Tag Ballad

Forty-Niners Folk Song #99Word Stories

Chel Owens 50 Comments

I’ll tell ya ’bout the year we seen
A thousand-thousand chasing dreams
They sought for El Dorado’s prize
‘Neath California’s azure skies
Mining-mining
All day long
Forty-niners
Sing this song
Ned left his wife and their love-nest
Left their new babe to go out West
He ain’t found gold, but don’t you fret
He’s learned to dig and drink and bet
Digging-digging
All day long
Forty-niners
Sing this song
Jim found some dust away down there
He spent it all on golden hair
Next day, Jim panned and found some more
He went right back to that ol’ h-ore…
(Final chorus, past the word count)
Panning-panning
All day long
Forty-niners
Sing this song

©2022 Chel Owens

Sung ’round mining towns for Carrot Ranch’s prompt this week: January 31, 2022, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about “the ’49ers.” Who or what are they? What is the significance of the number? Do you follow the Gold Rush history or venture into new territory? Go where the prompt leads!

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 16 Comments

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

by Trent P. McDonald

‘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!

The End

—–

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.

—–

Epic

by Bryntin

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

by Kristian Fogarty

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

by Doug Jacquier

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)

by Michael Fishman

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.

Ground below.
¡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

Terrible Poet.

You know it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

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

by Ruth Scribbles

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

Yippee

—–

Many thanks, loyal fans and poets, for your tales. Return at 10, on the morrow, for another topic of which to write.

fresco-3357_1920

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.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 20 Comments

Good day and welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #56.

Not to leave anyone adrift, click here for a basic how-to on writing terribly. Bad poetry is not for the faint of heart, though it may be for the feint of art.

Here are this week’s specifics:

  1. The Topic is an epic poem about a great adventure. Laudable deeds and grand gestures will be your comrades-in-arms, even if your adventure proves to go no further than locating a missing sock.
  2. These sorts can run rather long, so let’s cap the poem at a Length of 200 words. Yes, Fishman, you may write fewer than 200.
  3. Rhymes are unnecessary, yet contestants will be awarded bonus points for archaic ones.
  4. Make it terrible, I say! A great shout must be heard from deep within The Woods of Whispering that Princess Sock has been found, and is begging you to stop singing your ballad. Forever.
  5. If the Rating must, it may rise to PG-13. Remember that insults from these times moste often ran the gamut of brigand or knave.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 31, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the given form, below, to submit your poem in secret.

To declare your efforts to all, respond in the comments. Enquire further if a pingback does not show by the following day.

Make merry!

fresco-3357_1920

Photo credit: Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Throwback Thursday: The Ballad of the Garbage Truck

Chel Owens 31 Comments

From June 29, 2017, an epic poem I’m stinkin’ proud of:

Oh, hark! -and hear my tale of old –
‘Tis true in ev’ry way:
The ballad of the garbage truck,
A loud, machine-drawn dray.

The daylight barely paints the East,
The weary man just waked;
A stirring in the quiet air,
A song of metal brakes.

How now, my lads? What sings this sound?
What draws attentive eyes,
A-pressed against the window panes,
Or gathered round outside?

Oh, feel: the porch, the walk, the lane!
Oh, see: the living things!
They shake and dart in worried dance
Of what the daybreak brings.

The song exults effulgently
As it comes round the turn:
Vehicular efficiency
As refuse is o’erturned.

Majestic rolls the garbage truck;
Ungainly -yes, but true.
A dutiful collectioner
Of everyone’s snafu.

©2019 Chelsea Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 24 Comments

Wow. This week’s contest was amazing! I had a terribly fun time reading through everyone’s entries …and an equally terrible time trying to pick just one winner.

But a winner there must be. And that is Deb Whittam.

