WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 5/19/2022

What fun! Geoff won last contest and suggested we take the first line of a famous poem and rewrite the rest! So, at long last, which poet wrote the ‘best’ terribleness?

The Dentist and The Crocodile (Not Roald Dahl)

by Not Pam

The crocodile, with cunning smile, sat in the dentist’s chair.
He had a devious plan to broker, which would scare
… And he didn’t care.
He sought a partner in crime, one almost as shrewd as he,
It was all quite divine
Blood would be spilt, you see.
They had discussed it at length, while gnawing an old thigh bone
There was no planning left
It was time for them to go it alone
They crept down to the village, the dentist and the croc,
They had plans, they didn’t intend just to throw a rock
The town folk were in for a dire shock.
In the dead of night, the dentist tore their teeth free
While the croc scared them in a stupor, and you better believe me
Blood was spilt a plenty, it was quite something to see
But though the town folk were blood less, tooth less, lifeless, they didn’t cease to be
Their flesh turned into steel, and they went on a killing spree
Now there’s one thing on their diet, that croc and dentist better flee.

—–

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

The entries were far too clever for me to dub any ‘terrible.’ I had to read through again, pick those who intentionally clichéd, or misspelled, or were just plain painful to read through. Not Pam’s piece beat out the competition for utilizing those elements. I mean –gnawing on an old thigh bone and blood less, tooth less, lifeless. Terrible!

Everyone else did a fantastic job, as I said. Read below to see for yourself:

“A Psalm of Life” stolen from Longfellow

by John W. Howell

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
That someone has used all the cream.
For an idiot so wonton makes for wonders,
Of why we let it on the team.

Coffee is real! Coffee is earnest!
And true black is not our goal;
Thief thou art, and best returnest,
That half and half in its bowl.

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

Mary had a little lamb
She had a goat as well
She had a cat, a dog, a skunk
(with it’s distinctive smell)
She had some tigers and some bears
She had some lions too
With elephants and a giraffe
She had a private zoo
She took them all to school one day
So that teachers could be met
She was a very charming girl
She was the teachers’ pet
But the teachers they became alarmed
To hear the lion roar
They ran into the classroom
And they locked the classroom door
To Mary this was hurtful
So she left in some dismay
She gathered up her animals
And led her flock away
She went in search of somewhere else
To let her creatures roam
And came upon another spot
Her Nan’s retirement home
She found a room where all looked bored
Called ‘Geriatric Care’
So she pushed her pets right through the door
And let them loose in there.

—–

Fiery Ice

by Frank Hubeny

Some say the world will end in fire.
That sounds nice.
For veggies burning ever higher
It’s best to use a roaring fire.
Beans I hear you should fry twice
Though why one would I would debate.
Crispy, fully charred is nice
And now I wait
For fresh-burnt rice.

—–

For Whom the Wave Rolls
Not by John Donne!!

by Trent

No man is an island,
At least I hope.
A body may float a while,
Though drift afar.
If some clod be washed away by the sea,
He might sink.
As well as a big boulder would.
Then again, as I said before, he just might float
Though a floating body is no island.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
If he sinks or floats.
Therefore, stay away from the sea
For whom does the wave roll?
It rolls for thee.

—–

SONNET LXVI
(First line by Pablo Neruda)

by M

(I do not love you except because I love you)
because if I love you, then I love that I love you ?
Because love is what is considered
the opposite of hate & I’d hate to deeply hate you with the hatred of hate that you can only find within what is deemed love!
The love of hate of the hate that I love is my soul desire,such a fool for love & hate.

—–

The Unshaven

by Obbverse

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
After many a gin sunken I’m found slumpen ‘pon the floor
Dryly heaving, stomach clenching, regretting my night out wenching,
‘Tis all quite gut-wrenching, but I’ve known of its ilk before,
Muttered I, ‘I’ll go out and get pi- pie-eyed no more,’
Mutedly, for my skull be ever sore.

Ah, painfully, in a head yet tender I remember, ’twas quite the bender;
E’en as each clang of pain in my brain rings down to its sodden core
Uneasily recalling that I and that barfly signora put away a plethora
Of gin, oodles of Boodles resulted in a sinful night worthy of Gomorrah,
Now that fair maid lies sleepily sated, a beauty without flaw,
Yet I shudder at her ev’ry snore.

