Accidental -or maybe- Unrequited ‘Love’

My love, I saw you just
the other day.
I thought, “I must
see if she wants to play.”

But then, without a doubt
or e’en acknowledgement,
You ran around you ran about
you ran through excrement.

I know you weren’t
expecting me to be outside
your house, you weren’t
expecting me to be outside.

But, baby, you should know
That when you hand me
my steaming cup of joe
and smile, instead of run-ning,

Our love was meant to be.
So, tell this nice policeman
That you aren’t charging me
and that I get to be your man.

Please?

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If that isn’t terrible, you need your ears checked. Also, you need to type up the warning label on the side of your shampoo, add far more adjectives, and turn it in to the Terrible Poetry Contest for this month. You have till this Thursday to enter!

The Terrible Poetry Contest 9/2022

Greetings, one and all! Welcome to the Terrible Poetry Contest!

What is terrible poetry? What do you need to write in order to win? Basically, the goal of this illustrious contest is to write poetry using every terrible element your English professor warned you against. We’re talking cliché, trope, adjectives, telling, angst, over-emoting, vague verbosity, and attempted free-verse. Here is a link for more details.

Clear as mud? Perfect. Now, on to the specifics:

  1. Theme and Form
    Write about an accidental love, in any form you wish.
  2. Length
    Shorter is easier to read, but annoyingly long can make a poem more terribler.
  3. Rhyme?
    If you wish.
  4. Terrible?
    Yes. Cause your eternal companion to wish she’d tripped over someone else’s misplaced lunch tray.
  5. Rating
    PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MDT on Thursday, September 29 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous until I post the results. The form hasn’t saved what you submitted unless you see a message saying it has.

Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please alert me if your pingback or poem does not show up within a day.

The winner gains bragging rights, a badge, and the pick of next contest’s theme and form.

—–

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

J’adore la France, Aussi

I can’t admit how much I love England whilst ignoring its more colo(u)rful, flavo(u)rful relative, France. You see, I once had an ardent affection for all things françaises.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

My obsession began in my twelfth year. We were required to pick a foreign language class in junior high school (ages 12-15). So, I looked over the options:

Spanish? ¡No! Too common!

German? Nein! Too much angry phlegm!

French? Oui! Just right!

Between pain au chocolat and Mont St. Michel; le Tour Eiffel and croissants; 400+ fromages officiels and Versailles; chocolat et chocolat; I fell for France like a pre-teen falling for a boy band.

Photo by Tamas Pap on Unsplash

The language was s-i-l-k. I loved calling a dog un chien, a car une voiture, and a pizza une pizza. I loved slurring words or artistically dropping endings. I loved expanding my lexicon; I could soon exclaim, “Zut alors!” or suggest we go “chez moi.”

I studied the language all through high school (ages 15-18) and into college. The relationship moved from underage crush to fangirl stalking.

If I could go anywhere in the world, it would be to France. Cream puffs were my favorite dessert. I knew to never cut French bread at the table. My 1’s had a serif and my 7’s a strikethrough. My months were janvier à décembre and my days were lundi à dimanche.

Then… we drifted apart. It was primarily communication problems -I simply couldn’t talk to France the way I could to England. I admitted that, all those times I’d promised to visit, I was lying. And, despite a brief fling with Astérix, I didn’t quite understand the French sense of humor.

Alas, we were never meant to be. C’était, peut-être, l’Angleterre. Peut-être…

What of you? Have you ever loved and left? Which country’s heart did you break?

—–

Aaaand, here are the things I wrote since last noting the things I wrote:
Wednesday, May 19: Asked about your favorite desserts.

Friday, May 20: An egg-cellent Friday Photo!

Sunday, May 22: Quoted Stuart Danker.
Declared Not Pam as the winner of the Terrible Poetry Contest!

Monday, May 23: Mormon Monday! Sundays are for taking the Sacrament.

Tuesday, May 24: Expressed my emphatic emotions of England.

