WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/3/2020

Spring or Autumn’s in the air, and our poetmasters clearly could not resist penning an ode or haiku or whoknowswhatthehecktheywerewriting to the seasons. Despite the thrills or chills or desirestorunforthehills they gave, only one walked away as champion.

And that winner is:

Untitled piece

by Writerinretrospect

Bloody buzzing bees
Faceplant into the window
Hahahahaha!!

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

I had great fun reading all these poems! WIR’s struck me as winner above all because of its succinct terribleness; its abbreviated awfulness. This poem addressed the subject, appeared to verse seriously by its form, then proved quite silly after all.

But, that hardly discounts the rest. I laughed aloud at their cleverness, and know you also will:

I hope California’s Dreaming

by Richmond Road

The mercury is falling
I hope it’s just a cold
Is it destiny that’s calling?
Or part of getting old?
Is it just a shiver?
Or might it be a curse?
That Autumn will deliver
Or will Winter be much worse?

A month of isolation
My social distance getting broad
I’m here for the duration
Already getting bored
There’s bad news in the paper
The TV’s on the blink
I fear the isolator
Might turn this man to drink

My Mama and my Papa
They left here just in time
I cough. I sneeze. I splutter
I’ve been cut down in my prime
So all the sky is grey
And all the leaves are brown
There’s nothing left to say
‘Cause there’s no one left in town

***
And I want extra points deducted for the blatant theft of ‘California Dreaming’ lyrics.

—–

Ode to Spring (in Alabama)

by The Abject Muse

Springtime in the Dirty South

don’t last fer long

Well hush my mouth!

Magnolia trees are the best part

smell so fresh an’ sweet

ain’t like Bubba-Jean’s dirty feet.

Tiny birds chirp & slurp

the juicy worms

they find in dirt

In a couple weeks

spring is over

and you will sweat

like an ogre.

Cuz now it’s summer.

—–

Haiku

by Joem18b

green things start to grow
when they come out from the snow
so then i must mow

—–

Autumntime

by Deb Whittam

Autumn is comin
But I’ll still be runnin
2 metres from you
Hey lets go to the zoo
See the bats
Drown the rats
Walk the dogs
Bring in the hogs
Leaves are fallin
Winter will come a callin
But we’ll all be in lockdown
So I’ll be up at four
Runnin’ so you can’t see me
No more.

—–

New Life

by Bryntin

waiting
for it to arrive
and full of hope
for it all to be better soon

suddenly
things are new and fresh
a mysterious force has been
and reinvigorated your world

unbidden
no one asks for this
it happened overnight
a sprouting in functionalities

refreshed
with the urge to create
the brilliant canvas slowly awakens
your desire for inputs suddenly keener

excited
the power surges within
the crescendo of creative energy builds

and then it stops

message
information blinks
it reads
Windows 10 Update unsuccessful
Try Again? Y/N

—–

Untitled piece

by Joanne

Autumn –

the trees slowly
going bald

—–

Ode to Spring

by Charlie

After fornicating earlier for all they’re worth
in the Spring the animals give birth
Owls spawn owlets
Cows spawn cowlets
(or “calves”
if it is comprised of both halves)
Bees pollinate the colorful blooms
Hibernating bears check out of their rooms
Reproduction is that upon which all of nature is built
Didn’t have youngsters? Enjoy your guilt!

The season of Spring
is just about my favorite thing
Although you can bet your bautumn
I prefer Autumn

—–

Mud Season

by The Bag Lady

The dirt road freezes then it thaws

Ruts form in melting causing “awes”

From drivers going way too fast

Veering all ways from first to last

Tires getting stuck in grooves

Cars making unwanted moves

The trip was never meant to be

A closeup visit with a tree.

—–

Re-leafing myself in public
(with apologies to His Bobness)

by Doug Jacquier

As the calendula ticks (not to be confused with cattle ticks)
over to the March of the sugar plum fairies
I vow to turn over a new leaf.
But I am de-feated
By the myriad discarded oak appendages
carpet-snaking to my door.
There must be some way out of here
I thought in disbelief.
There’s too much confusion.
I can’t get on relief.
So I sprang forward through
a hole in the daylight-saving curtain
and found, to my re-leaf,
rabbits eating my lettuce seedlings.

—–

Untitled piece

by Obbverse

Sunny Outlook.
Leaves is green,
Summers peachy keen.
Leaves turn yellow,
Mortifies this fellow.
Leaves is red,
Soon be dead.
Winter draws close,
Leaves me morose.
Grey day after day
Springs so far away.
When that wintery sun’s shining
I cain’t see no silvery lining.

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

A flower flowered
Outside of my door
I knew it must be spring!
I sprang outside
Birds and buds on trees!
It reminded me I need a six-pack
Of Bud
But never mind
The birds on trees!
And Buds!
Yuck….
I go inside
Wash the bird excrement off
I shut the curtains
I open a Bud
When will winter be here again!?!

—–

Spring? Yeah, right

by Geoff LePard
(follow the link for lovely pictures of Geoff’s garden as well)

Spring has finally sprung

But like a gorilla on an old mattress

It’s barely left the ground

Which is frankly disappointing.

*

This year’s daffodils

Have wandered off with a poet,

Looking jaundiced

And in need of a good drink.

*

The lambs have skipped

School in favour of

The slaughterhouse

Cos at least it’s warm.

*

There’s blossom on the trees

But it’s more like

Arboreal dandruff

Than a sign of new birth.

*

Whoever coined the expression

Global warming

Hasn’t had his nadger’s iced

By a March north wind.

*

It bites like a demented rabbit

Denied its conjugal rights

Cos Mrs Flossy has chucked him out

Of the family burrow. Again.

*

Yeah Spring. It sucks. I’m

Practising self hibernation.

—–

Spring its A Lie, Or the Birth of Buds

by Ellen Best

Watch them unfurl in the fragileility of spring,
Opening our eyes allowing us to dream.
Sun scoots low to expose streaked windows
and stained tablecloths that soap failled to clean.
Dust motes dance without rythm or beat,
As the light stings our eyes and warms our feet.
lettuce and sweatpeas sprout in soil filled pots
With dafdodills normality comes in restless spots.
But do not be fooled enough to blink or sigh
For Jack with pointy fingers and lazer eyes
Sends snapping frosts throughout night skies.
Burns lime green leaves as black as Magpies eyes
Stomps on plants with leadend boots.
Its plan is clear to freeze the shoots.
Now our gardens spoilled
spring hadn’t sprung
So we begin again
with steaming
Pony
Dung.

—–

Love/Hate Spring

by Ruth Scribbles

I love the green buds
the flowers too
but they really make me
achoo achoo

My head’s full of water
my eyes itch a LOT
I wish flowers didn’t stink
and cause lots of snot

—–

Spring

by Gary

It’s Springtime in Yorkshire

The Sun is still on vacation

Still waiting for it to be a scorcher

Oh the pigging frustration

The path is covered in ice

And I’ve just landed on my bum

Now I’m wearing last nights rice

And I feel a right dumb dumb

The washing on the line is frozen rock solid

The gale force wind screams over the barren field

The weeds and broken branches makes it look so squalid

The poor garden birds hide in the bushes seeking any decent shield

So Springtime is here which means dust down the garden chair

Now I’m off inside to find my extra thick thermal underwear

—–

Raking Leaves

by Susan Zutautas

Early spring and the ground is smushy

Have to get outside and rake like a hussy

Raking the leaves makes me question

Why I didn’t do this last fall in a session

Now my back is breaking

from all the dam raking

Still have more to do

Picking up all the doggie poo

Leaves have to go into big paper bags

Or they won’t pick them up … what a drag

—–

Thank you all. Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

yellow tulip in spring

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

Inrestrospectawriter: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/27/2020

♪ Happy Birthday to me… Happy birthday to you! ♫

It’s Birthday Season ’round our place (mine was Monday). Which of our esteemed entrants sang the most terribly?

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Spoken:
As we don’t gather
On this day to blather
Let me sweetly remind you
About your place in history

Chant:
You are old
Older than dirt
You are old
Not a little squirt

Sing:
Happy birthday to you
You’re not allowed to boohoo
The virus will leave us
Yippe yay, ha-lle-luuuuuu

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

We had terrible subject, terrible singing, and terrible wishes. I felt Ruth’s song encapsulated just the wrong sort of thing one wants to hear on her birthday anniversary, plus a lovely dusting of lazy lyrics for that extra bad poetry effect.

(I also hope she sings it to her hubby, whose birthday is tomorrow!)

If you’re needing a ‘lift’ for your own birthday, may I recommend any of the following:

Happy birthday, as sung by owls

by Doug Jacquier

Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, ‘lil owlet
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot.

—–

Toilet humour

by Doug Jacquier

Oh, dear, what will we do
We’re singing to you
But you’re not here to hear us
‘Cos you’re locked in the loo.

—–

Farmer’s birthday song

by Doug Jacquier

Happy dirt day to you
It’s raining for you
And now there’s some sunshine
Happy dirt day to you.

—–

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

Crappy birther day to you
You smell like one [heck] of a giant half submerged and sticking out of the bowl poo
Crappiest born day dear Mr. Mattttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhheeeeewwwwww
Crappy birther day
to yooooooooooou
and many more pellets falling out your pants leg
now scurry real fast down to the loo

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Healthy birthday to you!
Sequestered birthday to you!
Virus-free birthday dear Chelsea,
(Hope you have enough TP too!)

—–

That Time of Year

by Fishman

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Have a cake made of frosted honeydew,
Happy Birthday to you.

