WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/1/2022

It’s finally time to announce the winner of Colleen Chesebro‘s challenge to write a terrible burlesque poem on aging (ageing):

PEW

by Matt

20’S COOL
30’S COOL
40’S Pew!
What’s that smell? oOoOO that smell, can’t you smell that smell?
Like cheese and a rotten egg got married
yet, rarely it, happened.
50’s Pew!!
That smell lingers from room to room everywhere you walk, in the house, at work, at the groceries store.
How that humanely possible?
60’s and beyond
making me sick, pungent,salty and sour
milk
Serious, seriously serious…that came out of your heiny?
I’m smellin’
it’s poor English but you sure do, yee old farty pants

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are the most terrible poet! Let me know the type of poem and theme for the next two weeks! Exclamation points!

The poems this week were terribly clever! I had to pick Matt’s because it was -oh, man, Matt- very terrible with the clever. “Heiny?” “Farty pants?” Ugh. No! 😀

Don’t stop there, though. Go ahead and enjoy the others:

Untitled

by The Bag Lady

Pulling myself out of the bed
To pee again, something I dread
I’d rather be sleeping instead
Or I could just wet the bed.
Look in the mirror to check what needs shaving
Hoping fingers with razor will be behaving
I don’t want the blade to start engraving
Till blood starts running and raving.
Then there’s dressing, always a treat
Groaning to put socks and shoes on my feet
Stretching on layers smoothed to look neat
Pulling on and tucking in trousers a feat.
Finally finished, its time for a drink
Or breakfast, that’s what most people think
I prefer coffee—makes my eyes start to blink
Then into my recliner I sink.
Morning routines seem to be the way
Doing it over and over each day
Keeps unforeseen accidents at bay
When hair turns relentlessly gray.
Old age comes to us all they say:
“if you’re lucky” or “better than the alternative” way.
Those words spoken cause some dismay
Cause it’s always the young speaking that bray.

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

Stop your crying, I’m not dying
Sit beside me, pretty nurse
Please hold my hand, please understand
That we must delay the hearse
Do I repel you? Please let me smell you
Let me get a little whiff
You’re a fantastic aromatic
Please come closer as I sniff
I know I dither as I wither
My mind and body growing thin
I know this body’s looking shoddy
But a heart still beats within
So though unsteady, I’m not ready
To depart this mortal life
Let’s have a giggle, have a wiggle
You can pretend to be my wife
Though I disgust you, I still trust you
And my bark’s worse than my bite
You’re such a cutie. Do your duty
Look after me tonight
I know you know that it’s all show
My days of love are far behind
Imagination. Agitation.
Just be patient. Just be kind
Yes, I’m older, but I’m no bolder
Senility is bliss
I’m just ageing, I’m not raging
But ….. how about a kiss?

—–

Gnarly
A dig at Joyce Kilmer’s’ ‘Trees’ a trite, turgid self-important load of sappy claptrap if I ever read one.

by Obbverse

I wish I never had to rheumily see
My skin so weather-worn and leathery.

This toothless mouth remains hard- pressed;
My teeth have long gone South and West.

A bod that looks like God had a bad day,
A face beyond all hope, and Oil Of Olay.

A pate that requires new summer wear;
A Blue Jays cap in lieu of lost hair.

When snow falls I dream of hot dry Spain;
Stuck in sodden Toronto, who’d not complain?

When God tires of bad poetry, and poor old me
Put me on the mantel, not ‘neath no cold Yew tree.

—–

This poem attempts to imitate the lyrics of songs like the classic “Bird is the word”. If you’ve never heard that song, don’t look it up.

by Frank

I’m over the hill
over the hill
la-dee-dee
da-dee-dee
da-dee-dee-dill
overly
overly
over the hill

(repeat ad nauseam)

—–

Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com

Thank you, everyone! Come back to learn the next two weeks’ prompt.

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

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

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.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 3/18/22

Welcome to the biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Most poetry is terrible. We’re just out to make fun of it. Need to know how? Click here.

