The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day and welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #56.

Not to leave anyone adrift, click here for a basic how-to on writing terribly. Bad poetry is not for the faint of heart, though it may be for the feint of art.

Here are this week’s specifics:

  1. The Topic is an epic poem about a great adventure. Laudable deeds and grand gestures will be your comrades-in-arms, even if your adventure proves to go no further than locating a missing sock.
  2. These sorts can run rather long, so let’s cap the poem at a Length of 200 words. Yes, Fishman, you may write fewer than 200.
  3. Rhymes are unnecessary, yet contestants will be awarded bonus points for archaic ones.
  4. Make it terrible, I say! A great shout must be heard from deep within The Woods of Whispering that Princess Sock has been found, and is begging you to stop singing your ballad. Forever.
  5. If the Rating must, it may rise to PG-13. Remember that insults from these times moste often ran the gamut of brigand or knave.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 24, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the given form, below, to submit your poem in secret.

To declare your efforts to all, respond in the comments. Enquire further if a pingback does not show by the following day.

Make merry!

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Photo credit: Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Another day, another delay. Not for naught, y’all: I’ve been havin’ a devil of a time pickin’ a poem jus’ awful enough to win.

Tonight, that winner’s:

The Giant Mozzie of Kozzie

by Doug Jacquier

I went searchin’ for the treasure
The wealth beyond measure
That would bring me great pleasure
Up there in the blue azure.
Atop the mount called Kozzie
The dream of every Ozzie
Lay hidden in a secret pozzie
And guarded by a giant mozzie.

Chorus
Nobody knows the trouble I have seein’
Since I’s bit on the eye
While reachin’ for the sky
By the mozzie of Kosciuszko.

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

I read my favorite four or five several times before settling on Doug’s contribution. I believe he stood out for the overdone ‘ie’ rhyming, the nonsense, and the …well, probably for the nonsense. Well done.

As to the rest? See if you can get through them:

Oh, I’m a Gonna Go!

by Peregrine Arc

I’m a gonna go out where the wind durst blow
Sand in my knickers and mud in my toes
Where cow pies rightly disappear and the crickets eat them dangburned rusted bandoliers!
Where the guns don’t get to shootin’,
Where there’s no high brow falutin’
And everyone dances ’till half past three…
If you need me, why that there where’s I’ll be….l
In the Land of Absolution…!

—–

Hunka-Hunka

by The Abject Muse

When I ain’t got no tomorrows

when the strings all bust on my banjo

I’m gonna change my undershirt

an’ go to my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

It’s paradise, hell yes it is

with a little wood shack to take a whiz.

Among green trees and birds that chirp

my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

—–

Morose Melodrama #1

by Deb Whittam

I stare at it in defeat,
My heart it don’t want to beat
Me, run up that?
Yeah right, I would also like
To invite Mike Tyson to a fight.
Lofty and high it will prevail,
I, well, I am destined to fail.
But I grit my teeth,
And take that first step,
Pause and gasp,
Time for a rest.
Four hours later at the top I am,
Now how the hell do I get back down.

—–

A haven or Heaven?

by Trent P. McDonald

It would be bliss on Earth here…
(Hold on, I’ll be right there)
Uhm, I like to sit in my chair
(I said I was coming!!)
Not really work, but, well, bumming…
(Hold your horses)
Uhm, bumming about, reading some sources
(Darn it, I’m in the middle of a sentence!)
Doing writing penitence
(Not a story, a poem. What? No, I said I’m, writing poetry…)
No one to bother me, even if it is three…
(Just a minute!)
Uhm, three AM and I’m really in t’ it
(I don’t care if supper is getting cold)
‘Cause being disturbed while writing gets old
(OK, OK, I give up)
So heaven would be to write undisturbed from sundown to sun up…

—–

Heaven to be sung to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda” if it fits

by Bruce Goodman

Heaven is like a suitcase in the
luggage compartment of a train
hopefully the owner
is sitting down somewhere on the train
and will claim the suitcase from the
luggage compartment when the passenger wants to get off.

Heaven is also like the toothbrush that’s in the
suitcase along with some toothpaste
and a flannel
and some aftershave – to be bannal.
I also like to think that Heaven is like mowing the lawn.

