“Is the grass really greener on the other side of the fence? No. The grass is greener where you water it.”
We walked across the summer courtyard, two t-shirt youth among many, to stand before the spacious building. Stairs upon stairs climbed to the fountain’s zenith and proposed rooftop garden.
Commands came and we moved to assemble ourselves, each teenager on a stair, an arms-width apart. You: a little more. You: a little less.
Then, hand to hand to hand we passed a bucket’s brigade of grass. Smiling volunteers moved sod and flower from truck to tippy top.
Now, years later, our children look up. They marvel at roof-ledge bush and sky-reach trees, and the story that grew them there.
Remembered for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt this week.
June 13, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about the work of many hands. Is it a cooperative effort or something else? Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by June 18, 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.
Sorry to keep you all waiting. The winner of this week’s terribleness is Molly Stevens.
A blustery ice cream hops
at the perfect snow
With honorable mention to the prolific poeming of Doug. My favorite of his was:
Spring festival cry
Many at reflecting pond
See each other see
Congratulations, Molly! You are the most terrible poet of the week!
Poets this week, including those who referenced seasonal germs and sneezings, wrote some amusing poems. Haiku proved the best of most, however, in that almost all of the poems were too poetic. You’re too good, darn it!
-Not that Molly isn’t a wonderful poet. But she, along with two or three others, crafted a haiku of terrible proportions. I loved the nonsensical nature of hers. It pokes fun at typical spring haiku without smacking me over the head. It’s fun.
Besides being a tad too pretty, the rest of the poets weren’t half bad. Here they are:
In Your Face
In your face I sneeze
Springtime, meant to spread disease
by Violet Lentz
Grace, Charm and Beauty
The three graces escape me
In mud covered boots
To me, spring cleaning
Means finding out what’s taken
Root under the fridge.
Giai’s hot flashes
Window panes on roller skates
Shall I continue?
There are more where those came from.
I’m game if you are
Ode(r) to Spring
Gentle April rain
Dog fertilizing the lawn
From poo comes flowers
Dark grey April sky
Shocking us with late snowfall
Yet they call it spring
Odeums to Springums
The blossoms trail far
Do not tarry, dripping nose
For allergies wait.
Springtime Haiku, version #1
Morning meets meadow
Gentle, glistening dewdrops
Fill wee buttercups
Springtime Haiku, version #2
Morning meets meadow
Yellow, glistening dewdrops
Fill wee buttercups
Springtime Haiku, version #3
Morning meets meadow
Creamy, glistening dewdrops
Fill wet buttercups
Trial for heart attack
Collapsed Spring-man on marble
Rose crying on steps
Our exploding Spring
Couples in weeping willows
Release spirit ashes
By meowing lions
Lambs in meadow lake ripples
Spring sneezes deadly mocking
Lunch time in the park
A man gushing blood on tree
Cops jumping Spring to catch him
Probetag für die
kollabierender Mann trist
Frühling weint vorbei
Test day for the
collapsing man dreary
Spring is crying over
Haru ga naite imasu
Test day of
Spring is crying
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun’s love
In the spring becomes a pumpkin.
by Bladud Fleas
Daylight saving time:
Getting out of bed later
Or too early, d’uh
Oh the gentle breeze
And lovely blossoms of spring
Masked in cold degrees
Springtime is here and flow,
ers will soon be blooming – brrr –
winter’s on the way.
Spring haiku sprang to my mind
“Whatever,” she said
As always, thank you to everyone for the dubious poetry. Give yourselves a private congratulation for your terrible talent.
Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, Episode 20.
If you’re new or need directions; read my how-to on terrible poetry. Although I sometimes choose a winner who wrote about terrible things; what I seek above all is terrible meter, satirical tropes, and other poetic clichés.
Here are the specifics for this week:
- This week’s Topic is Springtime Haiku. I gave a brief tutorial in haiku back at Contest #3.
- Since it’s haiku, you all know the Length is roughly a syllabic 5-7-5.
- Haiku doesn’t Rhyme. Do it, and you just might have nothing happen since this contest is about breaking rules.
- Our #1 Rule that is always listed at #4 is to make it terrible. Since I witness haiku getting butchered all the time, you’re not likely to have trouble making yours cringe-worthy.
Just in case you need the motivation, however, I’d like your ode to nature to
Force quiv’ring blossoms
To shiver downy snowflake stuff
In terror of you
- Japanese poet-masters are rarely pushing boundaries. Keep things G-rated or gentler.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (April 5) to submit a poem.
If you are shy, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did as well, just to be certain. That way, I will be able to tell you whether I received it.
For a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.
Backlit sun motes drift against downy lashes, their summer snowstorm dusting leaf silhouette dreams.
Her hand reaches to touch the untouchable treetops from whence they come.
If only she stretches her frail arm farther, she is sure to pull them down. Down like a jungle ladder, like a fantastical floral staircase, like a Jack’s beanstalk.
Hello, she whispers, I seek a sunset castle; giant or no.
But she can’t. Even without looking she sees lines of stitches’ kisses from hip to toe: a story she never wants to read but has to lay through every minute of every day even though she’s shouting, “No, Mom! No! Not that one again!”
And when Mom finally stops reading, mid-cry, the sad-smiling nurses pick up right where Mom left off.
And they have no pictures. No rhymes. No castles. All they have are charts -charts and charts of very serious stories.
Nature’s warm breath roves across her, shaking her picture book view, rustling grass blades and tousling blonde wisps around her eyes. Shifting leaf shapes reflect in half-circle, irised blue as her moted lashes slowly blink.
Here, in the cool grass beneath nature’s canopy is her story’s illustration. -Not down to the heavy parts that anchor her; not to the raised-skin paths where the doctor in the mask wrote the story she never wants to hear.
Her real story is above; with Jack, and Peter Pan, and Thumbelina. It’s trailing amongst the castles, the Neverlands, the fairy houses.
Her reaching fingers know the way.
Her squinting blue eyes follow cloudlit paths.
Her legs cannot feel the tickling green surrounding them, as shadows shake and dance over everything, the good stories and the bad.
But her weightless spirit rises from sleeping smiles to magic skies above.
And she flies.