When sun’s just up,
though most still down,
and brother’s game
is ‘cross the town
and Mom’s not up
to laundry mounds,
Young Owens sports
the lion’s share
of smiles outside
‘spite morning air.
Says he, good sports
should not be bare.
For, when a game
of soccer’s viewed,
and when a mom’s
got quite the brood;
name of the game
is Don’t Be Nude.
©2022 Chel Owens
Thus ends a long month. I’ll be round to read now that I’m not writing, but won’t post new content till November. ‘Bye!
In honor of October’s upcoming holiday:
Or, maybe just as an excuse to drive in the carpool lane. This model of Jeep must be worth dying for.
©2022 Chel Owens
First, I wish to pay tribute to a longtime contributor to poetry contests of the past: Hobbo. May your family receive comfort and may your sons publish your works posthumously. You will be missed.
by Hobbo
Seems like a case of bad luck to me
In agony, needs appendectomy
Flash of the blade
Incision is made
Surgeon thinks it’s a vasectomy.
—–
Now, we’re off to a new start with the Terrible Poetry Contest! This month’s challenge was to write a poem in any form, about accidental love. So, after a month of deliberation, WHO wrote our winning poem?
by Jon
Some love to complain
But all are attentive
to a train
wreck.
—–
Congratulations, Jon! You are the most terrible poet this month! Let me know what theme and form we’re to use next time.
Wow. Just wow. I read through all the entrants and hadn’t a clue which to pick. There was humor, there were awful subjects, there was such cleverness! -but what we always aim for in terrible poem-ing is a mockery of overused poetry elements. These include trying to sound mysterious, breaking lines in odd places, rhyming incessantly with novice vocabulary, utilizing poor spelling and grammar, and trying for free-verse or haiku whilst butchering the effort.
Jon’s poem is short, broken, and surprisingly complete. It spoke to me as terrible because it checks the boxes but is wholly disappointing. Well done, Jon.
Truly, though, you must read all the poems. This month’s collection is highly entertaining:
We never meant it,
But somehow it came to be . . .
My braces her gum.
—–
by Trent
It started mundane
The usual Earthly pain
The doctor wanted meat
Whole, from head to feet
Taking a body from a grave is boring
I can do it even while snoring
But then he said he wanted a brain
That could think really, really profane
Well, he said profound
But I misheard that sound
So I stalked a naughty lass
Who smoked a lotta grass
Often spoke really crass
And had a very nice
Hairdo
But then I fell
Right in front of Ms. Jezebel
And to my surprise
She looked at me with dewy eyes
OK, they were bloodshot from the pot
But they watered a lot
As she laughed her head off
Until she started to cough
With no time to think
I asked her out for a drink
And I bet you can guess
My surprise when she actually said
“That’s a joke, right?”
Drat, I was out of luck
So I pushed her in front of a speeding truck
But with that shove
She fell in love!
As she passed, she said she’d always love me
So I had to do something, you see?
Trying my hardest I did all I could
If not what I morally should
So although her body is gone
She will always live on
Always at my side
Try as I might, I can’t hide
She constantly says she loves me, quite the feature
This endearment coming from the lips of Dr. F’s 8 foot tall, male creature
—–
by Frank Hubeny
One moonless, dreary, dismal night
I accidentally fell in love.
A mermaid using starry light
bewitched me from above.
I loved her true and she loved me
enough to eat me whole.
Now I am dead and she’s well fed.
I guess this tale’s been told.
—–
Failure has become accepted,
and mediocrity praised, while greatness is
Despised, as the masses grope around,
Totally dazed.
—–
by Tnkerr
I first wed the girl – nineteen twenty nine
her hair was dark, loosely curled
she was fairest in the world
she gave me a shove so I pulled her hair,
accidentally fell in love
fit together, hand in glove
married now, at least a couple of times
love we’ll sometimes disavow
me, Frida, her unibrow
—–
by M
How do love her ?