Your birthday is soon,
(Is your favorite color maroon?)
Enjoy being another year older
Happy Birthday to you.

+ + + + + + + +

Hey, listen up, this is a poem.
So sit down and don’t you roam.
It might be kinda terrible.
But it’s still bearable.
And I’ve only got one.
So it’s not spareable.

So I hope you sat down because I got something to say:
The Terrible Poetry woman is having a birthday.
Is that cool?
Better than a sliced boule?
Tell me, what do you say?
Who doesn’t like birthdays?

I’m guessing that jellyfish don’t like birthdays because they don’t have brains so they wouldn’t even know what a birthday is if they even knew when their birthday was.

So the Terrible Poetry woman needs a present.
But not a pheasant.

(Ants probably don’t like birthdays either because their brains are really small)

Something more pleasant.
Like a flower.
Happy Birthday Terrible Poetry Woman (and to everyone else in the TPW’s house)

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

How many birthdays you have seen
So many decades since you were a teen
Happy Birthday Dear Has Been
Happy Birthday to me, now sod off and pour me a Jim Beam

—–

Hiccup Birthday

by Peregrine Arc

Happy birthday to thee,
Happy birthday to thee,
You’ll feel better in the morning
After a fifth of Jim Beam’s strategic-flask-pouring…

Hiccup! 🥃

—–

Happy Birthday Chelsea

by Susan Zutautas

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Chelsea, happy birthday to you.

May you live a thousand years

May you drink a thousand beers

Get plastered you b_st_r_

Happy birthday to you.

Thank you all for your artistic genius this week. Tune in tomorrow if you’d like to play again.

Me

I’m still cute.

Ruth: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.
Photo ©2020 Chelsea Owens

 

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/20/2020

Either we’re all feeling especially creative, or we’re all stuck inside our toilet paper forts with too much time on our hands. Not that I’m complaining, but this week’s judging took longer than usual because I received so many entries!

Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a winner. This week, it’s:

Stockpiling Against the Pandemic

by Tnkerr

They panicked the public with talk of the virus
The butcher was worried – his name was Cyrus
One night, when the store closed
He took all the bog rolls
Went home and confessed to a scroll of papyrus. A scroll of papyrus that he used as his journal and sometimes hid in the linen closet – on the top shelf under a bunch of pillow cases, unless he was keeping it under the bed, or in the garage; but then the police found it and he was arrested, went to court and got sent to jail… not for very long though (it was only toilet paper, after all)

-AND-

Stockpiling Against Worldwide Disaster

by Deb Whittam

bread, butter,
don’t care about the clutter
egg, cheese
oh, thank god a sneeze
I don’t want that terrible, low mortality, not as bad as the flu which has a vaccine and still kills more people but does not invoke stupidity, panic buying and food hoarding, disease

Congratulations, Tnkerr and Deb! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

These two won for their trick of expanding out that last line to terrible proportions, after poeming so spot-on and terribly about hoarding. They (and a couple others) stood out for using this element to make their contributions worse, particularly since everyone’s poems are so terrible this week they are quite good!

Give yourself a lift, and read through them all:

Ode to Bum Wipe

by Heather Dawn

While some are hoarding by the ton,
Others find no way to wipe their bum.
Trauma horrifying!
Dirty bottoms multiplying!
Someone please, help me find some!!

—–

Untitled piece

by Richmond Road

Hours before Armageddon
Down shopping aisles carefully treadin’
Just fillin’ my trolly
Promotin’ the folly
It’s not tears, it’s just fears that I’m spreadin’

—–

Untitled piece

by Richmond Road

Apocalypse on the horizon
Those toilet rolls so tantalizin’
A prize for the greedy.
No regard for the needy
It is mad. Sad. But so unsurprisin’

—–

No Gettin’ Out The House

by Obbverse

We’re stuck in quarantine for a fortnight,
Our essential supplies are running light,
‘Nuff food and water ain’t our issue,
We failed to stock a pile of toilet tissue;
We’ve gone from sittin’ pretty to sittin’ tight.

—–

Gravity Falls

by Peregrine Arc

There once was a store by the lee
That was fully stocked for everyone’s needs.
It had boondaggles, hoozits and comic sans font;
It had everything a lad or lass could possibly want!
But alas, it had one failing short: no toliet paper, so I’ll use me shirt.

—–

End of the world

by Lucy

“It is the end of the world”, someone chokes; there is a lull.
Stockpiling food for twenty years and toilet paper rolls,
But we’re all out—what do we do
Go out to Walmart, brawl with others like a zoo;
Then leave empty handed—outside, someone is selling them one hundred dollars per half roll!

—–

Wine not

by Doug Jacquier

The world is facing disaster
So stock up on tuna and pasta
Cache rolls for the loo
Store sanitising goo
And ensure your wine cellar’s vaster.

—–

Paperless society

by Doug Jacquier

Go on, kiss everyone in sight
Before we all fall down to the blight
Forget all that tucker
And give us a pucker
But clench your other end real tight.

—–

One flu over the cuckoo’s nest

by Doug Jacquier

There’s a man in DC called The Pres
He t-wee-ts, he pooh-poohs, and he says
It’s all something minor
Like everything from China
A few less old folk, who cares?

—–

Untitled piece

by Jon

Whoever could guess we would see
Fell days we could liken to these?
When we needed to go
But we found there was no
longer a supply of T.P.

—–

These Difficult Times

by Carolyn Cordon

Things to use to wipe your bum?
The number reaches quite a sum –
But lettuce leaf?
I’ll be brief …
Result not good, don’t tell my mum …

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

There are empty shelves down at the store
idiots crashing their carts by the door
I would have been late
till I pulled out the 38
now there’s great stocks of bodies on their floor

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I’m getting a few extra things in
lots of meat and beans if they’re tinned
it was quite busy down there
until I coughed in the air
and the crowds miraculously thinned

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I’ve got my mask on so I’ll be OK,
got my sanitiser and various sprays
got my loo roll and lentils
and ammo to shoot mentals
should be alright for a couple of days

—–

Untitled piece

by Roberta Eaton Cheadle

Poverty makes stockpiling a farce

In some places it can’t come to pass

Money’s really much to tight

Sickness an everyday fight

No loo paper; we’ll just use grass

—–

Untitled piece

by Roberta Eaton Cheadle

If we’re sick we’re supposed to isolate

not a concept to which the poor can relate

When you live in a small tin roofed shack

and water and basic amenities you lack

an out of control virus will just devastate

—–

The Dilemma

by Matt Snyder

Bob has a bad case of the super awful really terrible squirt runs on the daily

With this unheard of shortage of TP, his drawers are becoming quite smelly

He just spent his last $500 bucks for a measly two mega rolls online

His package has arrived in the nick of time

too bad though that when he opened the box, it was alas, EMPTY…

—–

Bug Out Bags

by H.R.R. Gorman

***PG-13 Warning***

With a P-51 and a stash of old food,
One can hold out in style, lighten the mood.
But you’ll still feel alone
With no one to bone,
So be sure to bring tissues and lube.

—–

The hoarder’s charter

by Geoff LePard

‘It’s a risk,’ said the serial hoarder,
‘And I might cause civil disorder,
Buy buying up Frosties,
And making you crossties,
So maybe I’ll stick to cornflakes.’
Or
To hoard takes three things: there’s pluck
And a significant dollop of luck,
But between me and you
On top of those two
Is you really must not give a fig (other soft fruits are available until some silly sod has bought them all)

—–

Hoarding

by Joanne the Geek

I.

I thought this world crisis was a bit of a caper

and soon the long lines for goods would taper

but when I still go the store

there’s always so many more

all I’ve got left to eat is my stack of loo paper

II.

Due to the virus Bill hoarded beans

as stacks of them were within his means

but after eating so many cans

his butt alone could power vans

and he had to frequently wash his jeans

—–

Untitled piece

by Ritu Bhathal

A man in a fit of elation
Stockpiled like the rest of the nation
Well, bog roll he had
But it left him quite sad
When all the pasta gave him constipation!

—–

The wait

by Denny K

Co vid one nine
Is no friend of mine
I am quite a mess
Feeling the stress
Of social distance in the TP line

—–

Untitled piece

by Ellen Best

There was a a wee lass from Madrass
Who needed paper to wipe up her ass.
She looked in a shop ran around the block
Finally settled on her grandpappies sock.
Boom boom.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Hoarding of stuff is tremendous
Mountains of things, stupendous
Toilet paper for me
And nothing for thee
The feeling is awesome, momentous

—–

Limerick Woes

by Kristian

I thought I’d try a Limerick,

It sounded fun, a lark, a kick,

but please take my advice

and always think twice

because now I’m feeling quite sick.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Shelves stripped bare including the Gluten free
Load your boot with every single last frozen pea
You can keep your 10 year supply of toilet roll
Fill your trolley with all the Chicken casserole
But keep your pigging hands off my Yorkshire Tea

—–

Limericks for the Apocalypse

by Ilene

To avoid all the germs in the store
Gladys ate a bluebird and a boar
She washed down that pig
With an isolated swig
That socially infected her snout with a stout.

***PG-13 Warning.***

Traffic was so light yesterday
Officer Joe met his mistress to play
But his wife had a fever
And before he could leave her
He’d slipped his virus in her beaver.

—–

Thank you so much for brightening my week. I trust you had as much fun writing as I did reading. Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt; we’ve got a potentially long road yet of more internet time together.