Oh, the pain- teeth gritting, hard hitting, never quitting, head splitting,
In the mirror, pale and pallid, I see the sorriest wretch you ever saw,
The red rimmed eyes a ‘gleaming, the mind silently screaming,
A drunk with a liver past redeeming, ’twill need a miracle to restore,
But I’ll drag myself back to that familiar door-
I’ve slammed it behind me a time or two afore-
And retake the AA Pledge once more.

—–

The Second Coming (It’s Huge)

by Doug Jacquier

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Tweeter cannot be on Twitter;
Things fall apart; all his calls are on hold;
So Truth Social is launched upon the world,
The brain-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of intelligence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate conspiracy.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Biggest Ever Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image (it’s huge) out of Mar-A-Lago
Troubles my sight: somewhere from the swamps of Florida
A shape with a Teletubby body and the fake-tanned head of a man,
A gaze blank and clueless, like a bum,
Is moving its slow thighs, (it’s huge) while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant Democrats.
The darkness drops again; and now I know
That after twenty months of rally speech
Rises again the nightmare from the FoxNews cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round again,
Slouches towards Washington to eat Dorritos and drink Diet Coke?

—–

Stomping My Woods in My Round This Morning

by Greg’s Blog

Whose woods these are I think I know
Their place is on the golf course though
He Rory‘s up a Tiger tail
In anger bent and gave a throw

My little cart may think it Strange
To watch him stomp around insane
Swearing, cursing and Spiething nails
Please end this round and end the Payne

My caddy’s head begins to shake
As if to say it’s a mistake
Rolled up cuff, the language Fowler
As he waded into the lake…

At the next tee, I’m Jacked to see
If I can hit the green in three
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree

—–

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

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

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

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 5/5/22

Welcome (welcome! welcome!) to the biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Everyone starts out terrible; some poets never move on from there! This ‘contest’ is about embracing the bad, letting go of inhibitions, and poking fun of those stodgy writers who can’t see the farce for the poetries. I’ve typed up a map in case you’re still lost. For the rest of you, here are the specifics:

  1. Geoff Le Pard’s poem won last time‘s contest, so he’s set our Theme and Form:
    Take the first line of a famous poem and then rewrite the rest as [the poet] see(s) fit. Bonus points if [you] use the original meter and rhyming scheme.
  2. I believe the Length is entirely up to you.
  3. Rhyme? If you feel inclined.
  4. Don’t take it from me. Take it from Maya Angelou, Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, John Keats, Sylvia Plath, William Blake, William Wordsworth, and the immortal Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. Seriously; take it from them and make it terrible.
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MDT on Thursday, May 19 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 Mike on Pexels.com

—–

©2022 Chel Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: The winner is everyone who entered.

You are all the most terrible poets of the week!

I am amazed, impressed a thousandfold, and speechless. I tried to think of a winner, I truly did. I tried narrowing by rules, by terribleness, by rhyming or not or rhyming not -to no avail.

I think I was simply laughing too hard.

To pick just one among such talent would be to insult the rest. I kid thee not; see for yourself:

Coffee For (In the Style of John Masefield’s “Sea Fever“)

by John S.

I must go down the street again, to the coffeehouse near the Y,
And what I need is a yogurt scone and a grande latte chai;
With a mule’s kick and a banshee song and the white milk that’s shaking,
There’s a grim look on the barista’s face, and the coffee press is breaking.
I must go down the street again, for a caffé mocha, iced.
It’s 2 pm on a Wednesday, this cannot be denied;
And here it is a promotions day with the caramel clouds flying,
And soccer moms with their matcha green, and the frappuccinos vying.
I must go down the street again, this vagrant caffeine strife,
For the blended way and the fruit juice way where the drink is a whetted knife;
And all I ask is an espresso shot that keeps me stone cold sober,
And doubly-steeped herbal mango tea or a smoothie I could go for.

—–

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening

by Bruce Goodman

Whose woods these are I have no clue.
And if truth be known, nor do you.
It’s sheltered enough for me to hop off my gig
And stretch the legs for a minute or two.

