WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/24/2020

Congratulations, entrants. These were awful. You didn’t come around to hear only that, however; you came to learn of the winner.

And that is:

Dead Mans Chest

by Obbverse

I saw her here
I saw her there,
It would appear
I saw her everywhere.

In the school bus
I sat and stared,
I dreamed of us
As if she cared.

In my fevered mind
I looked suave and cool,
She seemed obstinately blind,
Friends said, kind of cruel.

Then, as we passed by
A look, though fleeting
Registered in her eye-
Two pupils meeting.

So it came to pass
With one come-hither glance
That Delilah of a lass
Led this fool a merry glance.

She had her fun
At my sad expense,
Fair heart I’d not won-
Her warm heart a pretense.

She left me distraught
That devils daughter,
Without a second thought
Wrenched at my aorta.

My teen dreams shattered,
Much like my pride,
Left bowed and battered-
Something deep inside me died.

Now I’ve a busted heart,
Broken in twain
The only good bloody part-
It won’t break ever again

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

Once again; you, our poets, are TOO GOOD for such a contest. Too clever. Too metered. *sigh* Obbverse won for his poem being terrible (of course) but also reminding me of many novice poets who are not attempting bad poetry and are sincere…

So, well done! As to the rest of you, try harder(?):

The umbrella

by Bruce Goodman

I wish to tell you about my favourite thing,
With a hey-nonny-no,
It’s about my umbrella I wish to sing
Hey ding a ding, ding.

I stick my umbrella up a lot
With a hey-nonny-no,
Whether it’s raining or not
Hey ding a ding, ding.

The other day it hosed down
With a hey-nonny-no,
Just as I was leaving to go to town
Hey ding a ding, ding.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew it inside out.
I started to twist and shout.
What the hell is this all about?
I was getting wet. No doubt.
I hope I don’t get gout.
Hey ding a ding, ding.
My love for my umbrella was just recently awoken.
Now it’s broken
And I’m soakin’.

—–

Witches (not) in Britches

by Richmond Road

The witch she mixes potion

Bats’ wings and eye of newt

Tears of angels, toes of frogs

Old wine and rotting fruit

She casts her spell, she leaves her smell

She takes off with a slop

“She’ll not get far with that,” I say,

“It’s not a broomstick, it’s a mop.”

—–

Ode to an automatic lawnmower

by Doug Jacquier

Boris, as we called him,
made short work of our lawn in
no time at all for many a year,
his whirling dervishing music to my ear.

But one fateful day
his brain faded away
and chaos reigned on our green parade
as anything but lawn was flayed.

Boris charged and snapped dragons at full pelt,
(all the while how his innards smelt)
and mounted kerbs uncurbed
as he rose to the occasion so recently suburbed.

Just when I thought his madness was expended
and his carnationage had ended,
he climbed the bean poles, snicker-snack,
and gave the peas no chance, alas, alack.

There was nothing for it but the mortal blow
as my axe cleaved poor Boris’s fevered brow
and he shuddered and turned turtle
‘midst the burgeoning lemon myrtle.

—–

Artificial

by Dumbestblogger

Stepping on land mines is not nice
But Walter has a way with strife
It seems absurd
But please believe
Now Walter has an iron knee

—–

Dust Bunnies

by Matt Snyder

electric fan seemingly whirring about

cool breeze on my face (ah choo)

oh the dust, the build up

i really really need to clean you

take of your grate & left you plugged in

using this can of air on you much to my chagrin

i can’t seem to get close

so i move in further

shit i cut off my nose !!!

—–

Five Feet

by Trent McDonald

It was just five feet
Oh, so very sweet
Down the fairway
With a single play
Then a chip shot
Within five feet of the pot
It was my day!
Five feet
Creating victory from defeat
Sink it and I win
Endless rounds of gin
If I miss the hole in the ground
I buy round after round
Five feet – I can’t miss
The ball needs just a little kiss
Just five feet, for heaven’s sake!

And that’s why my putter
Is at the bottom of the lake….

—–

When She Was Around

by Fishman

When she was around she did lots of useful stuff, sometimes did it in the buff.