Tnkerr and Deb: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/13/2020

Kids say the darnedest things! They do, and so do our terrible poets. But, who said their poetry the darnedest?

My Hungry Bum

by Ellen Best

“Mammm”, my bottom keeps eating my pants,
Makes my legs do a dance.
I is pickin dem out, but dae makin me shout. And me tears is now wettin me leg.
*Sniffs*

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

Reading through these was painfully akin to dinnertime chez moi, with fewer gaming and (surprisingly) bodily function references. I chose Ellen’s as first because it sounds a lot like what a child would say. Hers wasn’t the only one to do this, but I felt she did so quite well and managed enough whiff of verse to pass it off as a poem.

If you’ve the appetite, here are the other esteemed entrants:

From bottom-burps to bogeys

by Doug Jacquier

The dinner table farce started

when the oldest one farted,

and the middle-un began piddlin’

and then the underling was chundering.

To No. 1, Mum said ‘Stop that at once!, young Beau’

And he said ‘Sure, Ma, which way did it go?’

To No. 2, ‘The table’s not the place for peeing you know’

He replied ‘But you always tell us to go with the flow’.

No. 3 didn’t speak but passed his plate full of sick

To the dog under the table, from whence came the sound of ‘lick, lick’.

Dad smiled at his wife and ‘Don’t be such an old fogey’,

as he extracted and ate a big bogey.

Translations for non-Australians:

Chundering = vomiting

Bogey = booger

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

What? LOL, but I’m SITD
TMI OMG LYLAS
2moro, yes, 2moro
DBEYR.
IRL this is the TFH
J/K, MHOTY. SH
THX
TTYL
XOXO

—–

Airs And Graces.

by Obbverse

Aw, Mom, whats in this bowl?
I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole!
I don’t care what you say it contains
It looks like a pile of monkey brains!
I don’t believe that’s cauliflower cheese,
It looks even worser than carrots and peas,
And if it repeats the same as baked beans
Everyone here nose what that means.
I don’t wanna taste that gross goo,
It won’t taste a thing like tiramisu,
That snotty sauce, stinky chunky and thick,
It smells like farts and looks like a bowl of sick.
Mom, you can go ahead and reheat it,
But Mom, ain’t no way I’m gonna eat it,
Hot or cold, I’m only gonna leave it,
Mom, take it away before I heave it…

—–

Billy Dunnit

by Ted Strutz

“Billy dunnit.”
“Billy done what?”
“Billy dunnit.”
“Billy done what?”
“I dunno, forgot.”

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

‘Apart from his girl like eye lashes, thankfully no sign of dad in me’

‘Of all the festive colours, my muppet Dad bought a black Christmas Tree’

On a packed French TGV ‘why does the food smell of wee’

To someone from Ireland ‘apart from the rain, wind and cold is it like Hawaii’

Shouting ‘he’s got rabies’ to a poor bearded man on a train

To a mum in the playground ‘my dad fancies someone called Shania Twain’

‘Dad it’s rude to say fart you need to call it a bottom burp’

‘My Dad is a muppet, funny but such a twerp’

‘I can’t eat that carrot, it looks like a willy’

‘That looks like sick’ the day school served chilli

To his nursery teacher ‘my dad let’s me watch Frankenstein’

‘My teacher broke a cup and said a funny word, what does F*** mean’

**** important note ‘my dad let’s me watch Frankenstein’ actually means ‘my dad let’s me watch Scooby Doo which featured Frankenstein’.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

“It’s raining because I put on my boots.” She said.

When grandma turned 80, the 13 year old quipped, “Wow, she’s over the hill twice.”

—–

Cute? Things Kids Say

by The Bag Lady

Guest for dinner, sort of a slob

Kids fascinated by the blob

Of food overrelished, mouth open wide

Children couldn’t believe their eyes

The oldest pipes up to my dread

“You must be really hungry!” he said

The guest must not have heard or ignored

As more helpings in cheeks he stored.

***

True story, 🤪

—–

Thank you all for playing along. You always brighten my day and liven up my night. Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

abdelkader-ft-GVVsC0JG6Ak-unsplash

Ellen: Here’s a badge you can post, if you want, to brag (again):

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/6/2020

There’s no need to hold your breath any longer. At long last and after much deliberation, this week’s winner is:

Everyone.

I didn’t think I’d ever do this a second time, but these were FANTASTIC! I felt like a kid in a candy shop, surrounded by 12 of the best truffle varieties and asked to choose my favorite.

The twists of Shakespeare are exquisite! The quotes from books, made to imitate free-verse, are divine! Your terrible additions are delectable! Well done! Well done!

Mr. Ed and Terrible Poetry

by Richmond Road

“Beware the Ides of March, my dear
With feelings foul for you I fear
Beware the frauds, the fools, the fakes
When light through yonder window breaks
The Ides they come and come what may
Compare thee to a summer’s day
Though no such day will yet prevent
The winter of our discontent

There will be blood, you may be sure
Cry havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!
And there within the maelstrom see
Lord! What fools these mortals be
Lend me your ears. Allay you’re fears
The rider of the storm, he nears
My kingdom for a bloody horse
For a horse is a horse. Of course. Of course.”

—–

Ern Malley Incarnate (Vegan Options Available)

by Doug Jacquier

‘Now is the winter of our wet cement’
quoth Lucy in her sty with diamonds in her silk-purse ears.
Meanwhile, in a battlefield far, far, away, Dicky Three hunched his back,
despairing at the sward strewn with sordid, sworded bodies in his path
and cried ‘A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse’.
Hearing nothing but the sounds of silence he bellowed
‘Unleash the dogs of war. Out, damn-ed Spot and yes, you, Fido,
and you, frumious Bandersnatch.
And let no-one ask who let the dogs out.’
But alas, alack, the dud plan of attack now needed a patsy stone.
He roared so all could hear,
“Cry ‘Harry (and Meghan), England and Boy George’ ”
and hied himself to the tintantabulation of the belfry of Notre Dame.
Thus it was left to the immoral bard, TS (George) Eliot to record,
on a cold, bright day whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
and the clock was striking thirteen,
“This is the way the world ends,
not with a banger but a Wimpy burger.”

—–

Lost in translation

by Bruce Goodman

(My wonderful poem was first translated by Google into Malay, then into Persian, and finally back into English.)

I hid lunch for a word –
Empty!
Where did you go? Oh!
Quo Vadis? I say horse height,
above a saddle basket, is a pile of flowers and frozen marshes.
Look at what is in your favour
(not the silent bridge behind);
there are things where you are, but things are set up
when the tiger burns brightly

not! What a beautiful bird!
You’re not the one to beat
more than the moon puzzle.
You are a greedy-pants of unbridled surreptitiousness
like a pig in search of its mother.
Bacon I told you! Bacon! Everyone bacon!
Do not hold back your sucking finger.

—–

Superb Tentricles of the Thoughtless Glory

by Tiredhamster

Quite in;
The clouds feel very out.
The dramaturgy master mediates his own
Universe into the comic, but askew.

Father’s earth illuminatingly
Not. It’s the voluntary course of pristine parallels
Of other directions. However, to stars, some part
Of the universe fled.

Cleave the empty
Atmosphere. Time important, sure, but chemically not
The very mass business of solely atomical gentlemen.
Forbidden, we exploded the galaxy, and slept without ears.

The actually answered room
Parallels chemically. Shakespeare’s not the me
In once we were. The life that literalizes to recognize
These facts sees the ambiguous floorboards.

—–

Yo Ho

by Peregrine Arc

Yo Ho, ’tis a South pirate’s love for be
My love, your series, Doug breaks over
And love knows no quarrel which it does not already conquer love roads and toads
Be still. Be free. And dear, don’t forget to pee-
-r over the clouds, covers, counters and flights
Of fancy love be, come come and hasten away
For the Opera vegan hits noon today
But what yonder light is that?
Why bloody hell, I forgot to pay the electric bill.

—–

Ern Malley by Ern Malley

by Deb Whittam

It was a night when the planets
Breathed from the wastes of the Tartarean heart.
Where the urchins pick their nose in the sun
Inattentive, suborned, betrayed, and shiftless.
The elephant motifs contorted on admonitory walls,
A Chinese landscape-roll.
A splash – white foam in the dark!
Where the striped fish moved at will.

—–

Perfidy & Discontinuity

by The Abject Muse

To be or not

to be? Or to remain

in this perfidious purgatory?

Clearly I am over-optioned.

A sad, angry sun spews its

hot yellow-ness

from a giggling azure sky —

beckoning me thither.

O! But then a voice

emanating from deep within

the Earth’s inner core through

the Gutenberg and Mohorovičić Discontinuities

all the way up through the planet’s toasty crust

(that makes one’s hair curl if consumed)

to my ears, which

I choose to ignore.

And we wonder why the penguins

are angry.

—–

They murder with a kiss.

by Lucy

Our lightless fire
This love is fair with keen appetite
Acidification
Our magical hyperbole
We avoid and clean in the scullery
Of faint stale smells of beer
Sanctified by an ancient skull
Seized, penetrated by anguish
Fever of the jaguar
In its charm,
Possessed much, blood-faced
Fairer than myself,
No wonder on the summer’s day
Plucked in each verse, red for shame,
Desire is cold, bridled by Webster’s obsession with death
With a text that clutches and folds,
Anguish, anguish in the flesh
For I am myself here in the flesh
(And not hemorrhoids).
To stroke on one’s cheek,
As I on the opposite shore will be
Devoured by heavenly distilling flowers,
Tangled in pale delight
Like crimson shame, Et tu Brute?
Our roads diverged for better ones
Than ourselves because it would never make a difference
Existing letting this dream begin,
I come, I see
And then be immodest,
Oh, they murder with a kiss
Shaking in whispers.