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

Luke was like a piece of driftwood
He floated his way into my life
And marooned himself on my stretch
Of the beach
He lay there salient
Watchful, still
He didn’t leave
It was kind of disturbing
I considered starting a fire
I considered tossing him back in
I considered getting my dog to poop
next to him, but in the end
But being driftwood
I walked round him
Then the tide came in and
He drifted out again
Days passed
Honestly I didn’t notice he was
GONE

But that’s what driftwood is like
Forgettable
Just like Luke
SUCH IS LIFE
… (Pause here to blow a raspberry)

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

As I said earlier, there were many excellent entries. The level of awful poetry was astounding and made for a difficult decision. Great work mixing meters, muddling themes, and morphing rhymes! Deb’s over-the-top features were all those elements working so well together. Good/bad job!

And the remaining entrants were terrible in their own right. Enjoy:

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

I’m writing a poem that needs to be deep
It’s supposed to have rhythm and metrical feet
Through bang-head-here moments I moan and I weep
While googling synonyms that start with an e.

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

They study Mars
and neutron stars
and never ride with girls in cars

And, if they do acquire a wife
they are working each night for the rest of their life.

So, if studying a black hole
is your goal
prepare for it to crush your soul.

And, spending your life trying to prove dark matter
is even satter…

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

You are so well-rounded that you could be compared to a turnip,
and indeed you have earned it.
Everything you touch seems to turn to gold;
each and every talent that you hold.
Even when you play the violin
it’s so sensual it’s almost a sin.
When you simply fry an egg
it’s ten times tastier than when it’s fried by my Aunty Peg.

With a paint brush in your hand
you make Leonardo d’Vinci less a man;
not to mention when you do arithmetic
you are better at arithmetic than Arius was at being a heretic.
There’s very little you could be taught
when it comes to sport.
Compared to you the rest of us look dumb
so there’s no reason to walk around like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your bum.

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

Every week, Ms. Chelsea posts
Hey you lot, write something gross!
Do your worst and you’ll get our praise;
Do your best, you’ll get week old mayonnaise.

And so I do, and so it went
Until I gave my last two cents.
I’ve wrote about summer, literary masterpieces and the lot
I’ve won twice, and I’m besought

So tell me now and tell me true
Who is the worst poet for you?
Is it so terrible to terribly tell a little lie?
And say that perhaps it’s the great Kahunana himself, Mr. Billy Sly?

No one understands the guy who Shakes the Speares
He could be making it up after all the years
No one understands what he’s trying to say
Truly, he’s laughing from his grave and giggling all the way.

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

The ten amazing PM candidates
Needed since the dreadful May abdicates
Boris Johnson
Looking out for number one
Jeremy Hunt
No more than an embarrassing publicity stunt
Michael Gove
Slowly disappearing in all the cocaine lies you wove
Dominic Raab
Wouldn’t trust you with a kebab
Sajid Javid
You make our police so livid
Matt Hancock
Talks utter poppycock
Mark Harper
Completely incompetent usurper
Esther McVey
Only wants you to obey
Rory Stewart
The leadership qualities of a Raspberry Tart
Andrea Leadsom
Will only bring national doom
That is Britain Today
A country in complete disarray

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

Eee ha, ho down horse around,
dance the rainy reign reins away.

Rains rein in the picnic nit picks
but for every weed given rein to,
there will grow a rein-Carnation
and a carnation reincarnated as a weed.

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were from the southern part of the US I’d say something like, “Jiminy Christmas” instead of swearing. When I listened to a braggart I might think “he’s all hat and no cattle” and if someone got mad at me I’d smile and tell them that they can “just get happy in the same britches they got mad in”.

But I’m not from the southern part of the US.
Goodness gracious,
Although I am sometimes loquacious

I’m from the northern part of the US where I say stuff like, “You betcha” and where snow is called “snoooow” and where we all say “Yah” a lot and follow it up with “sure”, and where, when we talk to strangers, we begin every sentence with, “Oh”.

Like –

“Oh, how ’bout those Twins?”
or
“Oh, Olivia Johnson sure does make a good casserole.”
or
“Oh, didja see. . .”

Or “So”.

Like –

“So the Twins lost yesterday, eh?”
or
“So, didja hear Jim Larson got food poisoning from Olivia Johnson’s casserole?”
or
“So what’d’ya think of. . .”