Did some cooking and some cleaning;
I never did totally get her meaning.
Thoughts were dull and sort of unstudied.
Conversations were often somewhat muddied.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything because she was nice to have around.

One day in June she said, “Goodbye”.
I smiled and grabbed the remote ‘cuz it was nearby
You woulda thought I’d have felt a little blue
but in fact I sort of felt brand new.

I was alone, read and listened to some P-Funk,
found it wasn’t so bad, who woulda thunk.

—–

Usefulness

by Gary

Face it I am a muppet
As useful as badly worn glove puppet
The youthful sporting body is sadly no more
Now this used body constantly needs to visit the drugstore
I just can’t bend over without making a groan
I can only move thanks to heaps of cortisone
Once brimming with dreams of adventure and success
Now I’m wracked with anxieties and filled with stress
Everyday is filled with mistake after mistake
Always sweeping up the stuff I carelessly brake
Increasingly covered in dust
With a bank balance which has gone bust
These days definitely more rounded in the middle
Watching life fly past featuring only as a second fiddle
No more than a terrible poetry bard
Maybe it’s time for me to visit the knackers yard

—–

Underpants

by Ruth Scribbles

Always always
Make sure they are clean
Or, you know what I mean?
You never know
What the situation that will show
When an accident you have in your pants

—–

THROW UP

by Christine Bialczak

If throw up is bad
then why does it work
to get out that tad
of that poor tummy quirk.

Vomit is awful
so is the flu
Throw up in a bucket
not right onto you.

Maybe you’ll feel better
but maybe not yet
I don’t care too much
no pity you’ll get.

—–

Thank you all.

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Obbverse: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/18 – 4/24/2020

Greetings! In case you’re lost, this is The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. We’ve been assailing the senses and assaulting the sensibilities since November of 2018. The management would like to apologize for today’s delay in posting a prompt. Her laptop computer met a most unfortunate fate at the other end of a bokken

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This is the most recent photo we have of The Deceased.

But, let’s not dwell on the past, or on the fact that the children now have no web camera with which to Zoom for schoolwork. Read some basics on bad poetry here. Next, read this week’s specifics:

  1. Let’s Topic on a humorous end to a useful object. Irony is encouraged.
  2. The Length is between 5 and 155 words.
  3. Rhyming is optional, but recommended.
  4. Make it terrible! Make me rue the day I ever started a contest based on bad poetry …until the next week’s prompt.
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner. You can do it.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (April 24 or 24 April, Bryntin) 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 let me know if your pingback and/or poem do not show up within a day.

Have fun!

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The Finger

Keep your hands in the car, his mother always warned.
But Tom just laughed, and waved his fingers;
Her advice, he always scorned.

Then, one day, in teenage-hood, he disobeyed too far:
In response to, Please don’t, Tom, he waved just one finger
And laughed, a Har har har.

But Fate or whatever in-charge-of-mothers-and-irony Saint
Must have watched and taken the wheel
‘Cause if Tom wanted, he cain’t

Wave mid-finger or hand
At all.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

 

Photo credit: Elia Pellegrini

Wilhelmina Winters, Eighty-Five

It hadn’t been such a boring class after all, Wil reminisced. She crossed one foot back over the other and tried not to share that idea with the other members of her Chemistry group. They probably weren’t in the mood. She snuck a glance to her right and left, taking in their various poses of irritation and boredom.

She wished for something to do besides wait for her turn with only a motivational poster and her classmates to stare at. She should have grabbed the note from Hope, maybe, during their hasty escape to the office. None of them had thought to do much besides run, given the damage. If only Carl weren’t such a clumsy jerk, she thought.

Almost simultaneously, she and the others glared at the door to the nurse’s office. It was a closet, really, since they lacked an official nurse or sick room. Only in today’s case of potential chemical burning had their secretary, Mrs. Bird, demonstrated concern or permission to use some of the school’s precious medical supplies. Wil hoped the first aid kit was still in date, considered who was at fault, and rescinded that hope -at least for the bandages used on Carl.

She sighed. The girl who had gotten their experiment supplies rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah. What a jackass.”

Bobby and Wil snorted, and Wil saw a slight smile on the boy’s face whose name she did not know. He’d been right next to Carl when Carl had spilled their supplies, and was therefore third in line to be seen.

