WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/3/2022

Dumbestblogger decided we needed a limerick about grain. Given such a difficult idea, who wrote the winning poem?

Tom’s Mistake

by Joanne Fisher

Tom thought the best way to have a great brain
was to consume a great deal of grain
so he drank a large amount of scotch
till walking along some tracks he did botch
managing to get run over by a train

—–

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

Who’d have thought a limerick about grain would be possible? Well! I enjoyed reading through all of these. I had a few favorites at the end; admittedly, my junior judges helped choose the winner. Joanne’s poem won for skipping a more traditional limerick format -in a clever, distracting way and for the humorous twist.

Read the rest for more cleverness:

Terrible Limerick – Grain

by Frank

There once was tiny wheat grain
all soaked in a wonderful rain.
He sprouted. Oh, dear!
Now he’s done it I fear.
He thanks God that he ain’t got a brain.

—–

(Unfortunately, I came up with a second stanza.)

by Frank

The grain in the dirt in the pot
praised God for the stuff that it’s got.
“I won’t worry away
on this cold wintry day.
Bodda bee! Bodda hye! Bodda bot!”

—–

SOBRIETY

by M.

My distaste for barley & rye
is why I hate blueberry pie
Dad offered a sip
But, I took more of a nip
then barfed blueberry pie in his eye

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

I limp because I’m in pain
I am sensitive. Let me explain.
It all has to do
With a lump in my shoe
It is sand. But only one grain.

—–

Field Of Dreams

by Obbverse

This new farmers lot was not a happy lot
Till crop rotation helped fill in the plot,
Come harvest, in a quiet green field
A bounty of seeds’n’buds is revealed-
So, wild oats adds little profit to the pot.

—–

RATastrophe

by Greg G

Da bins damn full of dem rats;
Dey filled it all up wid der shats.
Gone ruined da grain,
From hunger we ’ere slain,
Me should’ve procured dem damn cats

—–

Lady of Skye

by Bruce Goodman

There once was a lady of Skye
Who had a grain of sand in her eye.
She said, What the heck
I’ feeling quite feck-
less. I really wish I would die.

—–

Tasty

by Nope, Not Pam

Marjory and James were having a brawl
She’d made cinnamon tarts he didn’t like at all
She snuck them in his meal
But after the great reveal
Had to quickly sidestep the vomit freefall

—–

Brave Little Train

by Dumbestblogger

There once was a brave little train
Filled to the the brim with some grain
It jumped off the tracks
And sat in the rain
The grain has now all turned to hay

—–

This is terrible for many reasons, not least the subject matter

by TanGental

One consequence of the war in Ukraine
Will be a world shortage of its fabulous grain
Which is one reason to put the boot in
On that a***wipe Vladimir Putin
Again and again and again and again…

—–

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

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

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

Grrrrains

Sam Sorghum chewed barley and rye;
For lunch: millet, farro, wild rice.
Dinner, he claimed,
Was always whole-grained:
He spelt buckwheat bran with brown rice.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Seriously; that was terrible. Join in, yourself, for this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest!!

Bonus: What do vegetarian zombies eat?
Graaaaiiins

The Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to the weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Read HERE to learn what terrible poetry means. It’s all there. Stop asking. And now that you’re a pro, here are this week’s specific instructions:

  1. Last week’s winner, Dumbestblogger, picked a limerick on the Theme of Grain. That’s right: a limerick about grain. Click here or here or here or here or here to see times we’ve done limericks. They’re one of my favorite forms and are fun!
    A limerick is five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
  2. The Length is five lines.
  3. A traditional limerick Rhymes. Stay traditional, like 100% whole wheat.
  4. Make it terrible! I’m not certain how rotten grains can be, but have great faith in your ability regardless. If nothing else, we’ll be nourished by carbohydrates.
  5. Rating: PG-13 or cleaner. You do know what a limerick is, right?

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST IN TWO WEEKS: Thursday, March 3 to submit a poem. I have things this week, so we’re running the contest an extra week longer. Yay!

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

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 week’s topic and type of poem.

—–

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Maddi Bazzocco on Unsplash -ignore the nuts

Time in a Bottle

“Step forward -that’s right! Now, grasp this sand -yes, in both hands. That’s right, sir.”

Wondering, he thrusts both hands forward. Sensing the weight against calloused palms it overflows, draining with the pull of gravity to spill upon his shoes, the floor, the table legs.

“That’s right: step forward to the table. Quickly, now! Choose which of these bottles in which to pour your sand.”

Gravity is cruel. It pulls more and more from his hands as he frantically searches for an identifier on the glass bottle fronts. Which is which? How will he know what he is choosing -!?

“Your time is running out and you cannot get more until tomorrow…”

A blue bottle catches his eye; a portly one which reminds him of a fat man. He leans and manages to dump a measure in, to a halfway point. -Not too much, though; what if he chose poorly?

“That’s it. Good. But what of the others? Do you wish to spend all day at that one?”

Probably not, he thinks, and thrusts toward the nearest bottles. A squat red jar, two narrow green-tinted vases, and a pinkish jug each receive a bottom’s full. The red jar’s neighbor, a dubious black container, accidentally receives a bit more than even the first.

“Hmmm…”

The booming tone frazzles his nerves, already high-strung from the continued loss of sifting hand-sand. With not much left, he jerks his cupped palms hither and thither. The table claims much if not most of what’s left. Ten random jars each carry a small dusting. He looks round; no one seems to be watching. Quickly, he gathers table sand and deposits it into a comely emerald urn. He dusts any lingering pieces from his fingers, his heart racing.

“Ah, I see you are done. Let’s see: Fortunately for you, your first choice was sleep. Some poor fool last hour completely neglected that one. Not a bad number in exercising, either. Work has even more than sleep; yes, this black one, here. I’m not sure how you’re going to feel much accomplishment from only a few grains in household upkeep, budgeting, personal hygiene, nor expenses. The fewest grains seem to be, here, in leisure….”

His hopes raised at the news of sleep; deflated somewhat at the exercise. He was just going to ask whether leisure might be a bit higher than budgeting when he notices a shadow frowning over the green urn.

“Hmmm. Odd. You’ve a fair bit in meals, here, but they’re not the best quality. It’s almost as though some other, older bits of grit are in here. …Perhaps the urn wasn’t quite cleaned -or the sand. Well, I’m afraid your nourishment will not be the best sort. At least you’ll have it though, eh? Not like that woman just yesterday…”

He watches in astonishment as arms wave over the table and every bit of sand within the containers rises into the air. They’re colored like the vases or jugs or urns they traveled from and dance in a dusty swirling cloud which follows the circling arms. The cloud condenses within the taskmaster’s shaping hands and resolves into parchment.

“Your day. You’ll see it has everything you chose. Now, take it and exit behind me through the large wooden doors. Move along, move along.”

He stumbles unsteadily out the exit indicated, an exit he swore was not there when he first entered the room with the pouring sand and the table. Between his careworn yet clean fingers he clenches his hard-won paper prize. From the closing door behind him calls the echoing voice again:

“Next! Now, don’t be shy -don’t be shy. Step forward, ma’am, and take your sand…”

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