a drunken apricot
Charlie Chaplin on speed
Multiplied by two
On your long thin legs
So gloriously gorgeous
That you have six
For how can but two do
Or even Charlie’s three
Including his cane
For his cane is part of him
Isn’t it
But you have six
Naturally
And you don’t have a mustache
But the mandibles
So roundly curvaceous
Sweeping, sexy mandibles
And antennas
Or is it antennae
Let me look closer
With this magnificent magnifying glass
Shape, clear crystal for seeing
Ooops
I didn’t mean to
Burn you up
Sorry ant

—–

Thanks to everyone for poeming! If he’s game, I’m thinking of having a guest judge. We’ll see how that goes. Regardless, come back at 10 a.m. tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

mitchell-hartley-ebqlWF5jd3Y-unsplash (1)

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The results of this contest are going to be delayed every time; until my children start free, public babysitting at the end of this month. Sorry.

I won’t make you wait any longer. This week’s winner is:

Darling Maisie

by Bruce Goodman

I can’t say I’m that crazy
About Maisie
And when I’ve had a few things get a bit hazy
Anyway, before very long she’ll hopefully be pushing up a daisy
Or two.

Almost inevitably she has to be regarded
As a favourite relative and not discarded
Because if I say otherwise I’ll get bombarded
And cursed and I can ill afford to be unguarded
In the matter.

There’s very little in Maisie’s life that I approve
But she’s fabulously rich and my lot is likely to get improved
Thus I’m feeling behoved
To love her and hope she dies soon, overfed and boozed;
My darling third cousin twice removed!

Congratulations, Daisy -I mean, Bruce! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I really had difficulty narrowing things down. I think everyone did well at mis-matching meter, misspelling or misusing words, and tweaking rhyming patterns where they ought not to be tweaked. Bruce’s entry won by merit of it sounding the worst when I read them all aloud. Vocalizing helped me catch the true spirit of his terrible meter, and dub him the most terrible poet of them all (this week).

Good work to everyone! Here are the runners-up:

A Tribute to my once favourite brother

by Deb Whittam

We were brothers (political license here)
Who challenged the stars to duels
With the words we wrote.

We were comrades (more political license)
Who downed Guinness, ok perhaps not Guinness but its … political license …
As we coloured the sunset with our crayons.

We were amigos (Like the three amigos but my chest is hairier.)
Who took the wrong turn, not that I was navigating, hey Charles,
Then built mountains for astronauts to scale.

We were all we needed, just us, you know, you and me, two is better than one, ain’t it grand to be a duo and not in a band,
Who composed melodies that sent
Wayward angels into raptures of delight.

We were all of this and then,
My brother over the seas (Ok not technically my brother but political license and all that jazz)
You had the gall to beat me and now you are just a stop sign I will tear down and stomp on while pretending it’s your head.

—–

Auntie M

by Ruth Scribbles

Bless her heart
She’s just old
And loves to scold

Surveying the kingdom
Nothing is pleasant
No good words spoken
Especially about peasants

Leaves are trash
Unmade beds are a mess
Perfection is the name of the game
Otherwise out of the will
You’ll be unnamed

I fear she will live forever
And ever and ever
The one thing she didn’t perfect
Was how to undo the defect
Of living so long

And so goes my song
Oh my darling Auntie M
You are loved
With all your foibles
Oh my darling Auntie M

—–

Untitled piece

by Kytwright

My gran’s budgie ate Trill, he chewed up the seeds with a will,

He was imaginatively called Budgie Boy,

a mirror with a bell was his favorite toy,

which seemed to give him joy.

But when you opened the cage door,

he’d fly out and mess on the floor.

Then gran to no avail,

would try to coax him from the curtain rail,

my grandma’s budgie, who ate Trill.

—–

The Bongo Bingo Poet Beat

by Peregrine Arc

Oh! My dear old Uncle Mingo
How he loved playing his Bingo.
Russian Roulette in retirement with all his savings
Soon became his weekly misbehaving.

One fine day he died and was broke;
His lawyer gathered us around the table at the woke
“Nothing’s left, nothing at all;
And you owe me $3500 for telling you all.”

And now Uncle Mingo’s dead, it’s true;
I’m at his funeral, dressed in blue.
And when we turned from the grave
“Bingo!” was heard, shouted out by the knave.

—–

Uncle Fred and the Things He Ded

by Charles

From when I was young, ‘til when I’m dead
I’ll always remember Uncle Fred
When I was just a fresh-faced kid
He told me all the things he did
He climbed all mountains and fought all wars
He visited every nation’s shores
He had several PhDs
All attained with relative ease
He said he could do most anything
And even taught a pig to sing
My esteem for the man could not be higher
A brilliant man and accomplished liar

—–

Thanks for playing!! Come back in about 12 hours for next week’s prompt.

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