“Shouldn’t we get an ambulance or something?” Bobby asked. He eyed the supplies girl, who was awkwardly cradling her arm in the office’s usual method of first aid: a wet towel.

The girl shrugged.

“I’ve never been burned at school,” Wil offered. She thought. “Did anyone bring a phone?” She knew it wasn’t likely, since anyone who owned one had to keep it in his locker or risk its removal.

The boy who’d been near Carl turned to the right and left, then down the short hall to the closed supplies door. They could still hear Carl yelping and complaining. Phrases like, “I’ve got conditioning to get to, you know…” drifted down the hall, followed by Mrs. Bird’s impatient, “If you’d hold still, this bandage would stay…”

“I’ve got one,” he affirmed. “Can you take it?” he asked the girl seated to his right.

“Ha!” she answered, screwing up her face. “Even if I wanted to, lover boy, my hands are as damaged as yours.” She held up her towel-draped hands to demonstrate; he responded in kind.

“I’ll do it,” Wil grumbled. Laughing as he angled to accentuate the appropriate side pocket, she slipped it free.

“Hurry,” Bobby urged.

Wil activated the screen. “What’s your passkey?”

“Twenty-three, thirty-two.”

“Nice,” Bobby commented.

Wil didn’t understand what was “nice” about a bunch of numbers, but put them in and pulled up a search. After only a half-minute’s read, she said, “Eurgh!”

“What?” the two hand burn victims asked. Bobby leaned over her left shoulder to see.

Just then, the supplies door opened. Wil stashed the phone in her pocket and looked up to see a mummy-like Carl Hurn exiting. He wore a glare as well, but it was not as impressive as the scowl worn by the woman just behind him.

“Mrs. Bird?” Wil ventured. “I think Carl needs to go to the hospital.”

Mrs. Bird stood all 5’2″ of her frame a little straighter. She peered around Carl. “Oh?” she sniffed. “And why do you think that, Ms. Winters?”

“Well,” Wil gulped, “I …remembered a story I …um.. that Dr. L -Dr. Lombard told us recently about a guy with chemical burns..” She tried not to look at her classmates as she blushed. They knew she was lying about her source, of course, but even Mrs. Bird wanted to hear the story.

The secretary’s expression became impatient in her morbid curiosity. “Well?”

Wil shifted. “Um, well …I re- I mean, Dr. Lombard said- that the guy’s -erm- well, that the guy had chemicals spilled in his lap like Carl did; and that, because the guy didn’t change and rinse off and go to a hospital right away, that he didn’t have any …private parts when they finally did cut off his pants…”

To which Wil and three of her classmates witnessed the fastest de-pantsing a person with bandaged hands has ever completed.

 

Continued from Eighty-Four.
Keep reading to Eighty-Six.

Life Lessons, The Hard Way

I remember my first in-the-car auto collision like it was a mere eight years ago, because it was. I was stopped behind a midsize vehicle in my sedan when *WHUMP!* -a teenage-powered Suburban rolled down the short hill and forgot to stop behind my car.

“Are you an artist or something?” the policeman teased as I attempted to draw the scene on the official record afterwards.

Laughing, I said, “No. Why?” He showed me the other two drivers’ simple, boxes-and-arrows graphics. “Oh.” And I’d been worried the insurance adjuster would notice the sloppiness of my miniature, expressionist Mazda Protegé.

I’d learned to call the police because an older lady attempted to remove our backseat door of that same Protegé just two years prior. I was parked at the time and had opened the door to unbuckle my two-year-old when she did it.

“Do you mind if we just settle outside of insurances?” She’d asked.

I had considered. Respect your elders and such. We were newlyweds, considering, and couldn’t afford much on our own. However, I opted to phone the police and our insurance.

I found out later she’d tried to contest it. She suggested that I opened my door right as she was pulling into an angled spot, from across double-yellow street lines, at an obtuse angle of entry.

Yep.

The collision I first mentioned was bad because our insurance decided to total the vehicle, and we were left to fill the void with an adequate replacement of equal- or lesser-value. I also experienced minor whiplash.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your accident!” My son’s preschool director said, once I finished with the police reports and continued on to retrieve my then-four-year-old. “I’ll bet that was a real headache,” she commiserated.

