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
‘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!
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.
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
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
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)
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.
¡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
You know it.
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
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
Many thanks, loyal fans and poets, for your tales. Return at 10, on the morrow, for another topic of which to write.
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.