Two Poems for the Proud

Young Simon put everyone down
With insults and pointings and frowns.
Himself, he adored –
For a date, he implored;
Yet, ev’ry girl turned that jerk down.

—–

“Look at me,” cried the balancing girl
As, on rooftop, she walked with arms whirled.
Despite your assumption,
Her balance resumption-ed,
And she, once on ground, died by squirrel.

Photo by Man Dy on Pexels.com

©2020 Chel Owens

Like what you read? Wanna write one, too? Go ahead, then submit it for this week’s A Mused Poetry Contest!! The deadline is tomorrow morning.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/20/2020

Either we’re all feeling especially creative, or we’re all stuck inside our toilet paper forts with too much time on our hands. Not that I’m complaining, but this week’s judging took longer than usual because I received so many entries!

Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a winner. This week, it’s:

Stockpiling Against the Pandemic

by Tnkerr

They panicked the public with talk of the virus
The butcher was worried – his name was Cyrus
One night, when the store closed
He took all the bog rolls
Went home and confessed to a scroll of papyrus. A scroll of papyrus that he used as his journal and sometimes hid in the linen closet – on the top shelf under a bunch of pillow cases, unless he was keeping it under the bed, or in the garage; but then the police found it and he was arrested, went to court and got sent to jail… not for very long though (it was only toilet paper, after all)

-AND-

Stockpiling Against Worldwide Disaster

by Deb Whittam

bread, butter,
don’t care about the clutter
egg, cheese
oh, thank god a sneeze
I don’t want that terrible, low mortality, not as bad as the flu which has a vaccine and still kills more people but does not invoke stupidity, panic buying and food hoarding, disease

Congratulations, Tnkerr and Deb! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

These two won for their trick of expanding out that last line to terrible proportions, after poeming so spot-on and terribly about hoarding. They (and a couple others) stood out for using this element to make their contributions worse, particularly since everyone’s poems are so terrible this week they are quite good!

Give yourself a lift, and read through them all:

Ode to Bum Wipe

by Heather Dawn

While some are hoarding by the ton,
Others find no way to wipe their bum.
Trauma horrifying!
Dirty bottoms multiplying!
Someone please, help me find some!!

—–

Untitled piece

by Richmond Road

Hours before Armageddon
Down shopping aisles carefully treadin’
Just fillin’ my trolly
Promotin’ the folly
It’s not tears, it’s just fears that I’m spreadin’

—–

Untitled piece

by Richmond Road

Apocalypse on the horizon
Those toilet rolls so tantalizin’
A prize for the greedy.
No regard for the needy
It is mad. Sad. But so unsurprisin’

—–

No Gettin’ Out The House

by Obbverse

We’re stuck in quarantine for a fortnight,
Our essential supplies are running light,
‘Nuff food and water ain’t our issue,
We failed to stock a pile of toilet tissue;
We’ve gone from sittin’ pretty to sittin’ tight.

—–

Gravity Falls

by Peregrine Arc

There once was a store by the lee
That was fully stocked for everyone’s needs.
It had boondaggles, hoozits and comic sans font;
It had everything a lad or lass could possibly want!
But alas, it had one failing short: no toliet paper, so I’ll use me shirt.

—–

End of the world

by Lucy

“It is the end of the world”, someone chokes; there is a lull.
Stockpiling food for twenty years and toilet paper rolls,
But we’re all out—what do we do
Go out to Walmart, brawl with others like a zoo;
Then leave empty handed—outside, someone is selling them one hundred dollars per half roll!

—–

Wine not

by Doug Jacquier

The world is facing disaster
So stock up on tuna and pasta
Cache rolls for the loo
Store sanitising goo
And ensure your wine cellar’s vaster.

—–

Paperless society

by Doug Jacquier

Go on, kiss everyone in sight
Before we all fall down to the blight
Forget all that tucker
And give us a pucker
But clench your other end real tight.

—–

One flu over the cuckoo’s nest

by Doug Jacquier

There’s a man in DC called The Pres
He t-wee-ts, he pooh-poohs, and he says
It’s all something minor
Like everything from China
A few less old folk, who cares?

—–

Untitled piece

by Jon

Whoever could guess we would see
Fell days we could liken to these?
When we needed to go
But we found there was no
longer a supply of T.P.