Chorus: Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Heaven is on my mine
Kumbaya Kumbaya
Those who don’t want to get to Heaven
can go to Hell
but I’m sure ev’ryone who reads this
will have a better idea whether or not they want to get there
so Michael row your boat ashore.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I wasn’t going to do a poem
for the bad poetry competition this week
because the theme was ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’
and that sounded a bit country ‘n’ western
what I thought about it was
that it sounded very much like
the sort of thing that would
have the sounds of a slide guitar in it
god I hate the sound of a slide guitar
‘just settle on a note!’ I think
‘don’t play an instrument
like a drunken man, trying to walk
bouncing off doorways and
speaking whole sentences in one continuous word’
anyway, then I read the lyrics
for the song that is the theme
and saw it was full of peoples dreams
for what they imagine might be plentiful
in this fantasy place, their heaven
so I thought perhaps mine would be slide guitars
stripped and remade into proper guitars
that people played different notes and chords on
one at a time mostly
properly
like musicians, not drunkards
Some might ask
‘wouldn’t slide guitars, for you
be in ‘the other place?’
and I’d say ‘no,
would you deny me the pleasure
in my heaven
of seeing them being destroyed?’
so then I listened to the song
to get my inspiration
and it didn’t have slide guitar on it
so this was all a waste of time really
I’ll probably have to do something
about abundant custard creams instead

—–

For Rent

by Thru Violet’s Lentz

Don’t much wanna go to heaven
wouldn’t know no one there, no way
as the kind that I holds near and dear
won’t be a gettin’ thru them pearly gates.

There’s a better chance you’ll find me
sittin’ round a fire ring somewheres
talkin’ loud and smoking Marlboro’s
next to a tub a ice cold beer.

Wearing an old King Diamond tee shirt
and a pair a too tight jeans
sittin’ on some ol’ boys lap, feelin’ frisky-
in the trailer park o my dreams…

Where on every space there’s a double wide
and the lot rents paid in full
and my sister’s- ex-fi-ance’s -brother-in-law
has done his last parole.

So when I exit life’s long lost highway
don’t you be a worrin’ ’bout where I’ve gone
’cause I’m sure there’ll be a For Rent sign
on a nice li’l trailer in the great beyond….

—–

Big Science Mountain

by H.R.R. Gorman

The mad scientist created
Freeze rays and said, “This is the best,
I dare anyone to beat me.
I’ll freeze banks and avoid arrest,
Then freeze folks at the city hall
To cause the government to fall.
Yessir, I’m gonna have a ball,
With my freeze ray and my money.

—–

Heaven via Hell

by Ruth Scribbles

If you wanna go to heaven
Hell’s where you belong
Cause you can’t get to heaven
Unless you’re in hell for way too long

Walk with the devil
Play with evil demons
Wait for the angels
To carry you all the way home

Oh oh oh
Go to hell
Go to hell
You can’t get to heaven
Except through hell

—–

Thanks, y’all, fer a most entertainin’ evenin’. Come on back, now, once you’ve had yer rest and I’ll post a topic fer next week ’round 10 tomorrer.

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

I didn’t have the time to make one after your suggested patron saint, but intend to once I take a moment to do so.

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

Real Life vs. The Blogosphere

The world’s a strange place. Connected beyond imagination, our real lives involve separation and loneliness.

When I was a child, I’d visit my neighbors. The old woman around the corner was a round, loud person with a slight, soft-spoken husband. He puttered around their yard and house, repairing and fixing and amusing himself. She’d invite me in to their homespun, soft-furnitured living room and insist I eat the cookies she’d just made.

They kept a dog or two. Whenever we played outside in our backyard, the dogs would bark. Sure enough, after a few rounds of yip-yip-yip, we’d hear her screech, “Skipper! Quiet!” I could imitate her tone and inflection; still can.

Nowadays, my neighbors are more reclusive. I still try to visit them. I plan a block party each summer. But, it’s different. It’s isolated. It’s even a bit cold.

One time, bearing the Christmas cookie plate I make and gift every year, I rang my neighbors who never come out and socialize. They’d just installed a door camera, I noted. I could hear it whirring as the focus changed, probably recording me. Their teenage daughters’ cars were out front. Their interior lights were on. I could hear their talking before I rang. Yet, no one answered.

Resisting my inner child’s urge to do something less kind, I left the plate on their porch and went back home.

It’s different. It’s rude.

I feel a similar confusion and slight affront where my writing’s concerned. Here, on my blog, I post every day. I write about my thoughts and feelings, my ideas, my odd story plots, my poetry, and -most vulnerably- my depression.

Occasionally, I share what I write to my Facebook page. Like, my personal one that everyone who is my ‘friend’ can read. All of my neighbors are ‘friends,’ although I happen to know they don’t read what I write. Only when I announce I’m having a baby do about a fourth of my ‘friends’ (130ish) click that little Like.

The rest of the time, about 30 people respond.

If I write something depressive, about 8.

In real life, sometimes 1 or 2 come up and say something.