—–

Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

by Ellen Best
Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog barking

With a juicy bone.

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

Silence the piano

With a muffled drum.

Slap that girl on the bum.

Bring out the coffin

Let the mourners come.

She would deliberately go

Slam the door like billy-ho.

To make her uncle Jacob start

She wasn’t really bad at heart.

He was my north my South

East and West.

My working week

My Sunday rest.

The funeral sermon

(Which was long

And followed by

a sacred song)

I thought love

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

—–

Mish-Mash*

by Ruth Scribbles

Her greasy small hand

Missing these four years

Unharnessed Fannie

Proprietor of the playhouse

It’s pointless

Ivan the terrible

Joined longhorn herds

Sang out to his team

One brief nod

Seemed thin and sour

Useless thoughts

It didn’t matter

Get on the horse

And go

~RuthScribbles

*Most phrases taken randomly from the book I’m reading for book club this month “News of the World,” by Paulette Jiles

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Protruding stomachs
In a Danish forest
Hairy as this covering
A sworn enemy of the giant race
Jack blew a mighty horn
The giant awoke
Understandably irritated
And killed him on the spot
A very hazardous task
Not equally spread numerically
Obviously
Such strenuous activities
Led to fatigue and rest periods
And practical jokes of ill-repute

—–

EVEN STEPHEN WAS A NUT-CRUNCHING EGGHEAD

by Matt Snyder

Her feelings at the moment are quite complex

Not Once did Eddie ever interfere

Fred made a good Psychopath

Maude was swept out to sea

But Stephen was always even

A decapitation ensues

Don’t just sit there like dopes !

Evil must suffer defeat

Hold up. A bubble machine ?

Questioned Stephen who was always even

He deduced and stated “Me no wear pants. It feels guuuuuuuud.”

Law is a bottomless pit, it is a cormorant, a harpy that devours everything!

—–

And, as a bonus by Ellen Best:

My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.

A Sister wrote of her brothers passing

She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse

Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.

The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit

The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.

It bought down the wrath of the literary giant

When the hoax was revealed they became silent.

They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme

They made up a sister and gave him not much time.

Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease

Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,

When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they

His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.

—–

Thank you all for the wonderful, terrible poetry. These are incredibly clever and hilarious. Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt, around 10 a.m. MST.

Ern_Malley

Everyone: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/28/2020

My apologies, as usual, for the lateness of posting. As such, no more dallying.

The winner is:

Anniversary threnody

by Bruce Goodman

Today is our anniversary
And I’m just writing to say
I hate your guts.
No ifs or buts;
I hate your guts.
And God knows
You’ve plenty of guts –
Not courage but great wads of fat
Hanging over the top of your belt
Like a petrified tsunami
Brought about by eating too much pastrami.

We had known each other for almost two whole days,
And when you left
I was bereft.
That was a week ago today
And although me and me dog
Don’t want to flog
A dead horse, on the way out you should’ve known
That you were driving over my precious drone.

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

I had a good four or five poems I considered for the winner. They used different terrible elements, though all included a terrible subject. Bruce rose to first for his continued, annoying rhyming of “guts/buts/guts/guts” and his mis-metering overall.

If you’re looking for more love and nostalgia (and have issues), here are the rest:

Transcripts Used by the Defense at the Trial

by Trent P. McDonald

Happy Anni, my dear
Let’s celebrate and have a beer!
I know you like fine wine
But tonight a Bud is fine
I’ll even pay the fine since double-“A” says “No!”
That’s one club I think I’ll blow
I’m not off the wagon, dear one
I just want a little Anniversary fun!
Yeah, I know keeping me straight is your mission
Maybe I’ll just sneak some booze when I’m out fishin’
Didn’t I tell you about it?
The guys rented a boat and seven of us will fit!
Yeah, it’s later I’m going to catch some fishes
And you can stay home and wash all the dishes
Since I invite the gang over for lunch
Hurry and cook something for my bunch!
What’d you mean I’m leaving my paddle as I go up the creek
Since we’ve been married just a week?
You should dance and sing a song
I’ve never committed to anything quite this long!
So happy Anni, my wife
And just think, this is how it will be the rest of your life!!

—–

Love Puppies

by The Abject Muse

And they said it wouldn’t last.

Some days went so fast!

But others went so slow

I wanted to slit my throat.

All in all as time goes by

with lots of other fish to fry

and as I end another fling

I wonder what the next six will bring.

Perhaps we’ll fall deeper in love,

with lots of help from Up Above.

Or perhaps like Charles Bukowski penned

“Love is a Dog from Hell,” (Amen).

—–

Anniversary

by Bryntin

there have been many mrs bryntins
I think you are the fifth
but you’re the one that’s lasted best
and didn’t run off with the blacksmith
like the last three did
what he lacks in wit
he makes up for with width
but they only really run off with him
because he rhymed with fifth

anyway

we have made it to ten years
which for me is new frontiers
and I know for you
it is also new
so how have we lasted so well?
I don’t know, I must be hell
to live with
but you are largely
the woman of my dreams
you make great tea
and bring it with custard creams

do you remember
when you made me propose?
and due to mitigating circumstance
like the pain for example
I said yes
and asked you to marry me?
can’t believe that ten years
has passed without too many tears
of frustration so well really

we go together
like fish and chips
you all crinkly
and me battered
like strawberries and cream
you fat and full of calories
me fruity but likely macerated
like punch and judy
which also doesn’t work out for me that well

so happy anniversary my love
I know you’ll be expecting a present
so…
what do you mean it’s not till next month?

bugger

—–

Anniversaries

by Deb Whittam

It was love at first sight.
I knew you were for me.
The moment I tugged you on.
My heart expanded and I ceased to be
Without fear, without heartache,
You were so perfect, I could not
Believe. That I had chosen you,
And you were there for me.
We went everywhere together,
Up hills, down hills, onto the dirt.
Round the corners. In the rain, the wind,
The hail, the sunshine, the darkness ….
You were such a right fit, I felt
Like I was floating away but now as we
Reach our 3 month anniversary
We have begun to drift apart.
Seams are fraying, your soul is growing
Hard, you have lost your bounce and I
Am losing mine. So perhaps we should
Part? I will remember you always,
As Adrenaline 22/11/2019 – 429km
Buy Runners. I will love you always.

—–

A gem of a marriage

by Geoff LePard

We married young and liked our fun
As do healthy boys and girls
We stayed quite flirty at year thirty
Romping on a bed of pearls.

We didn’t brag cos we were glad
To bounce around like newbies
We’d kept it naughty at year forty
So we deserved those rubies.

Time has passed, we can’t be arsed
And faking it’s not clever.
Still the wife’s still frisky at year sixty
So these diamonds are for Eva.

—–

Perce P Cassidy and the Sunblock Kid

by Doug Jacquier

60 years they been ridin’ together
only these days they ride by rail,
Perce’s face like Nebuchadnezzar,
The Kid a whiter shade of pale.

Despite all that Hollywood drivel
These two are indefatigable
Although The Kid has developed a dribble
And Perce has a ring that’s inflatable.

Just when The Kid thought he’d forgotten
Perce flourished a diamond ring
It’s origins of course misbegotten
But The Kid always loved the bling.

Now don’t go round town flashin’
that ring, old Perce he roughly croaks
Folks might get the wrong idea, Kid,
That we’re not pure manly blokes.

The Kid smiled and said he’d ne’er tell
And closer to Perce he did scootch
And whispered into his ear-like shell
‘Oh, Perce, you were always so Butch.’

—–

Anniversary

by Joanne the Geek

I want you to really know right now
This day I’m going to make you go wow
Surprise! It is our anniversary today
We’ve been together for one whole day!

I treasure every moment I’m with you
And I really hope you feel the same way too
I just love following you around
Even when you seem to go to ground

I just can’t wait when we dine tonight
With your skin looking lovely and white
I love it so much I’d wear it myself
Or possibly leave it dangling from a shelf

Anyways, this night I have a big surprise in store
It will probably make you drop your jaw!
I’m going to ask you to marry me
Because I think we are truly meant to be

So please say yes because I don’t know what I’d do
Without you, say no you’ll really end up in the poo

—–

Cheers

by Peregrine Arc

Annually I greet thee
Laying among the leaves scattered on the ground
It’s almost winter here now, you would have liked it.
Frost in window corners, school buses making their rounds.
It’s too bad you smacked your lips one too many times at the dinner table
And belched Beethoven’s 5th at every chance you had.
Maybe I could’ve overlooked that and the many other troubling manners you possessed.
If only you had faster reflexes than I when I sat behind the wheel…

Ah, well, ’tis life.
Ten feet to you under ground, I toast my wine glass to you above.
A delightful pig lies here, sending up a treadmarked, contented burp.
I picked Merlot this year.
From me to you, cheers. 🐖

—–

Little willie

by Ruth Scribbles

Little willie got married
He always felt harried
He said to his wife
Just stab me with a knife

Sixty years later
He said to his mater
Why did you marry me
You could have had Larry

—–

An Awful Anniversary Assembly.

by Ellen Best

Sixty years, well here’s to it, I raise a glass; into it, I spit.
Jerk my head to call him near, passed his glass feigned a cheer.
He swallowed with greed; saliva and all. I curl my lip; soon he’ll fall.

