Tag Life Lesson

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens 30 Comments

I say it every week. I know I do. But this week, I was closer than a toothpick’s distance to saying everyone was a winner. I was!

I’m fairly certain one of you wants the crown, however, so that victor is Michael B. Fishman.

The King

by Michael B. Fishman

There once was a King,
I’m not sure if he could sing.
(But that doesn’t really matter for our story.)

Maybe it does,
the bees do buzz.
(But I can’t understand what they say so forget I mentioned it.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, there once was a King
who wanted everything.
(But then I guess that’s a trait that maybe all King’s have?)

((Again, that doesn’t really matter for our story.))

So this king, he was needy,
and very, very greedy,
(But no one dared tell him that even though if they had
they’d have done him a great, great favor and saved him
a lot of angst, but I’m foreshadowing so go back and re-read
this line and stop after the word “favor”.)

And one day some guy into town rolled,
and said, “Who wants to turn everything he touches into gold?”
(But receiving no immediate takers the guy stood back and waited.)

And he waited.
Waited he did.
Ho boy did he wait.
But he didn’t wait long.

Because –

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
what the King said next,
may surprise you.

The King said, “Hey, dude, I want to be able to turn everything I touch into gold.
And for that service I’ll pay you five . . . no TENfold.”
(But the guy was hungry.)

The guy ate and then he gave the King the gold-making skill,
and the King was turning things to gold at will.
(But then he made a mistake.)

“I’m the King but I’m not the Kaiser although I sure do know how to roll.”
And the King realized that making puns should not – in life – be his goal.
(But the guy just shook his head because he knew that was not the King’s mistake.)

So the King’s mistake, I almost forgot . . . The King with the Touch ‘o Gold,
he gave his daughter a hug while her hand he did hold, and . . .
and…
and…
and…
and…
(end poetic pause here) (OK one more)
and . . .
The King turned his poor daughter into gold.

Poor girl.

So, long story short: the King panicked and he called
the guy who gave him the POWER OF GOLD and asked
him to reverse the spell,
and the King’s daughter turned back into a flesh and
blood daughter and was healthy and well.

But with this happy ending there’s one thing to remember:
Don’t be greedy because
what you have is enough
so look around you and
realize that and be happy.

OK?
And maybe go make something beautiful for the world out of papier-mâché.

Michael, Michael, Michael. You’re going to make me bring back the word limit too, you know.

I mean: congratulations, Michael! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

And you had tough competition. Everyone made me laugh, cringe, applaud creativity and cleverness, and wish that the moral lesson would come to an end much sooner than it did (even with the short ones). The teensy tiny boost that earned Michael this dubious title was that he had a surprisingly complete story; one that incorporated a few others, perhaps, but it’s there. Mostly I appreciated his story construction.

The rest of you, go buy yourself a treat. You earned it.

Seriously; read below and tell me whether I’m wrong:

A salient lesson

by Bruce Goodman

I have told you multitudinous times
not to make fun
of a baboon’s bum.
To illustrate why, here’s a story that rhymes.

When four-year-old Constantia visited the zoo
she had nothing better to do
than to laugh at the baboon’s bright pink bottom.
Her mother said, don’t do that, your manners are rotten.

Constantia fed the baboon a nut.
This, she said, is because you have a ridiculous butt.
At that moment the wind changed
and Constantia herself discovered that her own bottom had been rearranged.

Now Constantia is all grown up
and has an astronomical-sized butt.
It has made her social life inferior
because of her utterly massive bright pink posterior.

The moral of this story is questionable and digestible:
always eat your vegetables.

—–

Never, ever.

by Peregrine Arc

Never end your sentences with an ox
For he’ll trample, dample all your periods into fox.
That will scurry, hurry, lurry into vegetable lo mein
My dear, where was the thesaurus again?

The moral of this story is: Don’t use Google Translate.

—–

Be Swanky

by Ruth Scribbles

Have you ever? -Fill in the blank
Come on now, let’s be frank
You know to never rob a bank
Especially with a guy named Hank
Hank is bad, a very bad crank
He really likes to play pranks
He steals, he lies, he drank
Himself to death
Don’t ever play with a guy named
Hank
Or you may walk the plank
And die and really stank
If you never listen to anything I’ve said,
Remember be Frank
Be swanky

~I’m Frank~

—–

Food Fight

by Violet Lentz

i overheard them
con-ver-sating,
a note of superiority
had been struck..
dropping catch words
like sustainable,
free range, organic,
locally grown, and such..
and i could tell
from the tone of
their voices,
they had thought
about it, a lot..
about how elevated
above the masses
their pallets had become
and how their
cutting edge
elitist eating
set them
oh, so high above-
the impoverished single mother
struggling to feed her kids
in whose apparent
ignorance
still chose? to fill
their hungry bellies
with mac and cheese
and pork-n-beans
and (gasp) a couple of
cool ranch doritos….