I wonder what things would have been like if I’d become an adult fifty years ago, or even twenty. My mom would tell me that her mom’s neighbors met every morning for coffee. My grandmother said she and the kids of her childhood played jacks together. My husband’s grandmother sat outside with the other mothers in their complex at college, while their children all played in the central courtyard.

Different times. Warmer times.

This age allows me an outlet I wouldn’t have had fifty years ago, or even twenty. Instead of living in the isolation of my two-story house with only the dishes and laundry for company, I have you all.

But, I often wonder, why don’t I have those who are closer? Why don’t they notice? Why don’t they care?

Maybe it’s the cookies.

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—————-

Here’s what I wrote this week:

Wednesday, January 15: Examined the differences between the sexes in “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus (and I’m Adrift in Space).”

Thursday, January 16: Throwback to how to write poetry with “A Muse, The Blues, Some Clues -AKA How to Write Poetry.”

Friday, January 17: Posted the winners of this week’s “Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest.” Congratulations to AnneMichael, and Rob.

Saturday, January 18: Announced the 55th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is what paradise looks like to you. PLEASE ENTER!

Sunday, January 19: “A Small Protest,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Also, “How Much is That Poem in the Window?,” in response to Crispina Kemp’s prompt photo.

Monday, January 20: An inspirational quote from Almost Iowa.

Tuesday, January 21: Poemed “As I Lay, Here.”

Wednesday, January 22: This post, plus “The Island Getaway, a Continued Story (My Part).”

I also published a bit on my motherhood site. I wrote “Did You Go Swimming Today? and Other Post-Delivery Fallacies” and “Short, Sweet, Sleep.”

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Photo Credit: BBH Singapore

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Howdy, young’uns. This here be the Terrible Poetry Contest. We been hostin’ y’all fer 55 rounds now.

If’n yer not sure a’ yerself, click here. Bad poetry’s about as tricky as kissin’ an ornery donkey that may jest be yer mother-in-law.

Here are yer ‘pecifics:

  1. I hear tell the Topic‘s a folk song ’bout heaven. You done heard ’bout “The Big Rock Candy Mountain?” Sing me where yer moun’ain is an’ where you’d be.
  2. I ain’t got all day, so’s a good verse an’ chorus’ll do me fer Length.
  3. And then there’s that Rhymin‘ business. You go’n ahead and do it if’n it’s there in yer heaven.
  4. I say to Make it terrible. Me an’ my boys will ‘termine to add you to our Mulligan Stew soon’s we hear it sung.
  5. Now, son: yer idea a’ the hereafter may just include some things more sensitive types shouldn’a read. Keep things under the PG belt, if’n you can.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 24, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form b’low to keep things a secret.

To share all ’round, go ‘head an’ post in those there comments. Let the judge know if’n you don’ see a pingback after sundown.

Y’all have fun now, ya hear!

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Photo credit:
Marko Mudrinic

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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

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

Winter Wonderland (not)

by Anne Howkins

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

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

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

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

—–

Winter Terribleness

by Michael B. Fishman

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

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

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

—–

Frigid French Philologies (a descort)

by Rob Stroud

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

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

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

Soon comes the summer of our discontent.

—–

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

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

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

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

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

—–

BRRR…

by Matt Snyder

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

—–

Squeak Mouse

by Bruce Goodman

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

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

—–

A Certain Type of Warmth

by tiredhamster

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

—–

Cold Stuff

by Bryntin

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

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

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

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

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

—–

Let There Be Light

by Peregrine Arc

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

—–

An Alaskan Winter

by Violet Lentz

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

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

—–

In the Bleak Midwinter

by Joanne the Geek

It’s the bleak midwinter

cold winds are blowing

snow is falling, everyone

is miserable and frozen –

but not me

here in the southern hemisphere

it’s summer and I’m in short shorts

and a close fitting tank top

sitting out in the hot sun

getting tanned

and I think of you all up there

in the frozen north

cold and miserable

and I smile at the thought of you –

because I am an arsehole.

—–

A Bleak MidWhat

by Ruth Scribbles

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

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

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

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

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

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Boy it’s bleeding bleak

Low chance of me doing a streak

Every day it rains

An everybody complains

Keep hoping for some snow

More chance of seeing Marilyn Monroe

In every lane and field

Dreaded mud congealed

Wind so strong

It blows over King Kong

No chance of seeing the sun

This is no bloody fun

Every day is exactly the same

Redonculous Boris that’s whose to blame

—–

God bleakly ignoring midwinter

by Doug Jacquier

The bleak midwinter arrived in

the middle of winter

and it was bleak.

Not moor bleak;

more bleak than that.