A drunk, a bully full of hate; tonight, they will see his colours
spread out on the dinner plate. I served tripe and jellied eels.
This food, both banal and grey; like him, had seen a better day.

I smile at those around my cloth. His cronies and the hangers-on
those that doff their cap, those that think him a super chap.
“Please sit” I cry. Having previously dressed his tripe
with little crushed garlic to disguise the arsenic’s taste.
It was with finality he gorged in ungentlemanly haste.

—–

Thank you all, so much! These were a great lift at the end of a busy day. Please check in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

adika-suhari-SIQmdpHteVg-unsplash

Bruce: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/21/2020

Well! Last time I hosted a Little Willie poetry contest, I felt most of the entrants didn’t quite grasp the concept -or were too afraid to twist poetry that morbidly. I can safely say that was not the case this time around.

But, first, the winners:

Mrs. Bobbit’s Revenge

by Doug Jacquier

Their wedded bliss was well-famed
But Little Willie’s oats were untamed
So like any good wife
She took out a knife
And now Little Willie is very well-named.

—–

Circular Logic

by masercot

Willie said, “This kitchen work’ll
make me walk around in circles”
His mother answered, “One word more
and I’ll nail your other foot to the floor”

Congratulations, Doug and Charles! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

As I said, these were some fantastic entries: disturbing, clever, sad, and uncomfortable. I felt both Doug and Charles did the best at hitting those marks, plus adding a bit of the play-on-words typically present in the Little Willies.

Before readers dive into the remaining poems, a rating warning is in order. Some of these delve into PG-13 territory, quite possibly because of an alternate slang for Willie that some seemed to remember. You’ve been warned:

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

Little Willie on a whim
shed his clothes for a swim
In murky water up to his chin
the leeches and piranhas had a delectable din-din

—–

Harvest Song

by Bruce Goodman

Willie caught his boot laces in a harvester machine
He was sucked in and minced all the way up to his spleen
At the time they were collecting tomatoes
So next hamburger you eat watch out for Willie’s toes.

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Little Willie
Basket of cherries
With one red yew berry
Little Willy went upsy daisy.

—–

The Pig

by Matt Snyder

Little Willie was gluttonous for ham

Shoved it down his throat with both hands

Found himself choking on a bone

Little Willie’s wife, now finds herself alone

—–

Full Steam Ahead

by Matt Snyder

Little Willie laid a penny on a track one day

“I want a flat penny!” He would say

One day a train came barreling from behind

Little Willie’s casket cost his family one fat dime

—–

One for the birds

by Matt Snyder

Little Willie meant to mow the lawn

Instead he lay about in the grass with one big yawn

With one fell swoop a hawk did come

carrying Willie away to feed her young

—–

Fourth of July 21 Cannon Salute

by Trent P. McDonald

A lively celebration, it must be said
And poor little Willie lost his head
Checking for a cannonball when the big gun was lit
He had a quick peek inside of it

—–

The Car

by Trent P. McDonald

Fooling his sister Willie played a trick
And jumped out the window, lickity-split
I guess he reaped what he sowed
When at 90 mph he hit the road

—–

Little Willie bites the proverbial dust

by Lorraine

Oh, Edward Gorey did not write in vain

For results of his musing continue to remain.

Little Willie, par exemple, best of a miserable lot

Who wasn’t as immortal as once it was thought.

He decided to surf, via the subway train

His complete self, ‘twas never seen again.

Requiring the smallest coffin to be bought

Tickets to his funeral very much sought.

Requiesce in pace, paulo Willie (

—–

New York Rat.

by Lucy

Little Willie was afraid of mice;
He laid in bed nearly suffice,
His head on the pillow felt oddly flat,
As it was actually an obese New York rat.

—–

The Car.

by Lucy

Little Willie rode his bike,
And as he rode, he spiked
Over a rock, and as he flocked
Didn’t see the oncoming car as it honked…

—–

Scissors.

by Lucy

Little Willie had some scissors,
His mother said don’t cut into smithers,
Well, one day Little Willie realized he had five fingers
Some say to this day four on the ground still linger.

—–

Who Ya Gonna Call?

by writerinretrospect

Little Willie, with all the courage he could muster,
Said he’d prove he could be like a Ghostbuster.
So he put on a sheet so that he’d blend in;
But when he saw the ghost in the mirror, he died there and then.

—–

Blank Page

by writerinretrospect

Willie heard of these things they call “blanks”
So he stuffed in a gun’s barrel, as part of a prank,
A wad of some paper, so it would just be a scene.
Unfortunately, he forgot to empty the magazine.

—–

Stranger Danger

by writerinretrospect

There once was a kid named Willie
He asked a stranger to take him to Philly
The stranger said he was craving a cheesesteak…
But that “you’ll do” — and then he ate.

—–

A Hair-raising Story

by Doug Jacquier

Cried an actor ‘My hair is demented”
So off to the barber he went-ed
The poor little sod
chose evil Mr. Todd
Thus were Lovett’s ham burgers invented.

—–

An Axe To Grind

by Doug Jacquier

Lizzie lived with her step-mum and dad
An arrangement she could not accustom
So one day, when feeling ever so sad,
She took an axe and she de-gutsed ‘em.

—–

Terrible Willie

by Aishwarya

Willie, oh willy!
Why does it sound so silly?
Don’t burst my bubble,
I know it sounds terrible!

—–

silly old willie

by Bryntin

silly old willie
ate a very hot chilli
burned up his gut
now his ar** won’t shut

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

willie walked, happy chappy
until he met a croc, all snappy
all teeth, no action, willie was safe
until he died from an infected chafe

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

willie is dead
totally brown bread
what did for him most
was how hot he did toast

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

dismal weather, constant rains
so willie plays some indoor games
solitaire, patience and a bit of snap
but fatally caught by a better mousetrap

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

willie wound up his dragon lizard
nervously the lizard quivered
he pulled its tail, it was a game
until our willie was aflame

—–

Loosing Streak.

by obbverse

Sprightly Little Willie led the foot race
Only to tread on his loose lace,
A face plant spoiled any winning chance-
In last place, in disgrace, in soiled underpants.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie went to work
Thought it was OK to twerk
Office mates could only smirk
When Little Willie went berserk

—–

Untitled piece

by Christine Bialczak

Little Willie liked to jump
And usually landed on his rump
This time he landed on his head
Poor Little Willie is surely dead.

—–

Untitled piece

by Christine Bialczak

Little Willie is a gem
His mama took his pants to hem
the needle fell into his eye
Now he’s blind and cannot cry.

—–

Untitled piece

by Christine Bialczak

Can you see him, Little Willie?
Isn’t he acting silly?
He was bad and he did drugs
Now he owes his life to thugs.

—–

Untitled piece

by Christine Bialczak

In the kitchen pots are hot
Little Willie thinks its not
Now his skin is burned and charred
Little Willie is forever scarred.

—–

Untitled piece

by Christine Bialczak

Little Willie isn’t nice
Turning things into ice.
He put himself in the chest
Now he is frozen to death.

—–

A Grave Realisation

by Steph

Little Willie heard a voice
Emanating from his toys:
“Dig a hole for Mum and Dad,
They’re starting to smell rather bad.”

—–

Untitled piece

by Robbie Cheadle

Little Willie went to Cape Town

His actions made his mother frown

He took a chameleon from the pet shop

and on its body did gleefully hop

The owner replied by knocking him down.

—–

Untitled piece

by Robbie Cheadle

Little Willie snuck out one night and did a pee

In the cupboard where his mother couldn’t see

The next day the towels smelled quite rank

So he threw them in the septic tank

Mother longs for the day, when from him she’ll be free

—–

Lighten up Willie

by DennyK

Taking his hand from his pocket
The lad put a finger in the socket.
Little Willie didn’t care
He only wanted Einstein hair.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Poor little Willie lived in England but was an immigrant
Posh Boris didn’t like Willie so his deportation was imminent
But Willie worked in a Care Home looking after the sick
But Boris didn’t care because he’s such an uncaring slippery dick.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie hit a bump
Riding on a camel’s hump
Got a blow between his legs
I wish it had been Trump

—–

SEX ED. 101

by The Abject Muse

Little Willie turned eighteen

so his father bought him a car.

As he handed him the keys

He said “Son, drive fast; drive far.”

Willie headed for Hollywood

to become a movie star

but at acting he was no damn good

and he ended up tending bar.

One night there came a woman

who ordered cherry cola

He asked her for her name

she replied simply,. “Lola.”

“L-O-L-A, Lola?”

“Ah! The man can spell!

“Let’s get married, Lola.”

“Okay, what the hell!”

Due to inexperience

Little Willie soon discerned

There really is no difference

between boys boys and girls.

—–

Untitled piece

by My Son

Willie Willie is so silly
Too bad that that is dead Willie.

—–

Thank you all for entering. I hope you had fun! Return tomorrow at 10 a.m. MST for next week’s topic.

boy-1730275_1920

Doug and Charlcot: I have a new badge you can post, if you want, to brag about your writing skills:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets and their respective poems

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/14/2020

Roses are red, violets are purple, and first loves are a reason to give up on poetry and wait for 50% off chocolates… But, who among these nostalgic poets deserves the first box?

