WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 9/29/2022

First, I wish to pay tribute to a longtime contributor to poetry contests of the past: Hobbo. May your family receive comfort and may your sons publish your works posthumously. You will be missed.

Oh Heck

by Hobbo

Seems like a case of bad luck to me
In agony, needs appendectomy
Flash of the blade
Incision is made
Surgeon thinks it’s a vasectomy.

—–

Now, we’re off to a new start with the Terrible Poetry Contest! This month’s challenge was to write a poem in any form, about accidental love. So, after a month of deliberation, WHO wrote our winning poem?

Love of Mishap

by Jon

Some love to complain
But all are attentive
to a train
wreck.

—–

Congratulations, Jon! You are the most terrible poet this month! Let me know what theme and form we’re to use next time.

Wow. Just wow. I read through all the entrants and hadn’t a clue which to pick. There was humor, there were awful subjects, there was such cleverness! -but what we always aim for in terrible poem-ing is a mockery of overused poetry elements. These include trying to sound mysterious, breaking lines in odd places, rhyming incessantly with novice vocabulary, utilizing poor spelling and grammar, and trying for free-verse or haiku whilst butchering the effort.

Jon’s poem is short, broken, and surprisingly complete. It spoke to me as terrible because it checks the boxes but is wholly disappointing. Well done, Jon.

Truly, though, you must read all the poems. This month’s collection is highly entertaining:

Accidental Love

by John W. Howell

We never meant it,
But somehow it came to be . . .
My braces her gum.

—–

I Only Wanted Her for Her Brain

by Trent

It started mundane
The usual Earthly pain
The doctor wanted meat
Whole, from head to feet
Taking a body from a grave is boring
I can do it even while snoring

But then he said he wanted a brain
That could think really, really profane
Well, he said profound
But I misheard that sound

So I stalked a naughty lass
Who smoked a lotta grass
Often spoke really crass
And had a very nice
Hairdo

But then I fell
Right in front of Ms. Jezebel
And to my surprise
She looked at me with dewy eyes

OK, they were bloodshot from the pot
But they watered a lot
As she laughed her head off
Until she started to cough

With no time to think
I asked her out for a drink
And I bet you can guess
My surprise when she actually said
“That’s a joke, right?”

Drat, I was out of luck
So I pushed her in front of a speeding truck
But with that shove
She fell in love!

As she passed, she said she’d always love me
So I had to do something, you see?
Trying my hardest I did all I could
If not what I morally should

So although her body is gone
She will always live on
Always at my side
Try as I might, I can’t hide

She constantly says she loves me, quite the feature
This endearment coming from the lips of Dr. F’s 8 foot tall, male creature

—–

Moonless Lunacy

by Frank Hubeny

One moonless, dreary, dismal night
I accidentally fell in love.
A mermaid using starry light
bewitched me from above.

I loved her true and she loved me
enough to eat me whole.
Now I am dead and she’s well fed.
I guess this tale’s been told.

—–

Downward Spiral

by Brian Keith Mino

Failure has become accepted,
and mediocrity praised, while greatness is
Despised, as the masses grope around,
Totally dazed.

—–

Yo soy Diego y esta es Frida

by Tnkerr

I first wed the girl – nineteen twenty nine
her hair was dark, loosely curled
she was fairest in the world

she gave me a shove so I pulled her hair,
accidentally fell in love
fit together, hand in glove

married now, at least a couple of times
love we’ll sometimes disavow
me, Frida, her unibrow

—–

But, I’m not a homosexual

by M

How do love her ?
BY NEAR, bye far
counting ways to stars
I count curves
and long eye lasses
I count to ten
twenty
thirty
forty
fifty
sixty
with pen I wrote this love knote, I’m am no timid mouse
folded as such
and; dropped it
in her.
Mail slot, I lover here oh so muchly
shit! Wrong house!

