Sheeeesh, people. Though not as close a tie this time, I still think first place was split about three ways. I had to delay the contest to allow for time to climb the highest mountain in Utah, in order to consult with The Guru of Poetic Awfulness. Going off his advice, plus past winners and slight aspects I liked more than others… the winner is:
by Michael B. Fishman
The radio’s antenna is bad.
When it first broke: “Oh, egad!”
I fixed it with glue,
what else could I do?
My head: stuffed like the brick. Oh, antenna, desist.
With frustration I pace, “Ah,” I to frustration. “Why do I tarry? Why not I make merry?”
Dash the radio. (Mary?) Hosanna! From where? From my despair do I dare to pose such a posing question?
Remove your madding thoughts. Becalm like the bluebird.
Explain, voice, my choice. Will my radio play? Will my hips again sway?
I wait sans answer.
The faucet drips leathery through my vino-filled veins. The antennaless radio’s static-buzz, like the vivific current of the vacant velvety Vermillion river vaguely venturing via Verndale home to Victoria.
(plop . . .) Oh Mary, forsake me not.
(buzz . . .) Yet I stand
(plop . . . ) like the deerskin covering the thorny tree,
(buzz . . .) forsaken.
Congratulations, Michael! You are the Most Terrible Poet of the week.
Michael’s poem almost had it all: awful meter, a tirade of alliterations, made-up lingo, and plenty to get me thoroughly lost and wishing to smack my head against a good pentameter to make it all stop.
For the almost-first-placers, great job! I had to really dig to pick a winner from amongst you.
For the not-almost-first-placers, you still write too pretty. Try breaking out of a pattern, making fun of poetic angst, or leaving readers hanging at the end of a perfectly reasonable stanza like an unresolved chord progression.
Thank you all for entering! PLEASE enter again next week. I will post a prompt tomorrow more promptly than I did today.
Here are the other fantastic (and terrible) entries, in order of submission:
by Ruth Scribbles
The foundation stays broke
Doors and Floors
Sway and sag
Stick and scrape
Tilt and twirl
Well if you are a marble
You twirl from one side
Of the room to another
Then the windows
All are stuck shut
Foundations are finicky
This poem is icky
by D. Wallace Peach
Fie to electric appliances
A freezer of thawed burger
Lightless, coldless, and iceless
Woe to the washing machine
Growing microbes of mold
A soup of dank undies and socks
Mildew makes me blow my nose
A pox on the dishwasher
I weep at the caked-on guck
Plates spotted like a chicken
It won’t scrape off and that really sucks
I could go on and on forsooth
About the vacuum clogged with mutt hair
The blender, micro, crockpot, and other stuff
But my appliances are dead and don’t care
WonderWoman and SuperGlue.
by Bladud Fleas
what did you do
with the glue?
In the drawer?
Oh, heck, it
seems to be
Yes, it’s stuck!
good and true,
Hon, that one where
you put the glue.
You did what with
the glue top, Dear?
The Banshee Toilet
by Peregrine Arc
Oh woe is me, for I dearly have to pee.
But the truth is, our toilet, why, it’s a banshee.
Every time I go to attend the flow,
it gives off an unearthly bellow!
Eeeek, it cries, after I thrust the lever down.
Eeeek, it sounds, down the hall and across the town.
What is one to do, when nature calls and your knees are crossed?
When you’re hopping around downstairs, until you’re suddenly quite lost?
Grab some toilet paper, my dear
and don’t let the Banshee know your fear.
For urinary tract health is a real concern.
Never hold it, our mothers said–listen and you’ll learn.
That Object That Always Breaks in My House
by Bruce Goodman
Day after day, at home, the same thing breaks;
‘tis not the dawn that breaks o’er yonder hill,
(although of course it does for goodness sake),
‘tis something else that is my bitter pill.
Perhaps my car doth brake when I come home,
but that’s a different spelling, I perceive.
The brakes of cars could break, as could a drone’s,
but that is not the break that is conceived.
The thing that almost daily breaks that’s mine
pains me to the core and can’t be glued.
It’s not the breaking eggs at breakfast time,
nor be it breaks for lunch to eat some food.
Know when you leave for work and we’re apart,
each day, and all day long, you break my heart.
When I come back as a potter
In the next like, I will stop
My nemesis that makes me utter
rude words; the curse of the china tea pot.
The lid never ends up in its groove
It just follows its own trajectory
As if it just has to prove
Its aim is it’s out to get me
into trouble. I’ve dropped it more times
than the cups it has brewed
And while I really don’t like to whine
If the tea ends up stewed then I’m screwed.
I’ve repaired the lid, I’ve even soldered the spout
When they try and stop me, I cry ‘get off me’
I just have, on my own, to sort this mess out
After all if I don’t then the alternative is we will just have to drink coffee…
Called CD player on the box,
that should have been a clue;
The gadget oughtn’t be
considered as having
the remotest thing to do
with performing any function
‘ere it went kerploo
Ode to dirty house
by Ruth Scribbles
Oh house you are dirty
The dust is flirty–flurrying
Finding its way up my nose
The crumbs are thirty or forty
Too many crumbs
The rubbish is overflowing
Where are my cleaning fairies
When I need them.
Dirty house I hate you
Please, please, please enter next week’s contest. Some of you just need to tweak your poetic taste buds down a level or two. Do not try for merely day-old leftovers; try for yesterday’s lump of green putty you found in your refrigerator one midwinter’s morning.