BY NEAR, bye far
counting ways to stars
I count curves
and long eye lasses
I count to ten
twenty
thirty
forty
fifty
sixty
with pen I wrote this love knote, I’m am no timid mouse
folded as such
and; dropped it
in her.
Mail slot, I lover here oh so muchly
shit! Wrong house!
—–
I did but see her
through the glass darkly
of the sliding doors of the train to nowhere
but I knew I had to make her mine, make her mine, make her mine.
I raced along the platform,
past the compulsory dwarf and mardi gras dancers,
knocking over old ladies
and trampling on children
until I could leap onto the train
as it left the Stations of the Cross.
On the train
we ran through fields of wildflowers
as if in slow motion
until she leapt into my arms
heels in the air
and we kissed with the heat of the night
until the conductor asked me for my ticket
and I woke up at the bus stop.
—–
by Obbverse
See Dick trundling ’round Walmart,
See Jane selecting a shopping cart,
See dick searching for a parking slot?
Does Dick see Jane in his blind spot?
See Jane hear her phone go ‘bing?’
Well, now Jane won’t see anything,
See Dick’s head turn side to side,
See Dick’s patience being tried?
See Jane gaze raptly at her screen?
Hear Dick mutter something obscene!
See Dick’s head all but swivel ’round?
Not an accursed park to be found.
See Jane cross behind Dick?
See Dick’s cheek start to tic?
See Dick see a most welcome sight?
Ahead, a Dodgy Neon’s reversing light!
See the smile on Dick’s face!
Dick has found his happy space!
See Dick’s foot hit the Jeep’s brake!
Let’s see, which path Jane will take?
See Jane talking and walking,
Concentrating on talking, not walking,
Dick has stopped, Jane’s not slowing…
Can we see where this is going?
The Neon vacates the parking bay,
Dick’s at the wheel, sawing away,
Dick can’t get his Compass aligned,
Dick reverses without glancing behind.
The VERY FIRST day at Drivers Ed
What do they drive into your head?
Chapter One in their good book-
‘Before going forth, first LOOK.’
But Dick does not remember Jack;
With Dick there’s no looking back,
Backing back out into the lane,
‘Dick in Jeep, meet Chatterbox Jane.’
Jane, holding wobbly wheeled trolley
Perfectly placed to compound Dick’s folly,
See Jane, lost in a world of her own
Rattling away, eyes on her iPhone.
What a moving sight they both fail to see!
See Jane’s trolley! See Dick’s truncated Cherokee!
Dicks not-so-tuff plastic bumper, mangled,
His Jeep and her trolley, sorrily entangled.
Dolt Dick agreed it’s all his fault,
Luckily Jane suffered just the jolt,
One broken fingernail, no broken bones,
And Dick’s insurance covers cracked phones.
So, after names and details were taken
Dick discerned Jane looked pale and shaken,
Said he’d treat her to a hot sweet latte;
Today they marry, a year to the day.
See Dick and Jane say their nuptial vows!
Though the venue raises actual eyebrows!
A Walmart wedding might sound perverse?
If you know their journey, quite the Reverse.
—–
by Deb Whittam
She was so hot, she set me alight,
Soldier stood to attention, ho, man what a delight.
She was sweet like cream, I ain’t leavin til I get a bite
Ho, you dudes can dream, she’s going home with me tonite.
Yo, I’m bad ass, I can make chocolate melt on a cold ass day
But your so fine mutha, you and me we could so, like, play
Me and my bling, you with your tight ass thing
We could go horizontal, ho, you know what I mean?
Your such a fine mutha, you got it going on
You and me, back at my place, now don’t get me wrong
This ain’t no one night fling, I could see you wearin’ my bling
You and me, doin’ it morning and night
Boys tongues hanging, you just so fly
C’mon on mutha, I’m gonna be your guy.
Ain’t no time to waste, this ain’t no accidental love,
C’mon on, let me have a taste.*
—–
by Greg
there she stood
unkempt and crude
her family lines
a sickly brood
her sweats all stained
with God knows what
brown and smudged
across her butt
but in the light
of twilight time
hot damn, my Lord
she looked so fine
through the years
and many a stain
she stole my heart
my love she’d Gain
—–
by TanGental
She elbowed my nose
Trying to make sourdough.