“Well,” I said with a straight face, “It was more of a pain in the neck.”

My humor would keep me company over the next few weeks as I learned exactly how fun whiplash was to recover from.

This story crossed my mind early this morning, around 3 a.m.

I’d risen to facilitate an answer to Nature’s call and had nearly not made it back to bed, or even erect again to hobble there.

This was in consequence of a foolish decision I made yesterday to forego a ladder and climb our garage shelves like some lesser-intelligenced simian ancestor.

Had I been said primal ape, the resulting slip and fall would have broken my perfect prehensile tail. Being a Homo sapiens, I instead damaged my rump (and my pride).

This time, my husband got to deliver the zinger. “I’ll bet that was a real pain in the butt!” he said. (Our youngest, age 4, was within earshot. Plus, my husband never curses.)

I’m sure he’s laughing now, as I type on my backlit phone to pass the hours before a health clinic opens.

I’d assumed only minor damage last night. Though slow, I’d managed to drive, walk to book group, and water the house plants. This (early!) morning, on the contrary, I was overcome with nausea upon standing -okay, upon upright hunching. I finally made it back to bed to beg a bit of bread and Ibuprofen from my drowsy helpmeet. And an ice pack.

I suspect I’ve broken my tail after all. We’ll find out in a mere four hours.

Not that I’m counting.

Wilhelmina Winters, Fifty-Six

One reason Rob had chosen their current apartment was its proximity to Cynthia’s medical clinic. Unfortunately, Wil reflected as she watched cars, stores, and traffic lights move through her dim reflection in the car window, the clinic was not where they needed to go for emergencies. Also, that health facility was closed, as most seemed to be, on Fridays. She had often wondered if the doctors all thought no one got sick at the end of the week.

She turned to watch shadowed pieces of sunset play over her parents’ faces in the front seat. Her father sat tensely, his thick fingers turning ever whiter in their grip on the steering wheel. His eyes bored through the windshield, willing them at the hospital already.

Her mother –Yes, my mother, Wil told herself. –Wait! Where did those papers go?– sat in her relaxation pose. Cynthia’s head lay back, her blonde hairs dusting the headrest. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was carefully shallow.

Rob’s cell phone chimed. Wil jumped, then realized it was just a notification. “Mina. Please.” Her father’s request, as usual, was a succinct command. Forgetting her train of thought, she leaned forward and took the phone from the console.

Putting in the simple code of one horizontal line to unlock the screen, Wil saw that Jakob had texted back. She cleared her throat and said, “It’s Jakob. He says, ‘Class almost out. Can get ride to hospital with Jen.'” She looked up, curious. “Who’s Jen?”

Cynthia laughed, which brought on another coughing fit. Wil looked distraught, a feeling made worse by the stern look her father wore when she caught his face in the rearview mirror.

They were nearly to the hospital when Cynthia caught her breath. As Rob carefully navigated into the parking garage, she turned her head to look at Wil. “I love you, Wil,” she said sweetly. “Always curious.” Wil did not look reassured, which almost set Cynthia going again. She swallowed a few times, allowed herself a smile, and said, “Don’t worry, Honey. I don’t know who Jen is, either. It’s probably just a girl in the same class who has a car.”

They pulled into a spot, and Rob put the car into park. Securing it with the parking brake, he turned and pulled his cell phone from Wil’s hand. “Let’s go,” Rob said, ever tactful and patient.

Cynthia smiled up at him, loosening his features into his version of the expression.
Wil hastily unbuckled. She pushed the car door open, hitting the cement wall they were parked by. Rob sighed. Cynthia had to suppress another laughing fit. Wil looked around, expecting Jakob to say, “I hope Wil marries a car detailer,” as he always did when she dented their car. She remembered that he wasn’t there, and instead looked apologetically up at her father.

“Nevermind, Wil,” he said, tiredly. “Just get out and close it. If you can.”

Leaving their sedan with all its scratched doors locked and secured, the Winters walked out of the garage and to the doors of City Hospital.

 

Continued from Fifty-Five.
Keep reading to Fifty-Seven.