My little horse must think I’m queer
To stop with no pub in sight and no beer
With snow all over the place
In the middle of nowhere.

The woods are lovely, so to speak,
And you might think I’m some sort of creep,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak.

—–

Zodiac Killer (from Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales“)

by H.R.R. Gorman

1 One derke and tempestuous Aprill night,
2 The shirreve clutched his herte in awful fright.
3 The licour of woman’s veynes bathed walls,
4 And with blodde the Ram of spring marked the halles.
5 The shirreve sees drawen to memorie
6 Another mordre with sign of Pisces,
7 Capricornne brot a deth most treasonous,
8 And dede man drowned, sign of Aquarius.
9 He seche and he trowe evidence,
10 But the Zodiac killer’s japed him since.
11 The shirreeve made many pilgrimages
12 To question witnesses in low corages
13 And find preve of the killer’s vileynye
14 To bring him to justise thurgh agonie.
15 Nonne can descrive circumstances of deth,
16 And all cry out hevynesse through bated breeth.
17 Upon giving up and laying to snoose,
18 He at last trowed the killer was Ted Cruz.

—–

The Agent (Based on Edgar Alan Poe, “The Raven“)

by Trent P. McDonald

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered how to write my query
To sell my quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I edited typos and participles hanging, suddenly there came a clanging
As of some one harshly banging, banging at my apartment door
“’Tis the landlord,” I sputtered, “clanking at my apartment door –
I better hide since my cash is no more.”

Ah, I wish I could remember, was it May or December?
And each separate rejected note lied crumpled on the floor
How I dreaded the marrow: – I’d have to pay back the cash I did borrow
And not selling my book caused me sorry – sorrow for “The Art of the Bore”-
For that bit of putrid fiction had that name “The Art of the Bore”-
A stupid name evermore

-a bunch of skipped verses…-

“Please don’t’ let that word be our parting, my pretend friend,” I shrieked, embarrassingly
“Please read my manuscript, it’s not a Plutonium store!
See what my black plume has transcribed, as my soul has spoken!
Don’t leave me lonely and broken – take it with you out my door!
Take this bleak writing of my heart, take the my book, no matter how poor!
Quoth the Agent “Nevermore”

—–

If” (Or When The Truth Finally Dawns)

by Geoff

If you can fly a drone yet not drone on about that skill
And capture some celebs’ nips, for your Insta feed to fill;

If you can face the surgeon’s knife and also find the wedge
To have your gender altered, adding meat and two root veg;

If you can make an online bet, and keep on loss on loss
And find some time for other games and still not give a toss;

If you can change allegiance from Arsenal to Spurs
And face the chants of ‘traitor’ and some witch’s paid-for curse;

If you can hold the notion, that your MPs moral compass
Is still intact when it’s bloody plain he’s just a cheating short-arse;

If you can read the dailies and absorb a constant diet
Of fake news and propaganda, yet still you want to buy it;

If you can be a vegan yet not let veganing be your master
Adopt a healthy lifestyle, yet let blue pills make you harder;

If you control the TV remote to the manor born
And pass your nights with sport and paid-for Scandi-porn;

If passing days in a sweaty haze of gyms and protein shakes
Let’s you think that guns and tucked in tums are all it really takes;

If you can drink your weight in beer, and finish with a curry
Wake up drunk, go to work and still not think to worry;

If you can take on a lifetime’s debt, for a poxy little degree
And never think that you’ve been had then I’m sure you will agree,

That you’ve won life’s lottery and you’ve proved that you’re a man
And really don’t you think, you dick, that it’s time that you began

To realise that the world is sick and everything that’s in it
Should now be run by women, so that maybe they can fix it.

—–

Cousin MacDuncan

by Doug

The Witches:
All hail, Duncan, Bane of Craw
Whence camest thou, worthy Prince?

From the castle I sayeth.
Pray tell, I am needeth
the spell of Puxogt, my birthright:
stir the pot to bestow the incantations
that you’d wilt the will of nature
doth have me know the words
though be it darkest magic I demand.
Giveth I say the boil, the power
as foretold in the prophesy.