The wind was keen,

not in that American neat way

nor like mustard,

but sharp

and bleak

because it was midwinter.

I watched it being bleak midwinter

but I don’t think God did.

—–

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

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

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus (and I’m Adrift in Space)

Gender and sex and such are hot topics, and have been for the past …few thousand years. What -you haven’t heard of Pompeii? Ancient Greece? Today may not be as ‘woke’ and original as people assume, but defining male and female is not a popular place to go.

Yet, there are lines. An obviously major category-maker is one’s sex-defining parts. I can’t use a urinal, and my husband can’t grow a baby.

Dangit.

The differences do not remain within those parameters; but, as I said, these are not recommended waters for sailing. And yet, we all behave as if those differences are in place and are perfectly acceptable. Why?

Could it be that there are female traits? Male traits?

Girls are better students; they’re people-pleasers so they want to be good for their teacher. They’re able to sit still for a task and give it greater detail. They plan well, multi-task well, and improve their appearance well. Girls are good at communication and feelings -including hurting those feelings.

Boys are good at logic and focus; they get the job done and move on. Genetically stronger and hairier, they’re often suited for manual labor. In fact, their mechanically-inclined brains make manual labors easy to complete as well. They’re more physical and less emotional -including a desire to punch it out over talk it over.

But, but, but …exceptions!!

Yes, there are. Ever the square peg in the round hole, I chafe against being placed into any category I appear to be in. I’m sure others feel the same way. However, I wonder if any of them are, like me, living and behaving exactly as our sex is expected to.

Maybe the gray areas have always been, and the female/male attributes are simply a result of gray clusters.

Maybe women do talk more, cry more, and do that excited hand thing when they meet a friend.

Maybe men do talk less, cry less, and shift uncomfortably when their wives do that excited hand thing when they meet.

Why are we so afraid to say so? Do any of you feel the way I do, out in space and ashamed to step into place? What’s so bad about being a woman? What’s so bad about being a man?

—————-

Here’s what I wrote this week:

Wednesday, January 8: “My Other Half,” a post about my husband.

Thursday, January 9: Throwback to “C.S.I.,” a cliché within an enigma within a trope.

Friday, January 10: Let y’all know the winner of the 53rd “Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest:” Matt Snyder. Congratulations!

Saturday, January 11: Announced the 54th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is The Bleak Midwinter. PLEASE ENTER!

Sunday, January 12: “The Threshold of Their Lives,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, January 13: An inspirational quote by Richard G. Scott.

Tuesday, January 14: “How to Have Kids When You’re Crazy” over at The Bipolar Collaborative Blog.

Also ish: a groggy poem, titled, “Poem?

Wednesdayish, January 15: Today.

I also posted on my motherhood site. I wrote “What C-Section Recovery is Like” and “Fluent Minecraft.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens; except, of course, for those copyrights owned by almighty Disney.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Hello and welcome to the 54th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

As always, read some brief instructions on bad poetry here. Being terrible can be tricky, or it can be as simple as tripping on a smooth floor.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is The Bleak Midwinter. Yes, I know some of you are not experiencing cold weather and do not feel bleak. Maybe come stare out my window for inspiration…
  2. Try for a Length of a standard 3-75.5 words.
  3. Rhyming is wholly up to you.
  4. Make it terrible. I want your poem to force travel agencies to contact your therapist to make appointments for themselves after reading it.
  5. Keep things PG or cleaner. It’s about the bleak midwinter, for heaven’s sake.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 17, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please also comment if you linkback but don’t see the notification in the comments within 24 hours.

Have fun!

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This is more scenic than my view.

Photo credit:
Diana Parkhouse

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

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

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

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

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

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

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

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

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

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

—–

Buy our cat food

by Bruce Goodman

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

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

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

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Geoff LePard

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

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

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

—–

Plant the Seed

by Annette Rochelle Aben

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

©2020 Annette Rochelle Aben

—–

Fast Food, Fast Fat

by Peregrine Arc

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

—–

Untitled piece

by Makeshiftdriver

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

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

So grab some spackling paste today!
Okay!

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

When Mother
Talks to Jupiter
Or one of its moons

And you see your brother
Out back
Answering the loons

Show them you care
Dress them in style

We hold them dear
With fabric by the mile

Don’t go for half
Nelson’s is best!

Tailors of craft
Fuller than the rest

So when another
family member
Croons

From the cover
Of uranium enriched
Dunes

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

—–

Vanish

by Gary

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

—–

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

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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:

©2020 The respective authors, and their poems

My Other Half

Did you know that I am married? That I share my life with a wonderful husband, and father of our five boys?