This week’s winner is:

Playground

by Bryntin

I watch you at play time
good on the hopscotch or having a climb
I wonder if we could perhaps have a kiss?
although I’m not really ready for having kids

can you tell me why you girls wear skirts?
and why they call them a blouse and not shirts?
I have lots of questions for girls, you see
and you are one, so that’s alright for me

so I think, for you, I’ve got the hots
even though you have got lots of spots
would you like a share of my gum
that I’ve kept stuck up under my desk?

one thing I’d like to know about you
do you support Liverpool or Man U?
if it’s the Mancs we’ll have to part
I’ll ask Helen instead, she’s a right Scouse tart

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

As usual, everyone’s entries were painful to read. I groaned, cringed, and nearly cried. To help narrow results, I decided to be a stickler for the rules posted and consider those poems that seemed to come from a younger person writing to his/her first crush.

Bryntin’s poem, overall, kept this tone. It sounded like the sort of terrible composition one might put together for an early love. It speaks of hope, love, sports, and curiosity. Well done.

As to the rest, I sincerely hope your past crush never finds and reads these:

Awkward First Crush

by Deb Whittam

I saw you kissing her today,
Yup my best friends, but I know
I’ll forgive you, for you are it,
The one, my love, Ok you’ve
Never spoken to me but
When you do you’ll realize
We’re meant to be together like
Paper and pen,
Sneakers and chewing gum,
Young love and desire.
‘Til then I’ll wait and talk to my
Her, she loves to gossip.

—–

Love Sick

by Annette Rochelle Aben

They tell me not to fall for you
But you’re fine as wine and I wish you were two
My insides are so confused too
Kinda of like, but sorta not, having the stomach flu

©2020 Annette Rochelle Aben

—–

Is This Love?

by Lucy

Your eyes,
Your hair,
Your cheeks,
Your stare.
Fart jokes and burps,
Spitting and slurps,
What’s a girl to do
But sigh, and bury
All those touchy feelings
Those horrible feelings
Those—Oh, wait, another fart joke.
Marvelous, you. Oh, marvelous.
I laugh, we curse,
Smile, we converse
About everything and nothing
Five second rule,
Doesn’t matter. You watch your friend
Hit his head in the locker.
Not a shocker. You laugh,
I roll my eyes, my heart stutters,
Am I in love? Is that what this is?
You wiggle your fingers
You walk like a caveman
With his mouth busted in
By his stupid hands.
Why do boys do stupid things?
Well, they’re boys.
You talk to me,
I say something,
You say something,
Conversation—is that what that is?
Are we talking?
Is this real or a dream?
(Oh god I hope it’s real, please be real)
I remember when I came to your birthday party
and you invited me over to sit with you
and I died. Well it would be more memorable if I did die,
So, I guess I didn’t?
And you turn to me so often
Another fart joke
Diarrhea, the squirts, the squirts,
The worst, the worst. Why does my heart flutter?
Oh, and I returned a pencil that wasn’t yours,
You were confused about that
But I insisted.
I wanted to smack you in the head with my math book,
But that smile made me take another look.
Maybe I’d hit your friend.
And you’d be okay with that, I think,
Because why not, he needs it more than you do.
You flap your hands around
Make a diarrhea sound
From your lips
And then you farted,
Your friend farted,
We all died inside
As the teacher ran to get Febreze;
It was like tear gas, and eggs
In some jelly of horse farts
And sewage from a donkey. I like you, okay?
You’re so weird,
And then I don’t like you. It’s weird.
You’re weird. I’m weird.
So I say nothing and keep this to myself.
My heart sunk when you said you didn’t know what
To do if someone had a crush on you.
Well, I’m right here, darlin’.

But I wouldn’t say that,
So I just nod and agree,
Pretend we understand the world
When we can’t, and alright,
I just, I just like you
Even though your farts are often
And might make me dive in a coffin.

Also P.S.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I really like you
You have tp on your shoe.

—–

My first crush

by Bruce Goodman

You came to help me milk the cows in the cow shed.
We were too busy so nothing much was said.
You called them “dingly-dangly bits”;
I called them “tits”.
(I’m talking about the cow).

My sister said it was unnecessary to do my hair
Before I milked the cows; the cows wouldn’t care.
But I told her there’s someone I’m trying to impress
And it wasn’t Bess.
(Bess was the name of one of the cows).

Anyway you went on to higher things and wealth
And I was left pulling the dingly-dangly bits by myself.
You’ll never know that I had a crush on you
Standing like a goddess amongst the cow poo.

—–

Before and After

by Michael B. Fishman

12/20/63
Dear Miss Peterson,
I love you. You are pretty and you are nice.
I like when you smile at me when I say something in class.
I don’t like when we get homework in school
but I don’t get mad when you give us homework because you are cool.
Thank you for being my teacher and for being pretty and for smiling a lot.
I hope you have a nice Christmas vacation.

01/07/64
Dear Mrs. Kinney,
I wasn’t really sure what it meant when you said you got married
or why your name was changed so when I got home from school
yesterday I asked my mom. She told me all about it and I don’t think
you are very nice. I wouldn’t do that to someone. I don’t love you
anymore and please do not give us kids any more homework.

—–

Brut and Bali Hai

by The Abject Muse

Sometimes when I miss you bad

and I’m feeling really sad

I hitch a ride and go downtown

to the drugstore.

I wander the aisles

until I find, the scent of Brut

so sweet, so fine.

I take a sniff & close my eyes.

I remember your lips

the way they feel

so hot and so unreal

I get a sort of contact high

Cuz you’ve been sipping Bali Hai.

The magical wine

that’s yours & mine

and makes me feel not shy.

I pray to God for me you’ll wait

for the day your friends can’t call me jailbait.

Do you love me, or love me not?

I hope you do because you’re hot.

—–

The Girl With the Cat-eyed Glasses

by Trent McDonald

The girl with the cat-eyed glasses
Stopped by today
Ancient beauty!
Her friend played a folk song
On a guitar
They all sang along
She smiled
Her teenage smile
Full of age and grace
At me
She laughed
At my stuttered joke
For a minute I held her huge hand
In my tiny one
I wished I could leave
On a jetplane
With the girl
With the cat-eyed glasses
*
True story. I always liked older girls. I was 5 and she was 17, you know what I mean? Strangely enough, teenage kids from my parents church would stop by, play a few folk songs and then leave. The girl with the cat-eyed glasses stopped over on her way to the prom and told me she was dressed up because we were getting married. “But I’m too young to marry!” the 4 or 5 Trent protested. She actually wrote an essay about me for her English class. And received an A. My mom still has it. Ah, the girl with the cat-eyed glasses….

—–

i was 5 and she was 6

by Matt Snyder

shall we ?
i grabbed wendy’s hand
we whistfully whisked ourselves down to the nighborhood school playground
look the monkey bars meant for monkeying around
so we did

kiss her, they yelled
kiss her on the lips, they teased
wendy and i just wanted play
play on the monkey bars that day

i was pushed and goaded
go on they said and do the deed
so i pressed both lips boldly against her cheek

they just laughed
no, on the lips the older girl yelled
a real kiss they all squeeled
so we did
then ran home crying as fast as we could
because not all first kisses are always
so good

—–

Downstairs

by Matt Snyder

Wendy i love thee let me count the ways
one, i have liked you since i was 5 maybe even before
we played and played house and with fisher price little people
till we couldn’t play no more
two your bunny thumper is cool thanks for letting me pet him
if we could try some of our own heavy petting (whatever that means)
3 i love your smile and the way you move
and then when we were in the playroom playing lights off lights on
you show me yours I’ll show you mine
till you mom told us to stop turning the lights on and off
but it’s those three
Wendy
in how i love thee

—–

Dear Miss Flanagan

by Doug Jacquier

I love your sunburnt brown pretty freckles

And your shiny beautiful cute red hair

And your green eyes (sorry if their there not green)

You look just like that film star (can’t remember her name but she’s really pretty, like Doris Day but not her)

I know you catch me staring

And I can’t help going red

Please don’t marry drippy Mr. Smith

Wait for me to catch up.

Sined
You Know Who

PS – There really was a Miss Flanagan upon whom I had the biggest crush imaginable and, yes, she was always catching me staring and she really did marry drippy Mr. Smith and broke my heart. Of course I would never have delivered this fawning missive but I would have re-read and ‘edited’ it a lot and hoped she wouldn’t find it in the back of my exercise book.

—–

being known

by kriti

the world keeps spinning
but what are we searching for
are you the answer?

—–

Oh, Jackie

by Wordifull Melanie

Oh, Jackie
You make me happy
you don’t even have to try
i just look at you and sigh
and I really thought I’d die
when you sat across from me in the lunch room
even though you really only stopped to talk to your sister who is in my home room
when you grabbed my sandwich and took a big bite
I have to say it just felt Right
Oh, Jackie
if you’d only see
You and I are meant to be!

Jackie + Melanie = ❤

—–

To You

by Ruth Scribbles

Petunias are pink
Your brother stinks
My nose twitches
When it itches
You smell good
Be mine
Valentine

From me

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

There’s a girl in my class so shy and so cute
She’s so clever as she can work out a cube root
She the star of athletics team and her name is Anita
Runs for the county as she is as fast as a Cheetah
One day at lunch she came over to talk
I fumbled my words and started to squawk
One hot summers day I found my voice and asked her out in the end
We became good pals but never lovers as she already had a lovely girlfriend

—–

My First Love!

by Morpethroad

Sue Dorn was more than a thorn,

Across the playground she demanded

My stare, my mouth hanging open

My best gormless look

A magnet to every boy,

Like bees round a honey pot

Like maggots hanging on her every smile.

I dreamt of her at night

My first wet dream

My first scream

What is this girl doing to me?

How to get onto her team.

—–

Thank you for entering! Happy (belated) V-Day, and an even happier Half-Priced Chocolate Day on the 15th!