—–

These Difficult Times

by Carolyn Cordon

Things to use to wipe your bum?
The number reaches quite a sum –
But lettuce leaf?
I’ll be brief …
Result not good, don’t tell my mum …

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

There are empty shelves down at the store
idiots crashing their carts by the door
I would have been late
till I pulled out the 38
now there’s great stocks of bodies on their floor

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I’m getting a few extra things in
lots of meat and beans if they’re tinned
it was quite busy down there
until I coughed in the air
and the crowds miraculously thinned

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I’ve got my mask on so I’ll be OK,
got my sanitiser and various sprays
got my loo roll and lentils
and ammo to shoot mentals
should be alright for a couple of days

—–

Untitled piece

by Roberta Eaton Cheadle

Poverty makes stockpiling a farce

In some places it can’t come to pass

Money’s really much to tight

Sickness an everyday fight

No loo paper; we’ll just use grass

—–

Untitled piece

by Roberta Eaton Cheadle

If we’re sick we’re supposed to isolate

not a concept to which the poor can relate

When you live in a small tin roofed shack

and water and basic amenities you lack

an out of control virus will just devastate

—–

The Dilemma

by Matt Snyder

Bob has a bad case of the super awful really terrible squirt runs on the daily

With this unheard of shortage of TP, his drawers are becoming quite smelly

He just spent his last $500 bucks for a measly two mega rolls online

His package has arrived in the nick of time

too bad though that when he opened the box, it was alas, EMPTY…

—–

Bug Out Bags

by H.R.R. Gorman

***PG-13 Warning***

With a P-51 and a stash of old food,
One can hold out in style, lighten the mood.
But you’ll still feel alone
With no one to bone,
So be sure to bring tissues and lube.

—–

The hoarder’s charter

by Geoff LePard

‘It’s a risk,’ said the serial hoarder,
‘And I might cause civil disorder,
Buy buying up Frosties,
And making you crossties,
So maybe I’ll stick to cornflakes.’
Or
To hoard takes three things: there’s pluck
And a significant dollop of luck,
But between me and you
On top of those two
Is you really must not give a fig (other soft fruits are available until some silly sod has bought them all)

—–

Hoarding

by Joanne the Geek

I.

I thought this world crisis was a bit of a caper

and soon the long lines for goods would taper

but when I still go the store

there’s always so many more

all I’ve got left to eat is my stack of loo paper

II.

Due to the virus Bill hoarded beans

as stacks of them were within his means

but after eating so many cans

his butt alone could power vans

and he had to frequently wash his jeans

—–

Untitled piece

by Ritu Bhathal

A man in a fit of elation
Stockpiled like the rest of the nation
Well, bog roll he had
But it left him quite sad
When all the pasta gave him constipation!

—–

The wait

by Denny K

Co vid one nine
Is no friend of mine
I am quite a mess
Feeling the stress
Of social distance in the TP line

—–

Untitled piece

by Ellen Best

There was a a wee lass from Madrass
Who needed paper to wipe up her ass.
She looked in a shop ran around the block
Finally settled on her grandpappies sock.
Boom boom.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Hoarding of stuff is tremendous
Mountains of things, stupendous
Toilet paper for me
And nothing for thee
The feeling is awesome, momentous

—–

Limerick Woes

by Kristian

I thought I’d try a Limerick,

It sounded fun, a lark, a kick,

but please take my advice

and always think twice

because now I’m feeling quite sick.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Shelves stripped bare including the Gluten free
Load your boot with every single last frozen pea
You can keep your 10 year supply of toilet roll
Fill your trolley with all the Chicken casserole
But keep your pigging hands off my Yorkshire Tea

—–

Limericks for the Apocalypse

by Ilene

To avoid all the germs in the store
Gladys ate a bluebird and a boar
She washed down that pig
With an isolated swig
That socially infected her snout with a stout.

***PG-13 Warning.***

Traffic was so light yesterday
Officer Joe met his mistress to play
But his wife had a fever
And before he could leave her
He’d slipped his virus in her beaver.

—–

Thank you so much for brightening my week. I trust you had as much fun writing as I did reading. Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt; we’ve got a potentially long road yet of more internet time together.

Tnkerr and Deb: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/14 – 3/20/2020

Hi. This is the part where I say, “Hi,” and mention that this is our 63rd time around the terrible poetry track.

Here is where I give some directions. I still like our mishmash of sources contest, à la Ern Malley, for a way to create terribly as well. Really, the trick is to write like you’ve never been taught how to do poetry.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Stockpiling against a worldwide disaster, in limerick form.
  2. Length: A limerick. They’re five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
  3. Rhyming: Yes. In AABBA anapestic meter format.
  4. Make it terrible! Got it? Make it terrible!! The world’s ending, after all!
  5. Rating: PG-13. This is the perfect time to panic …poetically.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 20) to submit a poem.