And you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us pronounce “third” like “turd”.

So, yah, I’m from the northern part of the US.
You betcha,
And those little red dots you sometimes get on your skin? They’re petechia.

If I were from Mars I might talk and I might not talk because no one knows how Martians sound or if they even talk at all for that matter.

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

Slumped on sofa, feeling low,
Don’t wanna shop or outside go,
Shocking din beyond window;
Apocalypse? Malignant crows?
Curtains closed, so I don’t know,
But curiosity, so

I think take a look,
Rise to feet discarding book.
Need to eat, don’t want to cook.
Kitchen no cavern – more a nook…
Is it birds or fatal fluke?
Peak between drapes like cornered crook.

Three car pile-up – bedlam there,
Poking bones, blood-mussed hair.
Look away from sickening scare,
See ribbons of colour streaking the sky and I carelessly cease to care,
Horizon highlighting rhapsody rare;
Surprising sunset, breathtaking flare.

Pity poor victims; tarmac is read,
Rubberneckers shaking heads,
Twisted bodies lately dead.
Making sandwich, ready for bed,
Scraping mould from hunk of bread;
Provocative dreams if properly fed.

Pluck off blossoming, blue-grey yeast,
Anticipating impromptu feast,
Unforeseen shock – view faces east.
Time is thieving, night-fleecing beast.
Feel like a flock of silly geese;
Sunset west, sunrise east.

Radio wakes in hollow bedroom,
Morning call; warning tune.
Sat through night, blind to gloom.
Feel foreboding, forthcoming doom.
Skin feels pocked with autumn bloom.
Off to horrid office soon.

Better slough of sleepless grime;
Supper’s off; it’s breakfast time.

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

Roses are red
and white and pink.
Roses can also be
orange, I think?

Violets are blue,
And uh, tulips are…yellow?
I don’t know, I’m not a botanist. Or a poet.
So the end, bite me.

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

One two three four five
Counting seven syllables
Five four three two one

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

I cannot accurately say how far down it was.
At the time, I had no way to measure.
I could estimate, but that would be a guess.
Besides, I’d rather explain what I saw,
how I achieved a somewhat modest goal,
and enjoyed the unusual fruit harvested
from an unusual place which rewarded me
with a somewhat modest treasure.

Shining from the east, fiery streaks of sunlight slowly peeked
through clouds to warm the sandy sandstone bluffs,
the unstable wall between
Coast Highway and our planet’s largest ocean.

The salty surface of the massive sea was still and glassy as it slept.
I paused to pose in yoga stance
and stared at the horizon.

As chilly darkness surrendered to blue sky dawn,
I shifted my physical position and left my previous posture
to the past and headed for an outhouse where I hoped
to leave the liquid remnants of my light roast coffee.

Surrounded by blue plastic walls and door,
and squinting in the midst of acrid chemicals which did not mask
or complete the task that they were manufactured for,
I did what I’ll admit I cannot resist the urge to do.

I took a look into the tank below–
down into the pit–
down into a swarm of buzzing flies
and abandoned human exhaust product.

And there is where I found it–
silent, lonely, floating
with other objects which are not usually
mistaken for candy bars or old potatoes,
I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.

I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

Attempts to win the lottery
have never worked for me.
The Universe has not exactly
blessed me with its blissful luck.

But on one amazing morning,
I rescued a celebrity’s accessory.

Fortunately,
I did not fall in or make a mess of me.

In fact, after ending
its encounter with the ugly muck,
I let it dry for half an hour.

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.
I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

—–

Thanks to all who entered and for sharing your amazing talents! Tomorrow at 10 a.m. starts next week’s contest!

frida-aguilar-estrada-397167-unsplash

Deb: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 45 Comments

Welcome, one and all, to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #29.

Some visitors may wonder, “What is terrible poetry?” Is it a good poem with a rotten subject? A potential masterpiece with a funny twist? Not really.

Way back at the beginning, I gave a basic outline. My aim is to capture the sort of every-line-rhyming poem one wrote in grade school, or a roses are red rip-off when first tormented by teenage love, or to fulfill a college assignment to create haiku based on syllables alone.