It broke. My nose, that is.
‘It’s just a dent…’
An accident
She took the car
To test her new glasses.
‘The tree came out of nowhere.
It’s a little bent.’
An accibent
The nice man with the moustache
Sold her a shiny bond
And cleared us out.
‘Every flaming cent.’
An accicent
We got it back on insurance.
She lent it to her brother
To start a platypus farm
In Adelaide
With a former Love Island contestant
Called Bouncy.
They don’t return her calls.
An accilent
I love her for her baking, her resilience, her openness and her family loyalty.
They say I’m mental.
I say it’s an accimental love.
—–
Thank you, terrible poets. Come back at the beginning of November to learn what the new prompt will be!
Jon: Here’s your slightly-inaccurate badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:
©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.
Oh, my! I just learned that dear Hobbo passed away in August. For those who don’t know, he was a writer of some rather clever poems. I considered him as good as Ogden Nash or Shel Silverstein and thought to hear he’d been published. Instead, we learn he’s passed on.
His sons give an apt tribute, the way I’m sure he’d wish.
Goodbye, old friend.
For those curious, the following are just a few of his poems:
The Wordsmith
Twenty six letters
Are all that it takes
For the thousands and thousands
Of words that she makes.
She picks one or two
A dozen or so,
The nub of a poem
And she’s raring to go.
That’s not quite right,
Finds a good synonym,
This is not what I meant,
Opposite, antonym.
Not to forget
The syllable count,
Add one in there,
Take this one out.
Get all that right
And the rhythm is wrong,
Sort it out and it’s
Finished, mais non.
Before any of these
So called, latter stages,
She first needs a subject
To grace those blank pages.
The fraudulent chef
My, have you seen
how thin that chef looks?
I’ve a feeling he’s been
cooking his books!
Pronunciation denunciation
You’ll become a pariah
if you call it Yorkshire
and people will sneer
if you dare say Yorkshire
but the girl from Minorca
pronouncing it Yorkshire,
I will cover in kisses
and take for my Mrs.
Man on a bus
A pear-shaped man
in his pear-shaped clothes,
stuck his pear-shaped thumb
up his pear-shaped nose.
Put two pair-shaped bogeys
stuck to pear-shaped hair
in his pear-shaped mouth
where he ate the pair.
All poems copyright ©Hobbo
First, you gotta write some blog posts. On a blog. Here are your rules to follow:
Then, you gotta fish for followers:
As a Bonus: don’t fall for The Big Ones as a newbie. I’m talking Christian Mihai-types. But, those are a great place to pick up new suckers bloggers those guys have tricked into following them…
©2022 Chel Owens
I was going to do a ‘last week I posted this’ breakdown, but the most important thing is the Terrible Poetry Contest. Deadline’s tomorrow, so randomly generate some text and format it poetically.
We’re only here for a breath.
Some breathe longer than others, of course; like octogenarians shuffling to hit a hundred years.
Others, very little. They gasp -we gasp- and our only son is gone. Our only daughter is still. Our only grandchild grows forever cold.
What do we do when our child is gone? -When we’ll hold them and no longer feel the rising-falling-softness of life against our neck?
What can we do -those of us still breathing?
©2022 Chel Owens
Dedicated to my good friend who just lost her ‘baby,’ her sixteen-year-old son, unexpectedly. I don’t know what happened but my heart aches for her loss.
I’m a Mormon, so I am a missionary.
I’ve promised to share my testimony and the teachings of the LDS Church to the peoples of this world*.
If I were to couch in definite terms two of the most potent convictions in the hearts of the Latter-day Saints, I would name: First, an abiding assurance that the gospel, as taught by the Redeemer when he lived among men and which was later modified, changed and corrupted by men, has been restored by the Redeemer in its purity and fulness; and second, following naturally the first, a conviction in the heart of every member of this Church that the responsibility rests upon the membership of the Church to preach the restored gospel to every nation, kindred, tongue and people.