Wednesday, May 25: Re-formed D. Wallace Peach‘s words to make a poem.

Thursday, May 26: It’s another Terrible Poetry Contest! YOU SHOULD ALL ENTER since this is the last one before I take a break. It’s a sonnet about soup. What’s not appetizing about that?

Friday, May 27: Yo-Yo-Yo-Toy-Yodahhh!

Saturday, May 28: Wrote a terrible poem that still needs work, to deal with the pain of Uvalde.

Sunday, May 29: Quoted Holly Whitaker.

Monday, May 30: I’m a Mormon, so I keep the Sabbath Day holy.

Tuesday, May 31ish: The Open Book Blogger Award!!

©2022 Chel Owens

Beatrice Box

Beatrice was a square sort of being. Squat, brown, dusty, a bit bent; she couldn’t help it. See, Beatrice was literally a box. Still, she longed for love. Like most boxes, however, she couldn’t open her mouth without attracting the wrong sort of attention.

“I can’t even lift a flap,” she complained to the bureau, “Without acquiring an odd or end.”

He squeaked a commiseratory joint. “I’ve the same problem with me drawers, Love. Have ye tried tape?”

Beatrice hadn’t, so she did. The tape worked quite well for keeping out; but, how could she get love in? She appealed to the cedar chest. “What’s your secret? However do you attract such finery?”

The cedar chest considered. She sniffed. “Smell, mostly. Seems to keep riff-raff at a distance. Then, there’s the carvings up top what observers always notice.”

“Carvings? Smell?” Beatrice examined the parts of herself she could. What she saw failed to instill confidence. She was, as noted, a box. Her relations tended more toward the packing variety and less toward containers in millinery shops. “Have I a scent? What about designs?”

“Hm.” The cedar chest strained; Beatrice thumped in an awkward, squarish spin before her. “You’ve an essence of forgotten memories, like old jumpers. Not unpleasant, I’d say; not pleasant, either. Ooh! I can make out a bit of an imprint… Upst- Hm. Upstares -Yes! Upstares closet. …could be an exotic locale…”

“Oh, dear,” Beatrice sighed. She knew how ‘exotic’ the upstairs closet was. But just when she thought to give up all hope, she met him: the box of her dreams. He fell on her like a ton of bricks.

Literally.

Good thing the tape held.

“Well howdy, ya pine box!” he addressed the cedar chest. “I’m Bob, a box. I’m currently haulin’ a buttload o’ building blocks! Ha!” He scratched at his top with a handy flap. “Thing is, I’m a mite lonely. You wouldn’t happen to know where a fella could find some company, would ya? -A good, solid, squarish sort of company?”

Beatrice could hardly speak for excitement. She could hardly speak for the box of bricks named Bob that sat atop her as well. She tried. “Mmph mmm mph phuhm.”

“Who said that??” Bob swept the room.

“Mmph mmm mph phuhm.”

Bob shifted. He couldn’t catch where the noise came from. “How’s that, pardner?”

“Mmph! Mm mph mph phuh mphm.”

Bob scooted a titch more; which, it turns out, was a titch too far. *CLONK!* He landed on the floor like a ton of -oh, you get the idea. He caught sight of Beatrice. “Well, howdy!”

Beatrice blushed. “Hello.”

It was the start of a beautiful future. Beatrice had such a crush, she was already making moving plans.

Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

“It is impossible to know, in the moment, how a small act of goodness will reverberate through time. The notion is empowering and it is frightening -because it means that we’re all capable of changing the world, and responsible for finding those opportunities to protect, feed, grow, and guide love.”

Bishop Michael Curry, Love is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times (co-authored by Sara Grace)

“I think the biggest disease this world suffers from in this day and age is the disease of people feeling unloved.”
…I think the…people need someone in public life to give affection, to make them feel important, to support them, to give them light in their dark tunnels.”

Princess Diana, “An Interview with HRH The Princess of Wales,” BBC, 20 November 1995

“The world is so exquisite with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there’s little good evidence. Far better it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides.”

