WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Harry Potter and Game of Thrones have nothing on our terrible poetry skills, especially not on this week’s winner.

And that is…. Trent McDonald.

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Oh muse!
Do not forget your poor creature, oh muse!
I am your tool
That you must use
So let my tongue
Sparkle like I was young.
What’s that?
Not my tongue?
Uhm, my pen?
Sing like a wren?
Ah! My computer
Sing your praises
In tones of pewter
Got it

This is the story of the Anger of Skywalker
The fleet-footed
Druid talker
Hear my tale!

Anakin had anger
Apollo, in the guise of Palpatine
Sent a plague on the Skywalker family
Killing his mother with an infestation of Sand People

Like Agamemnon and Bresies before
Kanobi took Padmé
Away
Ani didn’t like that
Said I’m going to get that boy

Oh yea fates!
When you tear away our mates!
And make us Dance on a Volcano
Wait, that was a song by Genesis
A prog rock band, not a Sith
Well, damned fates
When we fight on lava
Flowing from a crater
We might get burned
And become Darth Vader

But there are five more movies
With one more in the works
And I’m out of words
But then, Homer did write the Odyssey
So I will not
Abandon all hope

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

Several poems were funny, followed the topic, and made me cringe. Trent’s poem had them all, plus enough of an epic poem feel to hurt even more. My favorite aspect is his Star Wars events or character references subtly dropped into what seems a decent poem. Great work!

Not that the others weren’t nearly as terrible:

The Truth

by Deb Whittam

Fingertips coated in dust,
Scouring through magic, muck and mud
Knowing for sure
We are not alone
Venturing into that danger zone
Fox’s and Scully’s do not
Exaggerate
They trust in the truth
The truth that cannot wait
We may believe that it is all
Just a show
But they know it is real
Which just really blows
X-Files they were called
But wasn’t that really the truth
Flesh was kind of optional
Here’s your proof
Turned on, then it went off
But like all addictions
It returned, just like a real bad cough

—–

Bedtime reading

by Bruce Goodman

I must admit it’s rather fright’ning
when school libraries banish Enid Blyton.
And I feel there’s not a lotta
books go out by Beatrix Potter.
These days too it’s Dr Seuss
who’s racist and loves pet abuse.
So provided I cover up the cover
I read my kids “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”.

—–

The Board with the Dings

by Dorinda Duclos

I have traveled many a mountain
Gotten lost along my merry way
Came across a pip of a board with dings
Stuck it in my pocket, among other things

Made it difficult to continue my journey
But I trolled my way along, as best I could
Stuck my hand in my pocket a few times
Kept pulling out splinters of wood

Thought about hitting up my friend, Bill
But the weather didn’t look very nice
Oh, and did I mention, I didn’t know
That there’s a fire burning in the mountain

Stumbled upon a rather bizarre little man
Globulin, or Global, or something like that
Kept trying to trick me, to get my board
I wonder if his parents know he’s a brat

And then there’s those trees, ugly are they
Beady eyes that kept staring at me
Maybe it’s because I have a piece of them
In my pocket, clinging, I won’t set it free

So much for my trek up the mountain
So much for the board in my jeans
I decided to build me a fire, I did
Sit around tootin’, yep, too many beans

—–

That Frigging Ring

by Peregrine Arc

Let’s walk to Mordor, Gandalf said.
I’ll accompany you and use my flashy staff to stave off your untimely deaths.
Gandalf has access to giant eagles
but I feel the need for more blisters on my barking beagles.

Wouldn’t it be wiser to fly above the volcano and airdrop the blasted ring?
Come, come now. If we did that, Tolkien wouldn’t have wrote a thing.
Do you want to star in this movie or not?
Get behind that orc and give him a clout.

Why didn’t we bring more wizards on this trip?
What, there’s only four? I don’t believe it.
Wait I’ve got it, there’s the eye that sees all, right?
Cast a curse of blindness and water.
And there you have it: that Sauron’s a goner.

Now let the Hobbits get back to eating and dancing
The elves to whining and adverting disaster.
The dwarves to counting gold and mining too deep
So Peter Jackson can get some sleep.

—–

not my god…

by Violet Lentz

He turned his back on his daughter,
his ‘Chavala’
to him, she is dead.
he did so, because she married Feyedka,
a Russian, not a Jew.
he did so, because his traditions dictated it.
he did so, because he believed with all of his heart it was the right thing-
the only thing to do.
he did so despite the fact
that it tore him apart
that it was inconceivable
that it made no sense.
he did so, because he honestly believed
it was required by his god to do so.