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

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please comment if your pingback link doesn’t show up within a day.

Now’s the perfect time for levity. Give it a whirl.

 

There once was a dino named Ptery
Who loved to eat tree stars and berries.
Then, out of the blue,
Ptery saw rocks that flew;
Now, Ptery is becoming an evolutionary.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow. This week’s contest was amazing! I had a terribly fun time reading through everyone’s entries …and an equally terrible time trying to pick just one winner.

But a winner there must be. And that is Deb Whittam.

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

Luke was like a piece of driftwood
He floated his way into my life
And marooned himself on my stretch
Of the beach
He lay there salient
Watchful, still
He didn’t leave
It was kind of disturbing
I considered starting a fire
I considered tossing him back in
I considered getting my dog to poop
next to him, but in the end
But being driftwood
I walked round him
Then the tide came in and
He drifted out again
Days passed
Honestly I didn’t notice he was
GONE

But that’s what driftwood is like
Forgettable
Just like Luke
SUCH IS LIFE
… (Pause here to blow a raspberry)

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

As I said earlier, there were many excellent entries. The level of awful poetry was astounding and made for a difficult decision. Great work mixing meters, muddling themes, and morphing rhymes! Deb’s over-the-top features were all those elements working so well together. Good/bad job!

And the remaining entrants were terrible in their own right. Enjoy:

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

I’m writing a poem that needs to be deep
It’s supposed to have rhythm and metrical feet
Through bang-head-here moments I moan and I weep
While googling synonyms that start with an e.

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

They study Mars
and neutron stars
and never ride with girls in cars

And, if they do acquire a wife
they are working each night for the rest of their life.

So, if studying a black hole
is your goal
prepare for it to crush your soul.

And, spending your life trying to prove dark matter
is even satter…

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

You are so well-rounded that you could be compared to a turnip,
and indeed you have earned it.
Everything you touch seems to turn to gold;
each and every talent that you hold.
Even when you play the violin
it’s so sensual it’s almost a sin.
When you simply fry an egg
it’s ten times tastier than when it’s fried by my Aunty Peg.

With a paint brush in your hand
you make Leonardo d’Vinci less a man;
not to mention when you do arithmetic
you are better at arithmetic than Arius was at being a heretic.
There’s very little you could be taught
when it comes to sport.
Compared to you the rest of us look dumb
so there’s no reason to walk around like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your bum.

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

Every week, Ms. Chelsea posts
Hey you lot, write something gross!
Do your worst and you’ll get our praise;
Do your best, you’ll get week old mayonnaise.

And so I do, and so it went
Until I gave my last two cents.
I’ve wrote about summer, literary masterpieces and the lot
I’ve won twice, and I’m besought

So tell me now and tell me true
Who is the worst poet for you?
Is it so terrible to terribly tell a little lie?
And say that perhaps it’s the great Kahunana himself, Mr. Billy Sly?

No one understands the guy who Shakes the Speares
He could be making it up after all the years
No one understands what he’s trying to say
Truly, he’s laughing from his grave and giggling all the way.

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

The ten amazing PM candidates
Needed since the dreadful May abdicates
Boris Johnson
Looking out for number one
Jeremy Hunt
No more than an embarrassing publicity stunt
Michael Gove
Slowly disappearing in all the cocaine lies you wove
Dominic Raab
Wouldn’t trust you with a kebab
Sajid Javid
You make our police so livid
Matt Hancock
Talks utter poppycock
Mark Harper
Completely incompetent usurper
Esther McVey
Only wants you to obey
Rory Stewart
The leadership qualities of a Raspberry Tart
Andrea Leadsom
Will only bring national doom
That is Britain Today
A country in complete disarray

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

Eee ha, ho down horse around,
dance the rainy reign reins away.

Rains rein in the picnic nit picks
but for every weed given rein to,
there will grow a rein-Carnation
and a carnation reincarnated as a weed.

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were from the southern part of the US I’d say something like, “Jiminy Christmas” instead of swearing. When I listened to a braggart I might think “he’s all hat and no cattle” and if someone got mad at me I’d smile and tell them that they can “just get happy in the same britches they got mad in”.

But I’m not from the southern part of the US.
Goodness gracious,
Although I am sometimes loquacious

I’m from the northern part of the US where I say stuff like, “You betcha” and where snow is called “snoooow” and where we all say “Yah” a lot and follow it up with “sure”, and where, when we talk to strangers, we begin every sentence with, “Oh”.