Got it? Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is open! No, not a poem with the word “open,” but a masterpiece about any subject you feel inspired to expound upon.
  2. Just as the theme is whatever goes, the Length is also. I will warn entrants that the (sole) judge has about a 200-word attention span.
  3. Rhyming is also optional. Look at all the freedom you have!
  4. Above all, make it terrible! Make professional poets beat themselves over the head with their organic chai tea from recomposed cacao husks. Make English literature professors escape out their office windows and climb down their ivy leagues. Make your mother proud.
  5. …But keep things PG or cleaner if you can for the general audiences that read the blog.
  6. Also, please share the love. Tell your friends and followers. I think our regulars could use a bit of competition, and I always enjoy seeing new victims to the contest.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 14) to submit a poem.

If you want to be anonymous (for a week), use the form below.

Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments below that.

Have FUN!

 

frida-aguilar-estrada-397167-unsplash

Photo credit:
Frida Aguilar Estrada

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 7 Comments

Another week, another contest, another episode of my wanting to give everyone first place. I asked for terrible love poetry, and you guys all gave me …well, I think it was poetry.

I happen to know the winner this week wouldn’t want to bite his nails any longer in expectation, however. It is the famous, clever, inappropriate Geoff LePard.

Only Skin Deep (After Sonnet 130*)

by TanGental (Geoff LePard)

The azure of the wide Pacific seas

Has depth, unlike your bland insipid eyes.

A dancer’s legs are shaped by art to please

But yours are not for show, they need disguise.

My tongue, whose form can change to suit all tastes,

From gentle probe to pert, priapic beast,

Becomes a dry and flaccid thing, all chaste,

If suffocated by your doggy breath’s release.

Facial engineers, who can craft Kate Moss

From Quasimodo, turn and run a mile:

I’d give my soul to Satan, bear any loss

If they’d mould Venus from your Cubist smile.

Let’s face it, love, on me you’ve placed a hex:

It’s not your looks that bind us, just the sex.

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

All of the submitted poems were terrible. Throughout reading them, however, I just couldn’t feel that sort of acute revulsion necessary to crown a victor -until, that is, I read Geoff’s poem.

I thought his may have been too pretty as I started reading it. There’s meter, and rhyme, and a bit of a misguided theme. Then I got to the bits about the tongue, and “doggy breath.” That settled it.

Any of the other entrants may hold their heads high if they really want to as well. And, here they are:

Songette of Love

by Bruce Goodman

You are like fresh water in a toilet system
and I am like the bowl that’s just being pissed in.
Your flush of youth washes away all stain of sin
and all I can do is sit there and grin.

Your love is like a roll of toilet paper,
seemingly endless and yet is a handy caper.
You remind me of the aerosol can of “Province French”:
one squirt and you hide the smell of stinky stench.

The lavatory brush as well reminds me of you,
as does the mop that cleans the bathroom floor, too.
Both are meticulous in cleaning up every speck of microbiotic dust;
Such fastidiousness greatly increases lust.

And so, my dear, when all is said and done,
whenever I have a crap I know that you’re the one.

—–

Oh my Darling

by RhScribbles

Oh my darling, my darling valentine
I’ll leave you at the table while I go
To the den and wait for you to bring wine
And spend time with you and the old banjo

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
How I adore your odd sense of humor
I am excited to be your wife
That’s not a joke, I’m with child it’s rumored

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
Your face is as scruffy as a scratchy scrubber
I’d love to scrape it off with a sharp knife
I might mistakenly remove blubber