Please return tomorrow, around 10:00 a.m. MST for next week’s topic.

anna-kolosyuk-4R6pg0Iq5IU-unsplash

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

©2020 The poets and their respective poems

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

How do I love thee? I don’t think you want to know… What you will want to know is whom to avoid this V-Day when considering requesting a sonnet.

For, this week’s winners of the most terrible poetry are:

Be still my swell-ed heart

by Shake’s peer (aka Doug Jacquier)

I did but see her glassy-eyed, astride
her pied ride as she wended to her home,
sighing in her saddle set to the side,
clutching her cask of wine to her bos-ome.

Full sore my lovesick heart (and other parts) swell’d
as Cupid’s arrow shrived my mortal soul
and I resolved to plight my troth once held
by the Fair Youth at my watering hole.

Dark Lady, I fulsome cried, be my bride
and let us to Lethe flee and there be wed.
She fix-ed me full-faced but gimlet-eyed
and intoned words that ‘minded of the dead.

“Marry, not marry, for I’m wed to Sid
but your other needs, whatsay twenty quid?”

–and–

Let Me Be Your Sponge Mop

by Joanne the Geek

Girl let me be your sponge mop

just squeeze me and I’m ready to pop

full of moist love for you

I know you feel the same way too

Let me be your sponge mop

I’ll absorb your tears once they drop

I know you often have to cry

when you’re finished, just squeeze me dry

So let me be your sponge mop

and after we’re done, I’ll still be your sop

but just don’t leave me to dry in your bucket too long

just wet me sometimes, and I’ll spring back to life on song

—–

Congratulations, Doug and Joanne! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

The rest of the contestants, save one that is too sweet to be terrible, were so very very close to all being named winners. Yes, I’ve chickened out and done that before. I finally decided to give Doug’s poem the recognition it deserves; not only did he sonnet, but he took it to the form and the language. Joanne -well… Joanne, that was too terrible to ignore.

I laughed and laughed and cringed at the rest. Read, and enjoy:

Sometimes Love

by Abject Muse

Sometimes…

Love is like a dirty sock.

You smell it a mile away

stealthily hiding beneath a rock.

But you turn it over anyway

to find bugs and maggots crawling ’round

but you don’t mind the stinky bouquet

because it’s love you finally found.

Other times…

Love is like a thug

jumping on you in the dark

beating the crap out of your heart

and leaves you smiling in a pool of blood.

Wondering what will happen next?

You get a nasty screw-you text.

And Then Sometimes…

Love can feel just right

until the day you realize

you were blinded by the phony light

of truths turned into stinking lies.

You feel foolish and oh, so dumb!

And then your heart fades to numb.

—–

Demented Love

by Deb Whittam

I love you like a bee loves beer
I love you like red wine loves white carpet
I love you in so many ways
Even when you have the audacity to sneer.
I love you like a wedding and diarrhea
I love you like two years old and hearing aids
I love you in so many ways
Though I may seem obsessive I swear there’s nothing to fear.
Ok yes I strangled a wife back long ago
But she was not what she seemed
And yes I pushed one off a cliff
But she just wouldn’t stop with the cheer
And anyway it is you I love now
So bite back those tears
Of joy and come here
I ran this bath just for you my dear.

—–

The Morning of My Love

by Trent McDonald

How doth the blush of dawn speak of passion
The celestial glow turning all to bright pink
The shade of your bare behind in fashion
Turns my mind to lust…, I mean love, yeah love, I think

My blood pressure rises with that ornery star, the sun
Is it your fair face in that morning glow bursting my heart
Or is it that I forgot my medicine that makes my blood pressure undone?
Uhm, yeah, your face, uhm, really, your face makes the racing of my heart start

Maple syrup on pancakes is not as sweet as thy
(I love bacon too, but is it a compliment to compare you?)
No taste from the nectar of your honey lips and I will die
(Or am I thinking of coffee, without which I can’t make do?)

My heart is a sailor to take fair warning
Of you arriving bright red in this stormy morning

—–

The Prickly Pear

by The Abject Muse

My love is like a prickly pear

Stuck inside my underwear

Its bittersweet pain reminds me

this love was not meant to be.

Yet on we go, the sting ignored

until we both got really bored.

And so one day, we parted ways

in spite of sometimes happy days.

As for that old prickly pear,

It’s no longer in my underwear.

That nasty sting forever gone

just like my love, forever wrong.

—–

Sweet Ambivalence…

by Ruth

I love milk chocolate, smooth and creamy thick

Could eat a houseful, yummy brick by brick

Till gorged by cocoa, melty-warm and slick

Pure liquefied indulgence makes me sick…

—–

The Green Love

by Peregrine Arc

My love for you is like pickles, my dear
You’re like a giant pickle yourself.
Wrinkled, vinegary, tart and you make my mouth pucker

But frogs, my dear–consider
Will never croak our love ballads out the way you do
Birds fall out of the sky, dead at your winsome, cat crying tones.

Screams! My love for you is but a ballad of curled beards
Curled like your toes made of mahogany wood
Oh my dear, I sigh in love
Like a dill pickle.

—–

warm garage

by Bryntin

my ears assailed, your comments so cruel
in my head I can question my own name
its not the satnav who you overrule
you get jealous of the voice they call jane
and so you may explore the world my love
bravely taking strange roads in our motor
me never knowing the heading, sort of
to the sounds of my poetry quota
for you I recite some favourite keats
or try some sonnets from the bard shakespeare
let it travel, sent with love twixt the seats
if it deters you from slapping my ear
we smile, home, I dare not to sabotage
car, at last, nice and warm in the garage

—–

How Do I Love Thee

by Michael Fishman

Do I love thee, you really want to know?
Like those idyllic, serene summer days,
when I see your face I begin to glow,
for in truth your face looks like mayonnaise.
As I stare deeply at your sleeping eyes
I wonder just what the hell I’m doing.
I think about my friends, those lucky guys
and wonder if another wife I shouldn’t be pursuing.

I can’t write you a sonnet. I can’t even kiss you. Specifically speaking: no serenely stormy split second spit-sticking smack on the shoulder. Nay, you naughty nonsignificant, knotty-nosed, norepinephrine-needing nudnik. Never no nibbles upon thine neck.

Forsooth (for anyone if soothe isn’t available) free me from this foul fraudulence.

Alas, you stir and turn your black orbs, dripping with eye boogers and brimming with heated demonic lust to mine. Those haunted eyes that lured me to seemingly eternal wedded

bliss.

You part your pulpy lips, an invitation to one innocent sensual deep kiss
as sweet as molasses
Lost, I ignored what was amiss
and I find myself once again in . . .

. . . an abyss.

We part.
You smile.
I smile.

Your morning breath –
– ugh . . .

Good morning, my love.
Happy Valentine’s Day, my treasure.
Sleep well?
(No, not next to you) Next to you is there any other way?
My prince.
How I do love thee…

###

Note: this is not based on a true story.

—–

Roll over Shakespeare

by Bruce Goodman

My love is like a bike ride on a beach
The wheels sink down in sand and I get wedged
I’ll ne’er arrive where you picnic out of reach
I feel so dumb and underprivileged.

If I had walked towards you and not biked
I’d be with you on the beach eating stuff out of your picnic hamper
Chicken drumsticks is what I would have liked
But stuck in sand means to you I cannot scamper.

The tide is drawing in, the waves are crashing
Soon my bike will sink below the surf.
Obviously my love will take a thrashing
And I’ll lose the thing I most desire on earf.

Alas I’m drowning in the sea, my Honey,
And you think getting my bike stuck in sand is funny.

—–

Dear Bruce

by Nitin

Will you not accept my love dear Bruce?
I doubt I offer Frankincense, myrrh or gold
But excuse me! Allow me to be bold!
Don’t I give you olive oil massages and spruce

You up, when you attend meetings?
Don’t I grease those aching joints with love?
And all I get is tomato soup from the stove!
Excuse me! I stay up all night to write you season’s greetings!

Now, I might not write Goodman gore but I’m not dumb
I know you use this clown
Just for his party nose and bum
Damn it! what rhymes with clown!
But these are lines of love still
Written while I sit on Bruce Goodman’s windowsill (is the table next to the window the sill?)

– Binky

—–

Love is Unattainable

by Ruth Scribbles

Roses are red
The pain in my head
Makes me giddy
Chocolate can’t compete
My stomach is churning with butterflies
I love you to the toilet and back

Will you be mine?

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Missing the warmth of your dear sweet love
Valentines goes on which annoys me, kind of
Feeling unloved as our romance is no more
Will get as many cards as a grumpy Wild Boar
No red roses for me sat on my sofa for one
No lovers wine to drink as I’m suffering a dry run
Can’t even have chocolate as I’m currently dairy free
So sat here writing of love with a bloody black tea
Trying to find ways to avoid pigging Valentines Day
Maybe games of solitaire and a stinging nettle bouquet
Mr Grouchy sat here with love sadly deserting me
Nursing a snotty nose and an annoying sore old knee
So Valentines is coming and I’m enduring all those red rose adverts
Well excuse me if I say to me it’s all a huge pile of steaming turds.

—–

My Beloved

by Lucy

My love, as the still light shines on your lice
Ah, I smell the onions matted on your breath.
What else? Your nose hairs are threads to soon slice,
And when I leave I thank god I didn’t retch.

My beloved, a shore of love passes through me
When I do catch whiff of your gastro winds,
They move like the barnacles on your knees
Oh, as I stroke the maggots off your skin!