Like –

“Oh, how ’bout those Twins?”
or
“Oh, Olivia Johnson sure does make a good casserole.”
or
“Oh, didja see. . .”

Or “So”.

Like –

“So the Twins lost yesterday, eh?”
or
“So, didja hear Jim Larson got food poisoning from Olivia Johnson’s casserole?”
or
“So what’d’ya think of. . .”

And you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us pronounce “third” like “turd”.

So, yah, I’m from the northern part of the US.
You betcha,
And those little red dots you sometimes get on your skin? They’re petechia.

If I were from Mars I might talk and I might not talk because no one knows how Martians sound or if they even talk at all for that matter.

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

Slumped on sofa, feeling low,
Don’t wanna shop or outside go,
Shocking din beyond window;
Apocalypse? Malignant crows?
Curtains closed, so I don’t know,
But curiosity, so

I think take a look,
Rise to feet discarding book.
Need to eat, don’t want to cook.
Kitchen no cavern – more a nook…
Is it birds or fatal fluke?
Peak between drapes like cornered crook.

Three car pile-up – bedlam there,
Poking bones, blood-mussed hair.
Look away from sickening scare,
See ribbons of colour streaking the sky and I carelessly cease to care,
Horizon highlighting rhapsody rare;
Surprising sunset, breathtaking flare.

Pity poor victims; tarmac is read,
Rubberneckers shaking heads,
Twisted bodies lately dead.
Making sandwich, ready for bed,
Scraping mould from hunk of bread;
Provocative dreams if properly fed.

Pluck off blossoming, blue-grey yeast,
Anticipating impromptu feast,
Unforeseen shock – view faces east.
Time is thieving, night-fleecing beast.
Feel like a flock of silly geese;
Sunset west, sunrise east.

Radio wakes in hollow bedroom,
Morning call; warning tune.
Sat through night, blind to gloom.
Feel foreboding, forthcoming doom.
Skin feels pocked with autumn bloom.
Off to horrid office soon.

Better slough of sleepless grime;
Supper’s off; it’s breakfast time.

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

Roses are red
and white and pink.
Roses can also be
orange, I think?

Violets are blue,
And uh, tulips are…yellow?
I don’t know, I’m not a botanist. Or a poet.
So the end, bite me.

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

One two three four five
Counting seven syllables
Five four three two one

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

I cannot accurately say how far down it was.
At the time, I had no way to measure.
I could estimate, but that would be a guess.
Besides, I’d rather explain what I saw,
how I achieved a somewhat modest goal,
and enjoyed the unusual fruit harvested
from an unusual place which rewarded me
with a somewhat modest treasure.

Shining from the east, fiery streaks of sunlight slowly peeked
through clouds to warm the sandy sandstone bluffs,
the unstable wall between
Coast Highway and our planet’s largest ocean.

The salty surface of the massive sea was still and glassy as it slept.
I paused to pose in yoga stance
and stared at the horizon.

As chilly darkness surrendered to blue sky dawn,
I shifted my physical position and left my previous posture
to the past and headed for an outhouse where I hoped
to leave the liquid remnants of my light roast coffee.

Surrounded by blue plastic walls and door,
and squinting in the midst of acrid chemicals which did not mask
or complete the task that they were manufactured for,
I did what I’ll admit I cannot resist the urge to do.

I took a look into the tank below–
down into the pit–
down into a swarm of buzzing flies
and abandoned human exhaust product.

And there is where I found it–
silent, lonely, floating
with other objects which are not usually
mistaken for candy bars or old potatoes,
I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.

I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

Attempts to win the lottery
have never worked for me.
The Universe has not exactly
blessed me with its blissful luck.

But on one amazing morning,
I rescued a celebrity’s accessory.

Fortunately,
I did not fall in or make a mess of me.

In fact, after ending
its encounter with the ugly muck,
I let it dry for half an hour.

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.
I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

—–

Thanks to all who entered and for sharing your amazing talents! Tomorrow at 10 a.m. starts next week’s contest!

frida-aguilar-estrada-397167-unsplash

Deb: 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, one and all, to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, #29.

Some visitors may wonder, “What is terrible poetry?” Is it a good poem with a rotten subject? A potential masterpiece with a funny twist? Not really.

Way back at the beginning, I gave a basic outline. My aim is to capture the sort of every-line-rhyming poem one wrote in grade school, or a roses are red rip-off when first tormented by teenage love, or to fulfill a college assignment to create haiku based on syllables alone.