David O. McKay, In Conference Report, Apr. 1927, 102
This is different than what most think of with the phrase ‘Mormon missionary.’ In terms of an official calling to serve, there are four specific opportunities:
First is the classic missionary who knocks on doors and hands out copies of The Book of Mormon. Single, unmarried young men or single, unmarried young women may devote a specific period of their young lives to serving and teaching. For young men, they may apply for a mission at age 18 and serve for two years; for young women, they may apply for a mission at age 19 and serve for 18 months. This is different than the standard was for years, when men were 19 and women 21.
Serving a mission in that fashion is a commitment to the work -where the young people are called to a specific area; live and work with a companion of the same sex at all times; and follow rules and regimens regarding dress, behavior, daily schedule, service, contact with family back home (though this has also improved), and what sort of media they view or listen to.
Second, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints may be called as a mission president while he is married with a family at home. His entire family travels to the mission site with him and supports him and lives their regular lives for the duration of the three-year calling.
Mission presidents share a variety of responsibilities in their service. They are directed to first maintain their own well-being and that of their families. They instruct missionaries to effectively teach gospel principles as well as to maintain their individual health. In addition, the president assumes responsibility for the baptism of new converts and their initial development as new members of the Church.
LDS Newsroom, “Mission President“
Third is older adults who wish to apply for and be called to a senior mission:
You may be recommended to serve as a missionary beginning at the age of 40 if you have no dependent children under the age of 18 living in your home. There is not an upper age limit for senior missionary service as long as you are physically able to meet the needs of the assignment.
Senior Missionary Service
Senior missionaries are usually a retired couple, and they can do the same sort of tasks as the young ones everyone is familiar with. Usually, however, they keep to less strenuous tasks like office work, visits, and training.
Fourth is serving in the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square (formerly known as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir), or in places like the LDS Church museums. Also, within this and the other three categories, an interested person may be called to a service mission.
Missionaries in all these shapes and sizes and ages do not get paid for their service. Certain expenses are covered by mission funds; like subsidization so all missions for young adults cost a uniform amount, housing for the mission president, clothing for the choir members, etc.
©2022 Chel Owens
*Although I’ve promised to be a missionary, this doesn’t mean I’m attempting to convert any readers. My sole purpose in writing about the LDS Church is to inform, clarify confusion, and answer questions.
……
We Mormons are officially members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and are to drop any name but that. Since many recognize the nickname of ‘Mormon’ and it works with the alliteration so well, however, I will use the term.
My other note is that I will keep to official doctrinal practices. I will add my own application of them, especially in response to comments.
My final note is that I LOVE discussing anything I write. Don’t be rude, obviously, but any and all queries or responses are welcome.
My final note beyond the final note is that I do not seek to convert anyone. I am motivated by forming connections, answering curiosity, and straightening pictures. So, you’re safe.
“Worry is a conversation you have with yourself about things you cannot change. Prayer is a conversation you have with God about things He can change.”
-Hate to say it, but this seems to be Anonymous
My love, I saw you just
the other day.
I thought, “I must
see if she wants to play.”
But then, without a doubt
or e’en acknowledgement,
You ran around you ran about
you ran through excrement.
I know you weren’t
expecting me to be outside
your house, you weren’t
expecting me to be outside.
But, baby, you should know
That when you hand me
my steaming cup of joe
and smile, instead of run-ning,
Our love was meant to be.
So, tell this nice policeman
That you aren’t charging me
and that I get to be your man.
Please?
©2022 Chel Owens
If that isn’t terrible, you need your ears checked. Also, you need to type up the warning label on the side of your shampoo, add far more adjectives, and turn it in to the Terrible Poetry Contest for this month. You have till this Thursday to enter!
This summer, we tried our hand at gardening.
Can’t say much for the produce, but our cats are coming along nicely.
©2022 Chel Owens
chelowens.com 