Here are the specifics for this contest:

  1. Colleen Chesebro has decreed the Theme to be aging (or, ageing). The form is a burlesque poem. Burlesque isn’t difficult; after reading the definition, I realize we write in that form frequently. The idea is to mimic styles or subjects of others in a funny way.
  2. Therefore, Length is up to you.
  3. Rhyming is up to you.
  4. Making it terrible is up to you! I suggest you choose to, since you’re not likely to win otherwise. Parody the satire out of a pastiched poet. Please.
  5. Rating: PG-13 or cleaner. Aging can bring out the worst in us.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, March 31 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week. It hasn’t gone through unless you see a message saying it has.

For a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please alert me if your pingback or poem does not show up within a day.

The winner gains bragging rights, a badge, and the option to choose the next iteration’s topic and type of poem.

—–

Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

Gramma Dear

Flowered pots and colored notes
fly gently on the walls;

Whose smiling, standing stick-men

Wave out from rainbowed pen?

 

Wrinkled cheeks and vacant eyes
of startling, once-clear blue;

What’s inside now, Oh Gramma dear?

What’s cloudy and what’s clear?

 

Gnarled hands and anxious grip
that once held mine with love;

Whose fingers do you think these are?

Whose hand felt from afar?

 

Silent words and down-turned mouth
mar lips that laughed and spoke;

What joke or story would you say?

What do you think today?

 

Who are these strangers milling round;
unfamiliar people?

Where is the you

You know?

cristian-newman-63291-unsplash.jpg

Remembered for Carrot Ranch‘s weekly prompt: growing older

May 9, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about growing older. It can be humorous, dark or poignant. It can be true or total fiction. It can be fine wine or an old fossil. Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by May 14, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

 

Photo Credit:
Cristian Newman

Warranty Expired

“Hello, young man. I’d like to return this.” Faded department store sunlight touches on her faded gray hair.

“Ah.” Fluorescents beam off his dark, thick coif. “What seems to be the trouble, ma’am?”

She hesitates. “Well, it’s been acting up a bit you see.” Timidly, she leans closer against the high, blocky counter. “I’ve noticed for a while, of course, but the problems seem to be growing worse.”

“I see; yes. Well, we often have issues like that with our older models-”

Older?

*Ahem* “Have you the purchase receipt?”

She pauses, mid-argument…. “Let me look.” Her veined hands rise to counter height and set a white faux leather purse atop it. Making a great show of a thorough search, she rifles in its shallow depths. After a few seconds, she glances up.

He provides no comment, merely dons an ingratiatingly patient customer sales person expression.

“I can’t seem to find the bugger…” She mumbles as she digs. “Hung onto it for so long.” Rifles more. Sighs. “The husband must’ve thrown it out last time he cleaned…”

“I see.”

“…Don’t suppose you’d accept an exchange? I know I purchased at full price.” Her hands now grip the top of the purse, almost pleading.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he says, nearly looking sorry, “But store policy is that we only accept returns with the original receipt. We do, however, offer in-store credit.”

Her face lights up. “Oh! Let’s do that, then.”

*Ahem* “First, I need to inform you of our policies and procedures, etc -”

“Oh, nevermind about that. Let me see what you sell.” She leans forward against the counter. “How much do I have?”

“Well… about $X.”

Her wrinkled face draws back in surprise. “$X?! And, what exactly does that cover? Your ad, here, says $XXX for-”

“Yes.” His ageless features move to form another patient smile. “As I said, it’s in exchange for the original purchase price, which, due to inflation…”

“But… But, I can’t get a decent body for that price!” Now, her eyes are swimming with concern. Breathing in and out, she withdraws the purse and looks at the ground with a roving dejection.

“Well, ma’am, that hardly matters.” He steeples his hands before him. “Our policies also only allow for store exchanges in certain departments.”

She stops, stares back up at him, and furrows her gray brows in deep thought. “Oh! Of course there’s always a catch.” She fidgets; self-consciously sucks in a bit. “Which departments?”

“Ha.” Good natured salesman look returns. “None of those, ma’am. Here, see, is the list.” He pushes a typed, illustrated pamphlet beneath her bone-thin hands.