Who can logically explain to me
what god of love
of compassion
of creation
of order
would put one mans religious affiliation
so highly above another,
that he can forsake his own child?
what god would inflict this wound
upon his most cherished creation?
that which he “created in his own image”?

not my god…

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

As I drink my coffee

Still in sleep mode

I want to tell you

Potter didn’t smoke pot

But his wand was hot

Flew powder is the best

Just don’t sneeze

Pleeze

Now I’m off to Hogwarts

—–

Happy Wednesday

by Larry Trasciatti

Bald Uncle Fester has a light bulb in his mouth
Grandmama can stir you up bat stew.
Pugsley can translate Cousin Itt.
And Thing can even lend a hand for you.
And everything happens on Wednesday.

Gomez and his Morticia
They are such a sweet romance
Querida Mia and her Bubbele in love.
And Aristotle Octopus is Pugsley’s favorite pet
As Lurch learns all the latest dance steps.
And there is always something new on Wednesday.

So let us snap our fingers now
And let us visit them
And let us hearken to the baying wolves
As Lurch does play the harpsichord
With all its dulcet tones
And let us wait right here each week for Wednesday.

—–

Thank you for all the amazing entries! Check out next week’s contest, tomorrow at 10 a.m. MST.

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Trent: 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

Welcome to the 27th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

I am your hostess, Chelsea Owens. If you are unsure of how to write terrible poetry, I outlined a bit of what I look for here. This is the sort of contest one enters in order to let loose, dangle participles, overly rhyme, and stick it to that pompous English professor we’ve all had.

Here are the specifics:

  1. Our Topic, class, is a poem about an epic book, television, or movie series. -You know; like that Throne of Gaming one, or Starring Wars, or Parry Hotter.
  2. Some of those series get reallllly long (lookin’ at you, Robert Jordan), but our audience’s attention span is shorter. Keep the Length below 200 words, s’il vous plaît.
  3. Rhyming‘s an easy way to curl our toes, when used improperly. Officially, however, it’s optional.
  4. The #1 Rule is make it terrible. George R.R. Martin, J.R.R. Tolkien, George Lucas, Robert Jordan, and J.K. Rowling must want to join together, mighty morphin’ style, to kick your poem’s …meter out of this universe.
  5. Some of these popular books and such can get a bit racy, so you can up the Rating to PG-13ish or cleaner.

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

Use the attached form for anonymity (till Friday). I’ve been getting them without complaint, so I think WordPress is mostly sending them through.

For immediate fame and attention, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Share, and enjoy!

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Photo credit:
Image by simisi1 from Pixabay

To Potter or Not to Potter?

It’s time to really let the fur fly around here, because I am going to ask the question no one ever should: Is Harry Potter a good book?

If you have been living in a bubble or under the age of twenty for the past 21.5 years, you might not know what I am referring to. In that case, I speak of a book series published by an unknown woman (at the time) that EXPLODED into ultimately selling more than 450 million copies worldwide.

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I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone at the recommendation of my former sixth-grade teacher. I really liked the book. It had interesting characters, magic, an unseen parallel world, and enough British elements to tickle my anglophiliac bones.

I purchased and devoured each subsequent book as it came out, and cried on opening night of the first film.

A few years after that point, however, my English professor in (my return to) college ran us through an interesting exercise. “What makes a good book?” he asked, and wrote our responses on the white board. After looking over the items listed, he announced, “Harry Potter is not a good book.”

Since I do not live in a bubble and am not under the age of twenty, I was also not completely ignorant to the idea that others didn’t love Harry Potter as much as a large pocket of Potterheads. As a consequence, I was not floored at my teacher’s conclusions.

I instead experienced a wider perspective. His announcement released me from the godlike worship I had for authors everywhere and allowed me to acknowledge the series as one written by a human, with flaws. It was written by the first and only billionaire author human, granted, but still had flaws.

In turn, I was able to grasp the hope that someone like me could write. Someone like me could even write something that another person might read, or purchase.

Which is all very interesting, but doesn’t answer the main question of this post.

Is Harry Potter a good book? Why or why not?

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My own husband dislikes that J.K. Rowling neglects a basic rules structure for her magic system, that Dobby exists, and that most of the stories are just not interesting.

For myself; I notice some literary no-no’s in her writing like adverbs, POV changes, and …say, a rule she introduces about non-verbal magic spells that she seems to abandon in later novels. I also think (and thought) that it’s really not feasible for a young wizard who can shout two spells to consistently beat someone who literally murdered older, gifted wizards.