Got it? Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is open! No, not a poem with the word “open,” but a masterpiece about any subject you feel inspired to expound upon.
  2. Just as the theme is whatever goes, the Length is also. I will warn entrants that the (sole) judge has about a 200-word attention span.
  3. Rhyming is also optional. Look at all the freedom you have!
  4. Above all, make it terrible! Make professional poets beat themselves over the head with their organic chai tea from recomposed cacao husks. Make English literature professors escape out their office windows and climb down their ivy leagues. Make your mother proud.
  5. …But keep things PG or cleaner if you can for the general audiences that read the blog.
  6. Also, please share the love. Tell your friends and followers. I think our regulars could use a bit of competition, and I always enjoy seeing new victims to the contest.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 14) to submit a poem.

If you want to be anonymous (for a week), use the form below.

Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments below that.

Have FUN!

 

frida-aguilar-estrada-397167-unsplash

Photo credit:
Frida Aguilar Estrada

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Hello and welcome to our ninth week of terribly poeting.

Looking for directions? See “How To Write Terrible Poetry.”

Beside learning the awfulness that is terrible poetry construction, I feel a lesson is in order regarding limericks. A limerick follows a rhyming pattern (AABBA). It follows a specific meter; the Lords of Wikipedia say that is an anapaest meter.

Here’s an example limerick I wrote awhile back:

There once was a mother of four
Who never could sweep up her floor.
The clothes and the toys
Were stuck beneath boys.
Daddy wonders who taught them to swore.

Knowing all this, here are the rules:

  1. Topic: The Weather.
  2. For length, you gotta do a limerick. Or two. Don’t make us sit through more than that, please.
  3. The poem needs to rhyme in AABBA format, but you don’t have to use exact rhymes. Use near rhymes just to drive us up the wall if you’d like.
  4. Make it bad. Make Edward Lear appear to you in the middle of the day to criticize your format and word usage.
  5. Keep it PG-rated.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 18, 2019) to submit a poem.

Post your poem or a link to it in the comments, or fill out this somewhat nifty form.

I really do read them all, but have an occasional underage helper climbing on my lap while I’m typing. I’m going to double- and triple-check everything next week before publishing.

ronald-langeveld-517792-unsplash

Christmas Cookie Limericks

There once was a mom in the ‘burbs
Who thought, for her neighbors, to serve
A plate full of treats;
She filled cookie sheets
With stars, bars, and fudge squares superb.

20181221_235533

Once baked, cooled; then frosted and stored,
The mom looked with pride at her hoard.
“Don’t eat them!” she warned;
Then, her advice, scorned –
Her snack-taking not aboveboard.

20181223_104046

Thus laden with cookies in hand,
She followed her gifting program.
Though many, afraid
Of free calories, stayed
Inside while they spied from their door-cam.

20181223_151538

A Spoonful of Limericks

bathroom-black-and-white-blur-615326

A lovely new faucet and sink
Decided to drip through a chink.
“Look, ma: a pool!”
Cried the poor mother’s fool.
The plumber charged $699.

 

adult-box-camping-5922
“Who did this?” Dad calls to the room.
The light’s on; he’s tripped on the broom.
His belts and neckties
Are knotted, mid-thigh.
Son says, “It’s The Fortress of Doom!”

 

markus-spiske-135763-unsplash
There once was a mother of four
Who never could sweep up her floor.
The clothes and the toys
Were stuck beneath boys.
Daddy wonders who taught them to swore.

Late-Night Limericks, Again

photo-1445445202798-d2d86bd125df
Young Sally sold shells by the shore.
Said her mother, why sell any more?
The seashells you’ve sold
Are seven, all told.
All your summer’s been spent seeing shore.

photo-1500519082938-cdd6b2f39de6
A woodchuck was chucking his wood.
How much wood that he chucked wasn’t good.
For woodchucks will chuck
Without giving flucks.
He chucked wood because woodchucks could.

photo-1508248073176-8032d6408cb1
A pecking of peppers was picked.
Peter the Piper: the convict.
Pecking was free;
Pickling, a fee.
So
A peck-pickle Peter was tricked.

 

Photos from Unsplash.

Another Set of Limericks

There once was a woman, not spry
Who couldn’t find clothes in her size.
“These ‘one size fits all’
Could not fit a doll!”
So she sat in the food court with fries.

Why is it when women buy clothes,
They travel in pairs or in droves?
Through fitting room walls
I hear their trite calls
And eavesdrop on mirr’r-mod’ling shows.

A flat-footed human named Sue
Could never find just the right shoe.
The options were varied;
The shopper was harried.
Bewildered, she opted for nude.