She studies it, squinting a bit without her reading glasses. “But-”

“Ah, I see the confusion. No, these are not for you, ma’am.” He smiles through her shock. “However, as strict as many find our store policies to be, we do allow the credits to be transferable to family.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and our records indicate that you have a daughter who has recently married.”

“Yes, but this paper doesn’t list something she can use. It only says Neonatal– oh.” She stops as his meaning becomes clear. “But, if I made the exchange now then I’d never get to meet my ..er, ‘exchange..'”

“Not to worry. Anticipating this, we also allow for layaway.”

“Layaway? On this?”

“But of course. That, and your account already has a positive balance from a return made just last year.” Taps screen. “Your husband, I believe.” *Cough* “Er, many condolences to you and your family.”

His polite gesture does little to soften the lingering memories of her husband’s recent passing. Still, he did make an effort. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hands back to straighten his uniform, to touch his impeccable hair, to tug at an ear. “So, do I take it you wish to make the exchange?”

She looks up. She takes a few moments to return to the present, to focus on the businesslike sales clerk before her.

“Ma’am?”

Glancing down to her hands, she studies the picture of a happy woman holding a new baby as her happy husband laughs. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Excellent!” All business as always, he produces a typed form and sets it on top of the pamphlet.

She squints at the new paper before her. From the corner of her eye, she sees him set a pen to its left. Agreement to revoke all privileges to corporeal existence in advance… she reads in one paragraph. …Future exchange guarantee is in another.

She raises her head to catch one last helpful smile, then picks up the pen and signs on the X.

agreement-business-businessman-48195

Burning Autumn

“Mommy, why are the trees on fire?” His three-year-old eyes look concerned, in my rearview mirror.

I glance back to smile, reassuringly, as we pause at a stop sign. The red and orange leaves of street-stalking maples fill my periphery as I do.

“They’re not on fire, Honey. It’s autumn.” He seems to be thinking, as I pull onto the main road. A seasonal gust dances clusters of brown, red, purple, yellow, and orange around our moving car.

“Why are the leaves blowing away?” He asks next. His eyes dart from one window to another to follow the erratic wind-paths.

I think over my answer. ‘The trees are getting ready to go to sleep,” I say, stopping at a traffic light. I watch the leaves as well, a happy warmth glowing inside at this vibrant change to mundane landscapes.

I watch his tiny face scowl. “Trees sleep?”

“Yes, Sweetheart. The leaves fall off so the trees can sleep when there’s snow on the ground.” His face lights up at the mention of snow. “They need to sleep or they get too cold,” I explain.

Just before the light changes, I catch my own eyes in the mirror. They’re dark, like my hair; like my son’s.

Memory-image immediately draws me back to that morning, when he’d walked in after my shower.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” He’d wondered. Still wrapped in a towel, I’d been anxiously pawing through my reflection’s scalp.

I’d found my first gray hairs while brushing.

We’re nearly to his preschool when he asks, “Will the leaves come back again?”

We slide back and forth against the seat  belts’ embrace as the car bumps over the parking lot entrance. I wait in a minivan queue.

“Mom! Will the leaves come back?”

No, I think, I’ll keep getting gray. Aloud, however, I tell him, “Of course, Honey! The trees grow new leaves when the snow melts and it’s spring again.”

That’s too far away for his mental reach. He’s trying to puzzle it all out, scrunching his lips and small, dark eyebrows.

I park, exit, come round to his door. Rustling leaf-rain sweeps under my feet. A few blow into the open sliding door as I unbuckle my thoughtful child.

“I like it,” he finally decides, smiling. He laughs; and, clutching my hand, skips and crunches through the leaf storm all the way to the school doors.

He goes inside, to his waiting teacher’s arms. Through the glass I see him point backwards, waving his stocky little arm in a swirling motion. He’s explaining autumn to his teacher; while she intently watches his face, smiles in return, and nods dramatically.

They head off to the classroom, hand in hand. I turn to face the wind and its accompanying leaves.

Everywhere a deciduous tree has been planted, I see color. They’re shouting on their way to the death of winter.

I absently run a hand through my hair, just about where I’d found the gray strand. I smile, as my son had.

When I die, I plan to go out like the burning autumn.