—–

The Failure Of A Moral Compass

by Geoff

You self selecting knowalls who like to set the standards
Are also always least inclined to put in all the hard yards.
You moralise and come to judge and put us on the spot
And tell us when to do a thing and when it’s best to not.
You never have a shadowy doubt or moment’s indecision
Because you clearly understand the black from white distinction.
Your word is law and handed down with absolute finality
As you set us right like simpletons with patronising clarity.
It takes a certain chutzpah to share this clear eyed confidence
And hold the line, despite attacks, with constant insouciance.
But the point you miss when your only focus is on your moral compass
Is that the world at large hates no one more than a moralising smart-arse.

—–

Good, terrible work, everybody! Now, go tell your friends and tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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Michael: 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

Chel Owens 18 Comments

Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, 16th installment. I may have miscounted, but we’re going with that number for now.

If you’re new, confused, and/or need directions; read my how-to about terrible poetry. I look more on the face of the cringe-worthy construction than the content of a poem’s subject.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Stories with a Moral to be Learned. Unlike last week, I am not looking for a parody of a story. I seek, instead, a reference to one we know or a lamentation of how annoying such tales are -stuff like that.
  2. Write for as long as you would like, but please don’t exceed most readers’ attention spans.
    »»Likewise, I’m capping the submissions at three entries.
  3. Rhyming is optional.
  4. The number 4 rule is to make it terrible. Aesop, Rudyard Kipling, and Jean de la Fontaine need to roll over in their graves, read what you wrote, and come to life just long enough to write a fable admonishing writers to never do what you have done.
  5. Considering the general audience of most moral lessons, let’s stick with a G-rating.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 8, 2019) to submit a poem.

I’ve had more than one complaint about the submission form, and can only apologize on behalf of an internet imp who seems bent on swallowing what people put in there. He’s lost at least two poets’ attempts permanently, delayed another, and sent me scurrying around trying to piece together nonexistent crumbs from both these actions.

As such: if you are shy, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did as well, just to be certain. Then I will be able to tell you whether I received it.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Chen Hu

Life Lessons, The Hard Way

Chel Owens 19 Comments

I remember my first in-the-car auto collision like it was a mere eight years ago, because it was. I was stopped behind a midsize vehicle in my sedan when *WHUMP!* -a teenage-powered Suburban rolled down the short hill and forgot to stop behind my car.

“Are you an artist or something?” the policeman teased as I attempted to draw the scene on the official record afterwards.

Laughing, I said, “No. Why?” He showed me the other two drivers’ simple, boxes-and-arrows graphics. “Oh.” And I’d been worried the insurance adjuster would notice the sloppiness of my miniature, expressionist Mazda Protegé.

I’d learned to call the police because an older lady attempted to remove our backseat door of that same Protegé just two years prior. I was parked at the time and had opened the door to unbuckle my two-year-old when she did it.

“Do you mind if we just settle outside of insurances?” She’d asked.

I had considered. Respect your elders and such. We were newlyweds, considering, and couldn’t afford much on our own. However, I opted to phone the police and our insurance.

I found out later she’d tried to contest it. She suggested that I opened my door right as she was pulling into an angled spot, from across double-yellow street lines, at an obtuse angle of entry.

Yep.

The collision I first mentioned was bad because our insurance decided to total the vehicle, and we were left to fill the void with an adequate replacement of equal- or lesser-value. I also experienced minor whiplash.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your accident!” My son’s preschool director said, once I finished with the police reports and continued on to retrieve my then-four-year-old. “I’ll bet that was a real headache,” she commiserated.

“Well,” I said with a straight face, “It was more of a pain in the neck.”

My humor would keep me company over the next few weeks as I learned exactly how fun whiplash was to recover from.

This story crossed my mind early this morning, around 3 a.m.

I’d risen to facilitate an answer to Nature’s call and had nearly not made it back to bed, or even erect again to hobble there.

This was in consequence of a foolish decision I made yesterday to forego a ladder and climb our garage shelves like some lesser-intelligenced simian ancestor.

Had I been said primal ape, the resulting slip and fall would have broken my perfect prehensile tail. Being a Homo sapiens, I instead damaged my rump (and my pride).

This time, my husband got to deliver the zinger. “I’ll bet that was a real pain in the butt!” he said. (Our youngest, age 4, was within earshot. Plus, my husband never curses.)

I’m sure he’s laughing now, as I type on my backlit phone to pass the hours before a health clinic opens.

I’d assumed only minor damage last night. Though slow, I’d managed to drive, walk to book group, and water the house plants. This (early!) morning, on the contrary, I was overcome with nausea upon standing -okay, upon upright hunching. I finally made it back to bed to beg a bit of bread and Ibuprofen from my drowsy helpmeet. And an ice pack.

I suspect I’ve broken my tail after all. We’ll find out in a mere four hours.

Not that I’m counting.