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.

Reasons to read your work aloud, a re-form of D. Wallace Peach

I have an irksome sensitivity
to the sounds of words
and
the rhythm of phrases and sentences.
When I search for the right word,
it’s not just the meaning
I’m chasing.
I’m looking
for the right number of syllables,
the sharpness
or softness
of the consonants.
As I nestle a word into a sentence,
I listen for the subtlety
of alliteration,
a rhythm
in
the
flow
of
the
words
that form phrases,
phrases into paragraphs.

Photo by olia danilevich on Pexels.com

© D. Wallace Peach

From “16 Reasons to read your work aloud,” by D. Wallace Peach. Re-formed by Chel Owens.

Not That Bad of a Habit, Surely… Not That Terrible of a Poetry Parody

Every time you come around, you know I can’t say no
Every time I see that brown, I want you to console.
I open up my eyes (and mouth); my diet plan explodes
But all -night- -I- -taste- something won-der-ful…

Candy jackets lead to
Closets, hiding alone
Whispered nothings to a Snicker’s, or Toblerone.
Swearin’ I won’t eat one more; we know how that’ll go
I can’t help it with these blues; no booze; I chews

My bad(?) habit
Means I’m passed out, red in the face
And we know I’ve lost control of the size of my waist
I was lookin’ to eat well …but I’ve got canapés
I shouldn’t eat it after nine, I whine
I’m fine, my choc’late habit is all mine….

Ooh-eye, ooh-eye
My choc’late habit is all mine
Ooh-eye, ooh-eye
This bad(?) habit is just fine.

©2022 Chel Owens

Thanks, Pixabay

I’m sure Geoff said we were supposed to take the first line of any sort of poetic piece, right? Like, a song; right? …I’m doubly sure you can do better for this round of Terrible Poetry. Go ahead!

Nursery? Rhyme?

Christy had a mite largesse –
But not of spending dough.
Yes, ev’ry step that Christy took
Her ‘ess’ would jiggle so.

Photo by Jeff Vinluan on Pexels.com

Bill be hungry
Bill be slick
Bill is a cat and he stole the first lick.

Cookies candies puddings and pies…
Og’ling shops that make me cry.
When the owners see; say, “Hey!”
Dieting-me vows, “Another day!”

Photo by Igor Ovsyannykov on Pexels.com

Beep bop bell
Trucks made Daddy fell
Who left them out?
Little toddler lout.
Who picked them up?
Mommy.

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

Think these were funny? I’ll bet you can write a better one (or two or three!). Go ahead: think up a nursery-rhyme formatted poem for the current Terrible Poetry Contest.

Just Bad. And the Driving is, Too.

Oft I venture
down
The road but
then there’s some idiot
On her phone

Oh.
thats a him
I think

who Cares the point
is
That person’s putting on makeup and drifting and just picked up a cell phone and then cut off a semi
and
Honked
at
all of
us.

And I’m supposed to be the stereotypical bad driver
On acc
ount of being
a woman
and Utahrn.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com. It’s funny how we all do this now, when we really shouldn’t.

Ah. Terrible Poetry is always so cathartic.

Mini Burlesque Poetry, on Dieting

Lettuce, eaten or drunk, tastes much worse than fries.

…let us eat and drink; for to morrow we die (1 Cor. 15:32).

Photo by Anastasia Belousova on Pexels.com

Heft me not, not my carriage; once dined
-There’ll be impediments. Dove isn’t dove,
Altered into Carob to preserve our behinds
No no! It is an abomination and something that rhymes with ‘mark.’ -Or ‘remove.’ Oops.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark…
Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

©Dove Chocolates; part of Mars, Inc.

©2022 Chel Owens

I had to try my hand at the terrible poetry theme for this week. Dieting is part of aging, right? I’m not going to have time to post results till late today or tomorrow, so go ahead and enter if you missed your chance.

Grrrrains

Sam Sorghum chewed barley and rye;
For lunch: millet, farro, wild rice.
Dinner, he claimed,
Was always whole-grained:
He spelt buckwheat bran with brown rice.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Seriously; that was terrible. Join in, yourself, for this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest!!

Bonus: What do vegetarian zombies eat?
Graaaaiiins