But maybe I’m being nit-picky with that last one.

Ever the devil’s devil’s advocate, though, I say that J.K. Rowling’s series could be considered perfection. She hit the sweet spot across age, race, gender, nationality, and class. She wrote characters REALLY well. I’m just a medium-level admirer and would gladly jump on a train, attend Hogwarts, marry one of the Weasley twins, and go out to lunch with Tonks.

As a final thought to any still in the haters camp: last year, my son’s doctor complimented my son because he was sitting in the waiting room reading a novel. I believe it was Magician: Apprentice. “When Harry Potter first came out,” the doctor noted, “I used to come out and find kids’ noses stuck in books. I haven’t seen that since.”

Say what you will, but I’d love to bring that sort of book love back. Wouldn’t you? Perhaps there’s a spell for that.

Until then, do you say it is a good book? Do you only say so because you love it?

Do you only disagree because you hate it?

—————

I solemnly swear that you may read below to see what I wrote for the last two weeks:
Wednesday, February 6: We discussed the deep subject of baths vs. showers in “A Serious Question Concerning Hygiene.”
Thursday, February 7: “The Cure for Depression: Get a Paid MEDICAL Friend,” the slightly-third suggestion in a series originally posted over at The Bipolar Writer Mental Health Blog.
Friday, February 8: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest involving Nursery Rhymes. Congratulations to Violet Lentz!
Saturday, February 9: Announced the twelfth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, with a prompt of love poems.
Sunday
, February 10- Thursday, February 14, plus Sunday, February 17: Various terrible poetry contributions of my own on the subjects of my backup camera, my absent appendix, black clothes, a first date, Costco, and Half-Price Chocolate Day.
Thursday, February 14: Wrote “Freddy and Teddy’s Valentines” for Susanna Leonard Hill‘s Valentiny contest.
Friday, February 15: Posted the WINNER of the love poem Terrible Poetry Contest: Geoff LePard.
Saturday, February 16: Announced this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest prompt. PLEASE ENTER IT!!
Also re-blogged Peregrine Arc‘s creativity contest.
Monday, February 18: Shared a quote from Joseph B. Wirthlin about finding a direction in life.
Tuesday, February 19: “Wilhelmina Winters, Eighty-Two.”
Wednesday, February 20: Today

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I Finally Donned the Sorting Hat

I remember when Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone was first published. My former sixth grade teacher said to me, “There’s an excellent book that’s just come out on the market. You have to read it.” She has good taste, strong opinions, and more than a little experience with literature.

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It was she who read our class The Turbulent Term of Tyke TylerThe Log of the Ark, and The Wheel on the School. She allowed us to pick our own spelling words to be tested on and held us to a self-chosen monthly book-reading quota. In her classroom I read nearly every book on her shelves -and that’s saying something.

Knowing this, I read the book she recommended. I loved it. I read the others as they were released as well, pouncing upon them as soon as I could.

I know there are many to whom the series is not so impressive. My own husband has only read the first one. He and his sister began reading the second together, and he hated Dobby so much he hasn’t continued from there. One of my college English professors told us the Harry Potter books were only ‘good;’ not ‘great.’

I also know there are many to whom the series is life. They know the characters, creatures, spells, and trivia by heart. They know which floor of Hogwarts one might find: the Room of Requirement, Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, or the entrance to Slytherin’s common room. Those Potterheads’ greatest wish is that they will get a letter in the mail announcing them as accepted pupils to the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry…

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If I had been introduced to the series after its popularity, I’m not sure I’d be so fond of it. Hype and popularity ruin a thing for me.

Whether or not that’s the case, I will admit to falling more into the admirer category than the hater one. I’d love a wand and magic powers, yes; but much of my love for the series is Anglophilia. Blame my ancestry, perhaps. For that reason and the …insanity of the die-hard fans, I hesitate in admitting my affection.

So it is that, last night, I finally took an online quiz to determine which house I would be in. I did not get a song sung by a hat nor a voice in my ear; I instead answered a few questions regarding personality.

Out of curiosity, have you a guess to which I was assigned? I had. It wasn’t what I expected.

I definitely had two that I preferred not to be placed in. -Which is another thing I still do not understand about Potterheads. If you’ve read the series closely and if you are such fans, surely you would not want to publish to the world that you were placed in Hufflepuff. Right?

Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’duffers. -Hagrid

Back to me. I’d like to think that I’d be sorted into Gryffindor. I’d like to think that maybe I’m less brave now because I have more self-preservation as part of being a mother, so that would be a possibility at the age of admittance (eleven years old).