—–

Bus stop dreaming

by Doug Jacquier

I did but see her
through the glass darkly
of the sliding doors of the train to nowhere
but I knew I had to make her mine, make her mine, make her mine.
I raced along the platform,
past the compulsory dwarf and mardi gras dancers,
knocking over old ladies
and trampling on children
until I could leap onto the train
as it left the Stations of the Cross.
On the train
we ran through fields of wildflowers
as if in slow motion
until she leapt into my arms
heels in the air
and we kissed with the heat of the night
until the conductor asked me for my ticket
and I woke up at the bus stop.

—–

Dick And Jane In A Spot

by Obbverse

See Dick trundling ’round Walmart,
See Jane selecting a shopping cart,
See dick searching for a parking slot?
Does Dick see Jane in his blind spot?

See Jane hear her phone go ‘bing?’
Well, now Jane won’t see anything,
See Dick’s head turn side to side,
See Dick’s patience being tried?

See Jane gaze raptly at her screen?
Hear Dick mutter something obscene!
See Dick’s head all but swivel ’round?
Not an accursed park to be found.

See Jane cross behind Dick?
See Dick’s cheek start to tic?
See Dick see a most welcome sight?
Ahead, a Dodgy Neon’s reversing light!

See the smile on Dick’s face!
Dick has found his happy space!
See Dick’s foot hit the Jeep’s brake!
Let’s see, which path Jane will take?

See Jane talking and walking,
Concentrating on talking, not walking,
Dick has stopped, Jane’s not slowing…
Can we see where this is going?

The Neon vacates the parking bay,
Dick’s at the wheel, sawing away,
Dick can’t get his Compass aligned,
Dick reverses without glancing behind.

The VERY FIRST day at Drivers Ed
What do they drive into your head?
Chapter One in their good book-
‘Before going forth, first LOOK.’

But Dick does not remember Jack;
With Dick there’s no looking back,
Backing back out into the lane,
‘Dick in Jeep, meet Chatterbox Jane.’

Jane, holding wobbly wheeled trolley
Perfectly placed to compound Dick’s folly,
See Jane, lost in a world of her own
Rattling away, eyes on her iPhone.

What a moving sight they both fail to see!
See Jane’s trolley! See Dick’s truncated Cherokee!
Dicks not-so-tuff plastic bumper, mangled,
His Jeep and her trolley, sorrily entangled.

Dolt Dick agreed it’s all his fault,
Luckily Jane suffered just the jolt,
One broken fingernail, no broken bones,
And Dick’s insurance covers cracked phones.

So, after names and details were taken
Dick discerned Jane looked pale and shaken,
Said he’d treat her to a hot sweet latte;
Today they marry, a year to the day.

See Dick and Jane say their nuptial vows!
Though the venue raises actual eyebrows!
A Walmart wedding might sound perverse?
If you know their journey, quite the Reverse.

—–

So, what’s up mutha?

by Deb Whittam

She was so hot, she set me alight,
Soldier stood to attention, ho, man what a delight.
She was sweet like cream, I ain’t leavin til I get a bite
Ho, you dudes can dream, she’s going home with me tonite.
Yo, I’m bad ass, I can make chocolate melt on a cold ass day
But your so fine mutha, you and me we could so, like, play
Me and my bling, you with your tight ass thing
We could go horizontal, ho, you know what I mean?
Your such a fine mutha, you got it going on
You and me, back at my place, now don’t get me wrong
This ain’t no one night fling, I could see you wearin’ my bling
You and me, doin’ it morning and night
Boys tongues hanging, you just so fly
C’mon on mutha, I’m gonna be your guy.
Ain’t no time to waste, this ain’t no accidental love,
C’mon on, let me have a taste.*

—–

Gain Flings

by Greg

there she stood
unkempt and crude
her family lines
a sickly brood
her sweats all stained
with God knows what
brown and smudged
across her butt
but in the light
of twilight time
hot damn, my Lord
she looked so fine
through the years
and many a stain
she stole my heart
my love she’d Gain

—–

Accidental Love

by TanGental

She elbowed my nose
Trying to make sourdough.
It broke. My nose, that is.
‘It’s just a dent…’
An accident
She took the car
To test her new glasses.
‘The tree came out of nowhere.
It’s a little bent.’
An accibent
The nice man with the moustache
Sold her a shiny bond
And cleared us out.
‘Every flaming cent.’
An accicent
We got it back on insurance.
She lent it to her brother
To start a platypus farm
In Adelaide
With a former Love Island contestant
Called Bouncy.
They don’t return her calls.
An accilent
I love her for her baking, her resilience, her openness and her family loyalty.
They say I’m mental.
I say it’s an accimental love.