Your eyes are red as a blowfly’s
Your ears are clouded with wax opaque spots
Your lips hoofed with your special spoiled meat pie
Beloved, you smell worse than Death’s trots.

As I lie in bed and think, lord what else?
My chest rises in warbling warmth and I melt.

—–

Terrible Love

by Punam

My beloved, I curse the day I said yes to you,
It was my prerogative, no doubt
It could have been sooner my beau
I so fell in love with your pout!

I am sick and tired of your explosive anger
Your wearisome stubbornness and defiance
To your alien ways I am no foreigner
Honey, what would I be without this alliance!

How do you think we will manage with your income meagre
Your stupid scruples you follow inexcusably
My love, to sacrifice for you I am always eager
I love how you still acquit yourself admirably!

You are the inspiration for this third class verse,
My love for you colours my vision for better or worse!

—–

If I could only tell you

by Ivy

I wait for the night to hear your voice,
every day to see your face.
Your charm’s got a hold on me,
even when you are not around.

Your voice makes me feel you right next to me.
You make the distance seem an arm’s length away.
I may not tell you how I feel,
Fear of losing you has weighed in on my fragile mind.

I’m a coward to my feelings,
Alone wandering in my thoughts of you.
My mind knows you more than my lips,
The tip of my pen more than my words.

My thoughts run rampant on you.
They halt on interventions.
They halt when my mind gets busy.
My mind stays stagnant at your smile.

My heart would want you nearby.
Only to love you,
Only to take care of you,
Never to leave you.

If I could only tell you,
How much you colored my world.
How much you made for long for you
How much I’d dream of falling into your arms

—–

Thank you all for the painful laughs! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s topic.

wyron-a-n2PMAQxi-GM-unsplash

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

Yes, Doug, I’m working on a new graphic. Still.

 

©2020 The poets and their respective poems

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

My profound apologies for the delay. A winner proved moste difficult to choose. That, and the judge proved moste engaged with her offspring.

After much deliberation, we named a champion:

A not exactly “Great” Adventure

by Matt Snyder

We all piled into the van heading into what we felt was the thrill of a lifetime

We headed far and fast and yet arrived dead last to what was an overcrowded parking lot

We huffed and puffed as we ran pushing old broads out of our way

they were fat and full of moth balls with bright blue hair screaming obscenities in our direction. Then this pretty skinny long blonde haired blonde with pools of gorgeous emanating from her eyes

I was entranced and lost my words, I told her I loved her but she was only interested in taking me for a ride…

The ride was full of thrills and spills and I got the chills this was the super duper looper afterall

Sleek and petite and smooth and fast.

It was the greatest of great, great days at great adventure

Honestly though, I never got on. I clucked clucked out.

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are (once again) the most terrible poet of the week!

Many brave souls attempted this quest; Sir Snyder prevailed in the end. Matt’s poem is exactly the sort I picture when cringing at unintentionally bad poetry: writing a story with just enough poetic feel that it fails, rambling meter that changes often, and random rhyming of very common words. Moste excellent, sir!

Which is not to say traversing the remaining poems is not a dangerous and difficult road. Read, and enjoy, my friends:

The Lay of Sir Fallalot and Rufus

by Trent P. McDonald

‘Twas a tawdry day
When Rufus the Cat went astray
So a knight errant, Sir Fallalot
Was called from 90 miles east of Camelot
In hopes to solve our dismay

I’m sure Fallalot felt itty-bitty
Walking about singing “Here, kitty, kitty”
Through forest, over moor
Traveling from shore to shore
Even visiting every city

Oh, the adventures he had!
Full of ogres and people, good and bad
Deeds to many to count
This lay had too many verses to count!
So I cut most of them, don’t be mad

Fallalot searched for many Years
Finding naught but bitter tears
But cats, being what they are
Rufus really didn’t travel far
And was safely home in just a couple of days, maybe three, but less than four, I’m sure!

The End

—–

A Disturbing Oath

by Deb Whittam

Laudable deeds will be done,
By me and my thwart chums.
We will destroy a dragon, deliver
a prickly pear, all of this with a devil
may care attitude, Nay we will not beg,
Of favor soothe, we will not
Shed that evil truth, we are not
Of that ilk, we always wear
Pure silk undies, Did I dare
To sully your ears,
With my jest? Do not fear I will
Repent, and suffer under your
judgement. My fellows we do
not seek to distress, though we
would not mind to wear
your best dress. We are here to
assist, we assure, just don’t look
in that bottom drawer.
Companions of the table, which
was kind of round, we will praise
you until you are beneath,
The ground and even there
we will not desist, bury us with you
and our hearts will be in bliss.

—–

Epic

by Bryntin

I stood ready at the gates
barriers of glass and steel
my chariot afore me
with just the one squeaky wheel

I drew myself up
to my full imposing height
six feet of rippling ripples
ready for the fight

in my hand was ready
my orders and my token
to be her champion
without getting myself too broken

I had arrived so ready
keyed up for the battle
I circulated among them
found my space like milking cattle

I drew my breaths deeply
hoping they weren’t my last
I was ready, ploughing forwards
the swish of the barrier past

my quarry was beyond
more chariots, some unattended
by warriors or heathens
I made my way, unbended

the path was twisty, arduous
and I had to stop upon the way
gradually filled my chariot
for my sins I had to pay

messages upon the skies
bright colours burning upon the walls
one for free and three for one
watch out for those cutting falls

I looked into the eyes
of the fellows all around me
a hollow look, an emptiness
beaten by the melee

at the end of the maze
chariot champions one and all
waiting in line for absolution
and release from the market hall

—–

The Tale of the Otiose Man

by Kristian Fogarty

Hark and listen to this tale of old,

Of an oafish man, quite otiose,

Who’d believe any story he was told,

And act in a manner bellicose.

Belligerently he’d wander around

Spouting words of nonsense, some would cheer

Picking fights wherever honest men were found,

His arrogance defying belief, year on year.

But wait! Don’t look back with wistful eyes,

It was in the past, a book upon the shelf.

Appears again, this otiose man who belief defies,

For history is always repeating itself.

—–

A FARNARKELING GOOD ADVENTURE

by Doug Jacquier

Upon a nonce, amidst general farnarkerling,

a fair maiden did set her sights

on a handsome prince in tights

so she could wear his ring a’sparkling.

In her way, as was her feckless fancy,

she feigned to plight her troth

to a handsome Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

The handsome prince, with heart full sick,

swore and swore and swore and swore

that up with this he would not forbore

and plotted war, down to the last tooth and pick.

He gathered full his skirtling Scots all skittish

and filled his lungs

and spoke in tongues

of once more defending the breeches of the British.

Come battle day, his fulsome steed he mounted

and waved his sword

around the sward

then charged the Nancy boys uncounted.

Full well sounded the irony ring of wrath

‘gainst shields both stout and flimsy

‘til the prince’s tilt proved but whimsy

and he was vanquish-ed by the Visigoth.

The maiden shed a seemly tear or two

then plighted her troth

to the Visigoth

known as Screaming Nancy.

—–

The Adventures of Me
(Or an Epic Poem of (not-so) Laudable Deeds and (somewhat-less-than) Grand Gestures)

by Michael Fishman

I climbed the ladder.
Climbed it well.
Hoping to remove the gutter smell.

I grabbed the gutter.
Grabbed it hard.
Tossed the gunk down on the yard.

Then I felt wobbly.
Knees got weak.
Bent my head and took a peak.

Ground below.
¡fear of heights!
Someone give me my last rites.

Please God end this wild adventure.
This great misguided risky venture.

(Suddenly I started thinking of rhymes archaic
but wanted to try and stay prosaic so we continue . . . )

I don’t do adventures.
No laudible deeds.
I sit and worry as thoughts stampede.

Why climb a ladder?
I don’t know.
My brain is filled with diced tomato.

My attempts at adventure.
They don’t go well.
And last about as long as a snowball in (you-know-where).

I shouldn’t share this.
I’ve got some gall.
But I do it because it’s
Terrible Poetry after all

and I am
proud to be a

Terrible Poet.

You know it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

We start out on this crazy epic adventure
A divided party for such a risky reckless venture
Saying goodbye to friends is always hard
Especially when they neighbours in our backyard
Off on our own into the great wide open
Led by our leader who is so outspoken
Into the massing storm clouds we strike out
On a wing and a prayer without any real clout
Many wolves circling claiming to be our new friends
Sign on the dotted line and you can reap the dividends
But only if you agree to the orange wolfs demands
Give me your NHS and we can happily shake hands
Don’t forget as part of the deal you take our chlorinated chicken
It’s full of good stuff honest and it won’t make you sicken
An epic adventure without any real plan
Hoping countries are nice to us including Kazakhstan
Even before we leave the lies and untruths are beginning to appear
While those making hedge fund fortunes continue to sneer
On any epic adventure you need a swashbuckling hero
Sadly we have no Aragorn to lead us just a bumbling self centred zero
This adventure of ours has a name called Brexit
Please excuse me now as I try to leg-it

—–

The House Hunt

by Ruth Scribbles

It came upon a midnight dreary

My dearie said to me

Let’s fly across the pond

To see what we can see

While I work.

Homeless we were

About a month

The temporary housing

Was great-but the stairs 🤦‍♀️

The food? It was different

TV so very different

Oh wait-house hunt

We found one

Yippee

—–

Many thanks, loyal fans and poets, for your tales. Return at 10, on the morrow, for another topic of which to write.

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

After this hectic weekend, I intend to change the graphic. For now, it’ll do.

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.