Carl Sagan, “In the Valley of the Shadow,” Parade, 10 March 1996

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 3/15/2021

We apologise for the fault in the A Mused Poetry Contest and its delay. While the hostess would prefer being sacked after forgetfulness, a birthday, a church newsletter assignment, and then a stomach ‘flu came through; she’ll go ahead and announce who won this month’s contest, instead:

The winner of the most ‘romantic’ love poem in a greeting card is:

Untitled, by Gary
When you lie in double bed all alone
Experiencing a completely love free zone
Feeling like a redundant out of tune trombone
Your only company is a smelly dog and farting cat
Feeling as popular as flea ridden rabid fat wombat
But maybe today that Hallmark card will land on my mat
Bringing much needed kisses and expressions of affection
Offering a few sweet moments of romantic misdirection
Which is always better than a bad case of fungal infection…..

Congratulations, Gary! You are the funniest poet for the week!

I loved reading the entries (finally!) this time around. Even the silly, snarky ones made me sigh. And laugh. There were some close contenders, but Gary’s won for heavy-handed awfulness. Who wouldn’t be won over by a farting cat or a comparison to a fungal infection?

If you need more material for that special someone, just read the rest:

Blessed are the cheesemakers, by Doug Jacquier
You said you didn’t want a birthday gift,
Hallmark cheesy made you vomit.
But I’ve fallen for that before,
so here’s some Wallace and some Gromit.

Hence behold my new invention!
No vapid Wensleydale, penicillin’s what it’s built on.
Cambridgeshire meets jalapeno
in my stunning chilli Stilton.

I’ve named this fromage after you
because it causes odd and vivid dreams
and on the morrow, it is said,
requires use of soothing creams.

Enjoy your day, my curdle dove,
as you wend your merry whey,
and feast full well on this daily rind …
My God, put that knife away!

Something bright and gay, by Bruce
These dozen red roses, please accept them I pray,
To celebrate love on this Valentine’s Day.
You light up my life in every way,
Just don’t tell my fiancée.

Untitled, by Dumbestblogger
Love is a burning thing
I’m so glad we had a fling
Glad I didn’t get a ring
Happily, I have no strings

Untitled, by Writerinretrospect
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I eat lots of chocolates
You should too!

(Chocolates not included)

Mountains and Valleys, by Frank Hubeny
Love comes when the mountains ring
and valleys rise to roar.
They rang, I fear.
Oh, can’t you hear?
I love you more and more.

Heart Strings, by Obbverse
Accept this humble Valentines card, my sweet,
Know ’tis only you who makes my life complete,
You cause my happy heart to lightly skip a beat,
I freely give you my heart- consider my card your receipt.

My love, my love for you runs true and deep,
Know I dream of you at night before I sleep,
So my love, close to your heart my love-note keep,
I’d hand you a few roses too- but I’m too damned cheap.

Untitled, by Kshtatiana
I have been hiding all my feelings.
Of fear that I might lose you
The truth is, I can’t conceal it.
My heart is in love with you.

If the hearts could melt,
Mine melted since the day you said ‘hello.’
When our eyes first met, I felt-
I could not let you go.

Happy Lover’s Day, by Ruth Scribbles
We met in the restaurant above
Had drinks and by chance you got shoved
You tumbled and fell
That rang your bell
And that was our start of true love

Love Languages, by Bilocalalia
Yours is clearing off the snow,
mine is saying not to go;
you sweep the car with a broom
while I watch cozy in our room.
You rise early while I sleep late;
I cook the meat that’s on your plate;
you eye my veggies with disdain,
but walk the dog out in the rain.
You’re my media naranja, I swear;
opposites make the perfect pair.

—–

Photo by Giftpundits.com on Pexels.com

Stick around a little later for the next month’s prompt!

Gary, here’s a badge for you to use on your site. Congratulations!

©2021 The poets, and their respective works