—–

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com

Thank you, terrible poets. Come back at the beginning of November to learn what the new prompt will be!

Jon: Here’s your slightly-inaccurate badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 9/2022

Greetings, one and all! Welcome to the Terrible Poetry Contest!

What is terrible poetry? What do you need to write in order to win? Basically, the goal of this illustrious contest is to write poetry using every terrible element your English professor warned you against. We’re talking cliché, trope, adjectives, telling, angst, over-emoting, vague verbosity, and attempted free-verse. Here is a link for more details.

Clear as mud? Perfect. Now, on to the specifics:

  1. Theme and Form
    Write about an accidental love, in any form you wish.
  2. Length
    Shorter is easier to read, but annoyingly long can make a poem more terribler.
  3. Rhyme?
    If you wish.
  4. Terrible?
    Yes. Cause your eternal companion to wish she’d tripped over someone else’s misplaced lunch tray.
  5. Rating
    PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MDT on Thursday, September 29 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous until I post the results. The form hasn’t saved what you submitted unless you see a message saying it has.

Or, 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 pick of next contest’s theme and form.

—–

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 11/13/2020

Friday the 13th is notoriously unlucky, a superstition held in Western cultures. Facing black cats, walking beneath ladders, or breaking a mirror; our poets bravely wrote to humor us despite a bit of bad luck.

One amongst them all rose to be the winning entry, and that was:

Oh Heck, by Hobbo
Seems like a case of bad luck to me
In agony, needs appendectomy
Flash of the blade
Incision is made
Surgeon thinks it’s a vasectomy.

Congratulations, Hobbo! You are the funniest poet for the week!

These poems were GREAT. I stifled snickers at midnight (the time I finally have to read over entries!) Hobbo’s elicited an unladylike snort; short, painfully funny, and definitely to the point.

I feel badly for all the poor luck had, but know you’ll enjoy reading the rest of the clever poems:

Thirteen Demons Sitting on the Wall, by Frank Hubeny
Lucky this or lucky that,
Luck as bad as that black cat
Cuddling, purring by my side,
Unlikely place for luck to hide.

Thirteen demons looking mean
Pretending that I haven’t seen
Them cackling when they watch me frown.
Too bored to laugh. I stare them down.

It’s not bad luck that made them fall.
They jumped like Humpty from the wall
And then they cracked. Oops. Breakfast time!
They’re lucky. That’s my final rhyme.

Lots, items, knacks, everything, by Deb Whittam
To the counter she marched
resolute, chin held high as
she looked the shopkeeper
directly in the eye.

That painting, there, the one
above the door, I’ll give
you twenty dollars,
not a penny more.

Silence met her words
but with a nod he agreed
and painting in her hand, she smirked,
there had been no need to plead.

At home she unwrapped
her highly sought after prize
only to discover on the frame
a notation that made shock arise.

twenty she had paid,
twenty she had offered,
but the tag clearly stated
clearance – just one dollar.

Riding your bad luck, by Doug Jacquier
Harry didn’t whinge about the flies
that crawled up his nose and in his eyes.
Townies might, like Tom, and Dick and Jim
but Harry would never have that said of him.

Out here, a man who couldn’t fix
a snapped axle (he knew all the tricks),
on a mail truck in a dry creek bed,
wouldn’t be worth bein’ bloody fed.

As for thinking you could hear a train,
you’d have to be born without a brain
or be a mental case escaped detention,
so he paid it not the least attention.

Well, he was right about the train
but what he heard was a wall of rain;
the flash flood took the mail and the truck
and Harry cursed but rode his luck.

A Shaggy Cats Tale, by Obbverse
We had a big black cat,
Grumpy, greedy, weigh too fat,
On Duckpond Bridge he was often sat;
Everything was ducky.