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I write about me all the time, even when I write about other people. I’m inside my head; seeing my distorted, depressive view of things, and that’s what ends up painted all over this blog.

But… there are more sides to this story than mine. I owe my lavish, stay-at-home lifestyle and this very blog to my husband. He is my patron. He’s also a devoted spy, reading what I write and ensuring no one’s comments get too frisky.

Yet I rarely specifically mention him.

Me: “Did you see what I wrote on my blog?”

Him: “Oh. Yeah. That story.”

Me: “…Sorry.”

Him: “It’s okay. You always write about me after we fight.”

My one-sidedness has been niggling at me. I haven’t been fair. I haven’t been honest. I love the guy, after all, and think he needn’t be misrepresented.

I’ve loved Kevin since we were 16 years old. One month or so after my birthday, I came out to the front porch of our house to find it decorated in paper cutouts. I knew the signs, and yelled inside that my sister must have been asked to the upcoming school dance. I was wrong; I’d been asked.

Amongst the paper décor was a page of instructions: to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” at the top of my voice, say the alphabet backwards, go to a Geocities website, and call a phone number at the bottom if I needed ‘technical support.’ He’d also included an envelope of the letters of his name.

I ended up succeeding in solving the puzzle, thanks to a little reverse phone number searching in our school directory. They wouldn’t have that these days…

The day of the dance, we played Capture the Flag in the school hallways, ate in our finery at a friend’s house, and attended the dance itself at the State Capitol Building. Neither of us could actually dance, so we talked a lot and pretended we could.

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By Andrew Smith from Seattle, WA, USA – Utah State Capitol, Salt Lake City, CC BY-SA 2.0

Although Kevin and I attended the same junior high school as well, that date was our first interaction. I went home, determined to set up that LAN party he’d proposed during our pretend-dancing. He went home and told his sister he wanted to marry me.

Kevin’s an interesting person: extremely intelligent and analytical to many extents but also creative and artistic. His sense of humor is a lot like mine -or mine’s like his.

My mother: “You two have the same odd sense of humor. Do you know how I know?”

Me: …

My mother: “When someone says something, you both crack up, but no one else is laughing.”

She’s mostly right. Kev and I diverge a bit with morbid humor (him) or slapstick (me). We’re both right up wry alley, however, and enjoy intelligent observations.

Star Wars Text

From April of 2016, shortly after Disney released the first “Star Wars” film they made after acquiring the franchise rights.

He’s an excellent singer. His main career is a software engineer; his side, the dice business. In his free time, he likes computer games or interesting shows and films.

Our talents and interests crossover more often than complement, but it makes choosing a movie to watch easier. After all, what other guy choosesPride and Prejudice,” or what other gal choosesThe Matrix?” I believe our disagreements stem from the similarities; but maybe all couples fight, and fight over other things.

On the whole, I sure love my Kevin. And now you know a little more about him; about us.

This is the point at which I tend to ask the audience a question, like What’s something you want to know about Kevin? but he’s mine mine mine and so you can’t.

Instead, who’s your other half? Who supports or shares your writing journey? Does he or she read what you create?

—————-

Check out what I wrote this week:
Friday, January 3: “Old Year, New Year – Old Me, New Me,” an update on what’s been goin’ down in the last month, and some resolutions.

Saturday, January 4: Announced the 53rd Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is a commercial jingle. PLEASE ENTER!

Sunday, January 5: “Memories Within the Old Hutch,” in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt.

Monday, January 6: An inspirational quote by Thoreau.

Also, “Postpartum Depression: Why Mental Health Surveys Suck” over at The Bipolar Collaborative Blog.

Tuesday, January 7: “Baby Blues (Eyes),” a poem.

Wednesday, January 8: Today.

I also posted on my motherhood site. I wrote “I Had My Baby” and “Sharing, a poem.”

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome back! I hope you’ve all used your break in the least productive ways possible and that your poetry will suffer accordingly. This is, after all, the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #53!

It’s been awhile, so maybe brush up on what’s expected, here. Writing bad poetry is an art, much like crafting mud pies with broken fingers.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Let’s start off with a fun Topic: commercial jingles. Pick a product and *wow* us with an awful little diddy.
  2. Most commercials have a short runtime, so keep the Length fairly short as well.
  3. Do you need to Rhyme? No, but catchy tales bring in more sales.
  4. Look, chum: just Make it terrible. Make your audience sit up, take notice, and frantically push the Mute button until the horror passes.
  5. This needs to be appropriate for General Audiences. Write accordingly.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 10, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please also comment if you linkback but don’t see the notification in the comments within 24 hours.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Victória Kubiaki