But really, I was even quieter and more self-reserved then -unless someone ticked me off.

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So I’m in Ravenclaw. ‘S probably right. And, that result’s better than the time I took the Which Disney character are you most like? at Disneyland and was given Maleficent.

Coming of Age

My oldest son recently turned 12. I spent a few months days in denial, particularly since that means he will be a junior high student next year.

After the shock wore off, the full weight of responsibility hit me suddenly: I am mother to THE MOMENT.

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It’s A Day No Pigs Would Die, Catcher in the RyeFinding Neverland time of life. My son will be crossing the bridge of life into manhood, and I’m wholly unprepared. I’m not sure what to do first.

Child Protective Services might get called if we try a Native American Vision Quest, or Sateré Mawé bullet ant gloves.

I suppose I’d better just arrange for a good, old-fashioned death maze that leads to a formerly-trustworthy man possessed by a somewhat-immortal killer wizard.

Chamber of Secrets

After all, I want my son to be prepared for whatever challenges he might face in life.

Wilhelmina Winters: Twenty-Eight

Wilhelmina Winters, of Classroom 4, Central Junior High School, was first to say she was hardly unique; who would think that? She was least likely to be part of something unusual or secret, since her peers ignored her and others with sense.

Wil was a student at the school, which attempted to educate young teens. She was a small, slight youth with regular proportions, but rather large hazel eyes. Her father was not a tall man, but his eyes matched his only daughter’s and his build gave others a steady, dependable impression. They shared their family with Wil’s step-brother, Jakob, and mother, Cynthia -whom many thought the kindest woman around.

Wil and her family had the basic necessities, but they also had Goodbye, a time that stalked and shadowed their every move and interaction with others. They had other secrets too; what family doesn’t? Wil’s father’s second-greatest fear was that someone from the past might appear and take away the life he’d scrabbled together over the last fourteen years.

When Wil arrived at school that chill, nondescript day, she’d only had three scraps of paper to tell her that today might be different. Wil tried now to look inconspicuous as she kicked at the ugly carpet carefully under her desk. Dr. L. gestured and lectured as usual, while his class feigned attention.

No one seemed to see the fragment Wil was moving with her foot.

Halfway through the hour, Dr. L. put down his covalent bond model, picked up a stack of worksheets, and attempted to walk around the first row of desks without bumping into them but did, as he was distracted by his attempts to simultaneously pass out their assignment.

“Whoops!” Annoying Carl Hurn said to his neighbors, as they guffawed appreciatively.

When Wil turned an icy look at the immature group, she saw the first odd thing since the lunch area yesterday -another teenager in her class watching her closely. Wil was busy channeling irritation toward Carl and didn’t register the attention -then, her cheeks flushed and she tried to slyly look again. There were rows of disinterested, distracted youths looking bored or passing papers to each other but no one facing her way. Maybe she imagined it? Wil was obviously too tired to function normally. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. A random student in another area caught her infectious action and stifled his own yawn. She scanned faces again as her own turn to hand papers down the row came. Everyone appeared normal -no, Carl was abnormal; he hadn’t even noticed his rudeness nor her reproach. Wil tried to rid herself of the itchy feeling of being watched. She picked up her chemistry assignment, most of her focus on trying to extract the answers from a brain that had failed to absorb the morning’s lecture.

At the end of class and between periods, science was forgotten and replaced by thoughts of a new secret note. As she wandered with the masses down the hall, Wil was absorbed in reading its contents. The message was a puzzle again. Wil was getting tired of these games -a straightforward attempt at meeting would be better. She guessed the sender found this method preferable. She scanned the paper and recognized its pattern to be a crossword of sorts. There were clues at the bottom. Wil was relieved to read that she knew some of the answers; why, everyone knew the popular song that clue took a line of lyrics from! It had played on the radio yesterday at carpool! Maybe the type of unique this person meant did not refer to seeking really intelligent persons -yes, he or she didn’t want geniuses. Feeling hopefully adequate, Wil looked forward to filling in the spaces as she headed to her next class.

 

Continued from Twenty-Seven.
Keep reading to Twenty-Nine.

The Boy Who Never Got Involved

I just had the brilliant thought that Voldemort should have gone for a much easier target than an eleven-year-old boy; by storming the Ministry of Magic (or wafting through the walls as the spirit he was), stealing a Time Turner, and re-doing that whole getting killed thing.

That wouldn’t be a long enough story for seven books, though.

…Maybe if Rowling described all the times he camped out along the way.