One big bad duck had enough of that,
Feathers flew, one bloody cat lost that spat,
Ran into the path of a passing Dodge Diplomat;
Flat out unlucky.

The Unlucky Date, by Heather Bergen
Jerry was unlucky,
His life was really sucky.
He couldn’t find love on account of his gas,
But finally, one day, he found a young lass.
He asked her out and set the date,
Though Friday 13, it couldn’t wait.
Though warned to postpone,
Jerry would not be alone!
But alas, he did leave broken hearted,
For as they sat down to dine he wet farted.

Untitled, by Gary
Oh no it’s Friday the thirteenth

Which is one less than fourteenth

Started the day by breaking a bedroom mirror

To find my huge tax bill just got a whole lot dearer

Then I mistakenly opened an umbrella indoors

And now my garden is full of rowdy dinosaurs

I foolishly walked under a builders ladder

And got bit on the bum by an angry adder

With a sore butt I then I stepped on a crack

Only to be attacked by a rabid wolf pack

Finally a Black Cat crossed my path

And now I’ve just fallen into the bath

Untitled, by Cupcakecache
Bad luck
needed no prescription
to find a home
next to the pug
running 3 feet from the black cat
Chasing the black cat
darting across the street
The black cat licked her lips
and as she gleefully bit into the tuna
left out
Mr. Pug
happened to escape the house
only to have the cat prance by
meowing
as if to say “Did I not eat a tasty morsel like you in another life, my 7th?”
The pug bit his lip
shrugged it up to Karma
and went off to take a walk around the hood.

I Suck at Luck, by Sara
Bought the winning ticket

Wind swept it in the thicket

Met a nice gal

She considers me a pal

Went for a run

For health and fun

Tripped two minutes in

I just can’t win

Adopted a dog

What a slob

He drooled on the couch

And ate the door

Tossed a message in the ocean

It rolled back to shore

I professed my love

To a sweetheart from school

She wrote right back

Her response, so cruel

You bullied me, she said

Made fun of my hair,

I hope your life has been filled with despair

I suck at luck

That much is true

But, as it turns out,

Karma was due

Friday the 13th Birthday, by Ruth Scribbles
‘Twas the night before Friday
When all through the house
Everyone was hiding
Yes, Even the mouse

They were all afraid
Of how she would act
When she discovered
The presents sent back

Her mommy and daddy
Cuddled up in the closet
Her siblings were hiding
And eating the chocolate

She arose from her bed,
Fuzzy was her head
“It’s my birthday!” She declared
“What a dreadful dream! How absurd!”

—–

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com

Thank you so much for the hilarious entries! Come back tomorrow for the next prompt. You’ll have a month to submit an entry!

Hobbo, here’s a badge for you to use on your site (again). Congratulations!

©2020 The poets, and their respective works

The A Mused Poetry Contest 11/07 – 11/13/2020

Laughter is the best medicine, right after an appropriate prescription from a licensed physician. Most of us are freelance writers, so we’ll take what we can get.

Here are the rules for this week:

  1. In light of our lucky end date of Friday the 13th, the Theme is Bad Luck.
  2. Length: 113 words or fewer.
  3. Rhyming is optional, but recommended.
  4. There’s not much risqué about superstition, so keep the Rating at PG.
  5. The goal is LAUGHTER. Make black cats funny, Karma amusing, and ill-timed fate hilarious.

You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 13) to submit a poem.

Use the form, below, to chance anonymity for a week.

Otherwise, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Leave me a comment if your link-back doesn’t show up by midnight of the day you create it.

—–

Best of luck to you!

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com

—–

©2020 Chel Owens

The Gatehouse

transition

“…and this, ladies and gentlemen, is where the family most oft exited the manor if they wished a stroll down the North side of their estate…”

Well-trained and well-rounded tourist faces followed their guide’s directing hand, staring out the open side door. A few, “Oohs” and phone-clicks captured the view but most eyes slid back, puppy-eyed, to the mustachioed leader. Meredith glanced up from examining the iron stove but the subservient herd completely blocked the opening. She’d look once they trundled on.