Oh darling, sweetie pie, love of my life
My valentine, angel, I am your wife

—–

I love you lots (only slightly in a sleazy way)

by Greygirlieandme

Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
Well, I’ll have a go,‘cos you’re a bit of alright (at least Colin thinks so).
Where to start – fancy a tumble in the hay?
You will when you’ve read this, I’ll wrap it up and tie it with a bow.
The doctor said we can have a snog now the herpes sore’s have all gone;
Your eyes are like rock pools, salty and they overflow a lot, and your eyebrows look like sea slugs,
And your skin’s okay when you’ve got a tan, as long as it’s not too orange, like the Trumpster one;
And I know you’ll look like your mother in a few year’s time, but she’s OK with the lights off. What, you’re scared of the dark because of the bugs?
Now there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me, what’s with the bush? Untrimmed’s really not my thing…
But overall you’re a bit of a catch (as per Colin again),
So I’d like to take you into my possession, I’ll follow you all the time, on the wing;
I want everything thing you touch, so I might go through your trash, again and again,
But most of all, I want you to be mine,
As long as I breathe, allowing for the ciggies,
I’ll make sure all my kisses are biggies.

—–

Chubby Cheek Pooty Duty

by Donna Matthews

His chubby cheeks very adorable
And I know, you know, what we all know
Without you, life would be so horrible
You show up day and night, sunshine or snow.

The job at hand isn’t rosy face cheeks
We’re talking uncontrollable poo-poo
Digested milk spewed from pudgy butt cheeks
Exploding odoriferous, slimy goo

I adore the way you absorb the mess
No matter the pigment nor time of day
From your faithfulness, I am truly blessed
Beloved, there’s nothing more I can say

Without you, diaper, excrement galore
Your pooty duty valued evermore

—–

The Handkerchief

by Peregrine Arc

Oh my dearest hanky
How I love thee without compare
I snort, I sneeze, I wipe my hands
on you without a care.
For you are the holder of my snot,
Full of my forget-me-nots
From cold, allergy and flu seasons
My always and forever, linen pressed beacon.
Sprinkled with limeaid from that last catastrophic fall
When I was trying to increase my fluids, dash it all
Sniff. Sniff. Oh dear.
I feel I have another achoo arriving, I fear.
I can feel it striving, stretching down my nostril hairs, tickling my mucus
To my hanky–my succus!
Away, away, Sir Lucas!

—–

How I Love my Hot Flashes

by D. Wallace Peach

I’m never cold from head to toe, not me
In winter’s deep when snow is white and brash
I lounge in skivvies for all the family t’see
In summer attire, I bask in hottish flash

The hubs may shiver ‘n shake by blazing fire
The daughter dressed in coat and hat with flaps
But I will sweat a flash like a funeral pyre
Too hot to cook or clean, too hot for naps

Too hot for heat in the car while driving home
Too toasty for salsa and barbeque chicken wings
Too flushed to deal with hair dryers and combs
Too fiery to wear a robe or sweater that clings

The windows stay open ‘spite the sleeting day
For years, I’ve had my head in a baking oven
My heating bill is zero, so I won’t complain
Now you know the reason hot flashes I’m lovin’

—–

Unsuitable Suitor

by Jon

O how she captured my attention when at the first she happened by.
What was it then that caught my notice, caused my heart to palpitate?
Hope raised above the slimmest chance, would I even catch her eye?
What is that thing my heart is doing? Could it not be what I just ate?

Would we be so clearly mismatched, quite unlike as ones could be?
We are boring, both diverted, our screens gleaming pale and blue.
Am I right? Should I reconsider? Are there sparks ‘tween me and She?
Thoughts within begin to torment, something is not ringing true.

Alas! Still if I could only focus, on what is here and what is now.
Cease even to opine on twitter, step far back from writing blogs,
Still a chance our love could work out. Exciting yes! Even wow!
Can’t help now but wonder, would she e’er stoop to kissing frogs?

‘Cause far beneath I clearly lodge high and endless opportunities,
She has e’re open there before her. What if I come upon my knees?

—–

For My Babe on Valentine’s Day

by Michael B. Fishman

What I won’t do for you – –

Those jeans you think are too tight: they are. But I won’t tell you because I care that much. And really, what difference does it make if you have a fat ass?

I’m the only one looking at it and I’ve never expected perfection.
And besides, you’re a good cook and I don’t want to mess that up.

Your hair: I guess I don’t mind the gray.
It is what it is, hey.

I will always do what I can to make you happy.

When I kiss you, your breath sometimes smells.

It’s like pepperoni mixed with that sour smell
of milk that’s been in the fridge too long.
I don’t say anything but it makes me
wonder if you’re not due for a
teeth cleaning.

Sure, you have faults; who doesn’t? But it’s OK because you let me watch baseball games and you don’t bug me too much with household stuff.

And you don’t make me clean up after the dog. Actually – and not to dwell on your breath – but pepperoni and sour milk and the dog when he’s wet.

Anyway – –

Happy Valentine’s Day

I really like you.

—–

Our Lizard Overlords

by H.R.R. Gorman

Nary a day may pass that I don’t weep,
Considering your scaly hide beneath
Some guy’s soft flesh used as your body sheath.
So before I pray and lay down to sleep,
I consider how your anger must seeth
As foul human cattle turn Earth to heath.
I’ll turn off my computer with a beep
And stop spreading lies about your intent.
The lizard man in human flesh is kind,
A good reptilian father to his
Underling livestock filled with malcontent.
Accept your lot and I’m certain you’ll find
Falling in love with master is your fate.

—–

Trying to love it all – A Sonnet

by Molly Stevens

There’s so much to love about the world today,
How can you choose from such variety?
It’s enough to cause major anxiety,
Like filling your plate at a Chinese buffet.

Do I have room for lo mien and fried rice?
Why don’t they have plates as big as my belly?
I sure hope I don’t get a case of salmonelli.
I know what I’ll do, I’ll fill my plate twice.

Twice was nice but caused much distress
When I went over the top with my pickin’ .
Pepto bismol tastes best when chilled.
It will take a solid day to convalesce
From a case of all-you-can-eat Kung Pao Chicken.
Maybe I should have stayed unfulfilled.

—–

(PG-13 Warning)

It’s Really Not His Fault…

by TanGental

It had been, for God one heck of a week

So in fairness we should let it pass

And forgive that Adam, His coup de grace

Could have done with the odd final tweak.

The papers focused their gaze on the Fall

And those pictures of Eve in the buff

Where instead they should have done their stuff

And told us of His mighty cock and ball.

For Adam shouldn’t have needed a stiffy

To get himself into a sweaty old state

Where his only urge was to copulate

And his end was always so sticky.

And all he was given to perform this role

Were balls in a bag and a bewrinkled pole…

—–

I recommend a fresh palate refresher if you got through them all. After that, gear up for next week’s prompt, which will be announced tomorrow morning.

jesse-goll-555768-unsplash

Geoff: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

Fanny Hooe, oh Fanny Hooe

Chel Owens 18 Comments

Lake KeweenawLake picture from Flickr: David Clark

She came from The Virginias and she settled in our town.
Her eyes sparked just like agates and her hair was copper brown.
Fanny Hooe, oh Fanny Hooe
Where oh where, did you go?

She settled at Fort Wilkins, to help her sister’s child.
She settled in the soldiers’ hearts whene’er they caught her smile.
Fanny Hooe, oh Fanny Hooe
Where oh where, did you go?

One night they sought young Fanny but found she had gone away.
The soldiers mourned her memory and call her still today.
Fanny Hooe, oh Fanny Hooe
Where oh where, did you go?

 

Carrot Ranch Prompt

The Ballad of the Garbage Truck

Chel Owens 3 Comments

Oh, hark! -and hear my tale of old –
‘Tis true in ev’ry way:
The ballad of the garbage truck,
A loud, machine-drawn dray.

The daylight barely paints the East,
The weary man just waked;
A stirring in the quiet air,
A song of metal brakes.

How now, my lads? What sings this sound?
What draws attentive eyes,
A-pressed against the window panes,
Or gathered round outside?

Oh, feel: the porch, the walk, the lane!
Oh, see: the living things!
They shake and dart in worried dance
Of what the daybreak brings.

The song exults effulgently
As it comes round the turn:
Vehicular efficiency
As refuse is o’erturned.

Majestic rolls the garbage truck;
Ungainly -yes, but true.
A dutiful collectioner
Of everyone’s snafu.