Witches:
Beware the idles of auto-carraiges.
Though many knights save their seats
against rebellion and lavish treachery
speak quickly in tragedy before the second stab.

But I had not known the puzzle of the boils.
And thus in folly, all was thought well
though the traitors lurked in hatred of the Priestess.

I was to escort Her Sacredness to her doom the raff assumed
’twas twisted chicanery looming as explosive as the petard.

We’d gone in a convoy, but with a bomb
the doors of Her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can NOT be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:
“T’ukmpuxogt!”

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

—–

Dog, Be Not Proud (Parody of “Death be not proud” by John Donne)

by Peregrine Arc

Dog, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost stinky by
Die not, poor human, nor yet canst the dog’s Flatuence kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy doggy dreams be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow from thy waggily tail
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their noses, and soul’s too early delivery.
Thou’art slave to smell, poo, gas, and dead things,
And dost with poison, gas, and sulphur dwell,
And skunk ‘or carcass can make us smell as well
And better than thy fumes; why smellest thou then?
One short stink past, we breathe eternally,
And doggy gas shall be no more; doggy, thou shalt go poo.

—–

Will I Sweat a Sweet Summer’s Day? (Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18)

by Doug

Indeed I’d liken thee to a hot intemperate day.
Thy art work hangs on the wall by the bed:
In the heat and torrents of Summer’s bray
The painting warps ‘n tilts though glee outspreads

Though furies of heaven are too hot tempered to tame
And often the sea would rush in with scorn
A perfect day fickled with clouds that disclaim
A Nature’s bearded willow teased forlorn

But thou art hotter than the Sun
An eternal fire of thy soul consumes not;
Thy burning bush still fertile not done
Nor will death retrieve heat God wot:
One summer’s day none can tame
As there’d be forever one dame.

—–

Starlight (“Tyger” by William Blake)

by Ruth Scribbles

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Why the hell do you light up my room?

My wings are frail
My hands are weak
Do you dare to tweak
My heart?

You are evil, yes indeed
Your light in my eyes
Makes me need
My sunglasses at night

What are you thinking
You bright dim wit?
Shining on my terrors
So I see my errors?

The clouds the clouds
Will dim your light
And hide you and my fright
In the middle of the night

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Hell lights up my room?

—–

Bukowski (“Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski)

by Violet Lentz

bukowski said,,
he had a bluebird
in his heart….
he said,
he tried
to drown it
in cheap whiskey-
to smother it
in the smoke,
of a myriad
of hand rolled
cigarettes.. yet,
in the end,
he told us,
he knew,
that it was there.
and he knew-
it was a bluebird…

still i wonder,
just how deep
he had to sink
into the quagmire
of his own
scarred psyche-
how many nights
he had to lay awake
staring into
the cold, black,
eyes of self-
before he heard
that single blessed note…
before it broke thru.
before it rose above
the mire of
life’s melancholy
melody…and when it did-

when at last,
it broke thru,
his delusion distilled,
and for the first time
he held it close
late at night
in the dark
when no one else
was around-

was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he was trying
to drown
in cheap whiskey
or to smother
in the fog
of yet another
hand rolled cigarette?
was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he desired
to hold ever so tightly
to himself
as he drifted
off to sleep
listening to
the bittersweet song
that only he
could hear
alone, in the dark
when no one else
could see?

and if it was then,
did he weep?
i for one
believe he did….

—–

Untitled piece (also Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″)

by Nakedinfiniverse

You’re as hot as I get when I win a race,
You’re pretty and you’re always sober.
Gales blow petals all over the place –
it’s like, as soon’s you blink summer’s over.
One minute I’m sweatin’ like a goat,
The next the weather goes all cloudy;
You always need to take a coat
‘Cos accidents and nature make stuff dowdy.
But your beauty will always and forever stay,
And they’ll never take you from the sunshine.
You won’t even die, ‘cos you will stay
Alive thanks to this pretty rhyme;
As long as there’s still people around,
My poem will hold you on the ground.

—–

Marvelous, fantastic, amazing, marginally-terrible work! Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

roman-kraft-455470-unsplash

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