Terrible Poetry: Lost Limerick

I never can find mi loosed stuff
Cuz loosed stuff is finding is tuff
So instead i just right
something thats not write
And forget i ever lost my basal ganglia.

©2022 Chel Owens

Ah, I couldn’t help it. You should write something even better for the Terrible Poetry Contest; it supposedly ends on the 30th, but I hear the judge isn’t exactly on top of things this week and you’ll not hear about a winner till Saturday…

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

P.J.s and Morning Soccer

My most recent child. © Chel Owens

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!

Accidental -or maybe- Unrequited ‘Love’

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

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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!

Three, Two, One: Bumper Balloons

Flip – flap – flutter
went the bits of man-made rubber
as he took away the rudder
and he waved goodbye to mother.

‘I’m an engine of the sky,’
sang he, loud, while he sped by,
while his mama dabbed her eye,
while his wobbly wings a-try

To lift, or maybe thrust,
by ignoring drag, or just

By the will of boyish hope,
as his canter speeds to lope;

And seven small balloons
circle ’round, like rainbow moons;
dip and swirl ‘gainst the noon;
flutter, drag to boyish tune

Of hasty dreams, of racing knees
Of birthday dreams on summer breeze.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Victoria Borodinova on Pexels.com

Written in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: balloons on a bumper

September 12, 2022, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about balloons on a bumper. Is it a spectacle, an occasion, an eccentricity? Why are the balloons there? Who is involved? Go where the prompt leads!

Poetic Collage

I’m no poet.
I write fragments, bits;
I pore over magazines of ideas

and
appetizers

Removing a ‘please your man’
or just a ‘man’ -then
I paste those fragments across my notebook.

Like quilting

But I’m no quilter.
I’d stitch myself together
Very un-artistically.

“Let’s try collage,”
I tell the no-one who reads my poetry.
And stick my fingers to each other-
The glue gone gummy
from mishmash poeming.

“Next time,” I decide
‘midst the detritus,
“I’ll stick to macramé.”

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

The Greeeaaat Whiiiiite Chew Toy

I’s once, a great
White beast o’ prey
But now, me fate
Be torpid play

Fare well, Ahab;
See, I’ve no kneed
Fer vengeful rehab
‘Midst carpet seas.

©2022 Chel Owens

©2022 Carolyn Cordon

Written in response to Carolyn Cordon’s fun, new challenge! Join in!

…I am asking, for some kind of creative writing, using the image above, and a random number hmm, lets see, 28.

So further to that, I want a piece of creative writing that is twenty-eight words onlynot more or less, but exactly 28, not including the title. And don’t get clever with the title, by making it a long one, the title must be of 5 words or fewer. It can be poetry or prose.

Sonnet du Jour, Terrible

In honor of the last Terrible Poetry Contest before summer break, I give you my very best at terrible-ness. Do as I do, or even worse, and you’re guaranteed to win:

Photo by Navada Ra on Pexels.com

I don’t like soup it makes me think of love
Erstwhile torment forsooth magniloquent
Like when my boyfriend made me soup with doves
Pain angst pain angst pain angst I’m eloquent.
I took a steak he cut out from my heart
Or flank -oh, agony! At least the taste
Was better, far, than soup I think in part…
But haste I hates or waste on waist for taste
“You make no sense,” he croons from slurping spoon,
“The dove I caught, the steak a homophone.”
“Alas,” I rage to azure suns, then swoon
At this failed step to feed my sex hormones.
Something symbolic and depressed goes here
And then I rhyme with ‘soup’ and sound unclear.

A Mother’s Promise, in memory of Uvalde

I’ll see you soon,
I tell the sunshine behind your smile –
I promise your eyes; trusting, beautiful, brown.
Have fun at school. I’ll see you soon;
You say, I’ll see you soon.

what why
I ask I beg I cry
shadows block me
I’LL SEE YOU SOON
I scream at them
at nightmare sounds
and
crying crying crying
they stop me
hold me
stop

I’ll see you soon, I whisper
to what’s left
what’s left of you
my girl my
sunshine my
future my
promise

to empty eyes

and dead. dark. face.

©2022 Chel Owens

Not quite there, but that’s what I’ve got; a tribute to the parents of those killed at Uvalde, Texas.