“Over here,” the guide continued, “In this alcove, one finds a few items the family may have used for such an excursion.”

*Click* *click* captured the made-in-China umbrellas and slickers hanging on IKEA hooks. Meredith rolled her eyes.

“Shall we continue on to the servants’ quarters?” Murmurs of assent answered him. The tour guide turned smartly and ducked up a narrow set of stairs. “Mind the head,” came back to them.

“And the waist,” Meredith mumbled, eyeing the first few tourists and wondering how they’d get through the space. She stopped, her garden view finally unobstructed. Some force, some memory, some power held her; staring out the opening.

I’ve been here before, she thought. She knew.

But how ridiculous. This was her first visit to England. It was her first visit overseas at all, only made possible by an impulsive coworker’s double-booking. Only Karen would be wealthy and ignorant enough to pay for two vacations in the same week. A similar impulse to now had compelled Meredith to take Karen up on her discounted offer…

Meredith stepped nearer the exit, still not quite in control of her mind or self. Was it the worn, polished stone path; the neat, trim, British grass; or the charming stone brickwork of the cottagelike gate house before her? What reminded her, drew her, pulled at her?

Her eyes flitted to the arched, weather-beaten wood door. Her feet sandaled down the path toward it. From so near the building, she could see and appreciate its age but also the original care and detail put into its workmanship. She could not imagine building the walls and windows, peaks and arch, all with a barrow-full of tools and only the hands God gave you.

Simon. Simon had built the gatehouse. He’d made the door. How she knew that, Meredith could only guess. The further she walked away from the tour group and the closer she drew to outside, the more antique memories trickled into her mind.

Father had asked Simon to build it on the East side but Mother had wished it here, atop a slight knoll before the moors began. Meredith’s pace quickened. The afternoon sunlight danced into her eyes just as she pressed her hands against the garden door and pushed.

“Meredith?” she raised a gloved hand to shade against the bright light to her left. There, beneath a tree, leaned a surprised young man in riding gear.

“Edmund,” she breathed. Recalling herself, she corrected with, “Good afternoon, Mr. Manfield.”

He stood away from the tree and strode toward her in haste. Removing his cap and taking her hand in his, he said, “But, your father said you never again desired my company.” His eyes searched her face beneath her hat brim, imploring.

Meredith could scarcely think above her rising excitement and beating heart. Father, father… She met Edmund’s gaze, blushed, looked away.

“What is it, Mere -Miss Howard?”

“Father,” she began. “‘Twas all Father’s doing. He forbade me to speak with you, but-” Here, she drew enough courage to meet his gaze once more. “I know that, if I heed his warnings, I shall be miserable the remainder of my days.”

A smile brushed against Edmund’s lips and lit his eyes more warmly still. It came again, staying this time. She’d always loved his smile.

He kneeled, right there amoungst the heather and the wet grasses. “Meredith Howard, I could never live, knowing I were the cause of a lifetime of misery.” Smiling wider, he said, “I will go and speak with your father -this very moment- with you by my side.”

Rising, he grasped her hand more firmly. She felt his strength and love through both their gloves as, together, they walked back to the arched wood door. Edmund pulled it open and she glanced at it as they passed. Simon had just stained it, and it looked nearly new.

Remembered for Sue Vincent‘s Thursday photo prompt: transition.

 

© 2019 Chelsea Owens

Everlore

Once within a forest clearing, whilst I sought my heart some cheering,
With num’rous sorts of very unhealthy choc’late treats I most adore –
While I wandered, knapsack-snacking, dropping errant candy-wrapping,
I thought I heard a quiet flapping, flapping from the forest floor.
“‘Tis no predator,” I whispered, “wrapping from the forest floor –
Only garbage; an eyesore.”

Then came hum’rous Fate permitting; sending to me, most unwitting,
The view of who had made the flapping, from the littered forest floor:
Eager girl scout sitting, beaming, as I jumped up, scared and screaming –
I’m out of words; there is no more.

 

Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge.