Speak to Me Only With Thine Dementia

“Oh. My.” She said it every morning. You would think he’d be accustomed to it, even tired of it.

But she had a way of infusing each word with childlike awe.

That was why he loved it; why her daily exclamation touched him every time. By now, he lived for this. He couldn’t imagine his day starting otherwise.

His wife turned, all smiles, and said the phrase she always followed with: “I think I’ve awakened in paradise.”

He rose and put his arm around her. Staring out their bay windows at the private ocean bay; he, as always, agreed.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Thomas on Pexels.com

Written in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt:

November 21, 2022, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story using the phrase, “Oh, my.” It can be used in storytelling or dialog. What is the cause for such a response? Have fun with this one! Go where the prompt leads!

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Another day, another delay. Not for naught, y’all: I’ve been havin’ a devil of a time pickin’ a poem jus’ awful enough to win.

Tonight, that winner’s:

The Giant Mozzie of Kozzie

by Doug Jacquier

I went searchin’ for the treasure
The wealth beyond measure
That would bring me great pleasure
Up there in the blue azure.
Atop the mount called Kozzie
The dream of every Ozzie
Lay hidden in a secret pozzie
And guarded by a giant mozzie.

Chorus
Nobody knows the trouble I have seein’
Since I’s bit on the eye
While reachin’ for the sky
By the mozzie of Kosciuszko.

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

I read my favorite four or five several times before settling on Doug’s contribution. I believe he stood out for the overdone ‘ie’ rhyming, the nonsense, and the …well, probably for the nonsense. Well done.

As to the rest? See if you can get through them:

Oh, I’m a Gonna Go!

by Peregrine Arc

I’m a gonna go out where the wind durst blow
Sand in my knickers and mud in my toes
Where cow pies rightly disappear and the crickets eat them dangburned rusted bandoliers!
Where the guns don’t get to shootin’,
Where there’s no high brow falutin’
And everyone dances ’till half past three…
If you need me, why that there where’s I’ll be….l
In the Land of Absolution…!

—–

Hunka-Hunka

by The Abject Muse

When I ain’t got no tomorrows

when the strings all bust on my banjo

I’m gonna change my undershirt

an’ go to my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

It’s paradise, hell yes it is

with a little wood shack to take a whiz.

Among green trees and birds that chirp

my hunka hunka heaven on dirt.

—–

Morose Melodrama #1

by Deb Whittam

I stare at it in defeat,
My heart it don’t want to beat
Me, run up that?
Yeah right, I would also like
To invite Mike Tyson to a fight.
Lofty and high it will prevail,
I, well, I am destined to fail.
But I grit my teeth,
And take that first step,
Pause and gasp,
Time for a rest.
Four hours later at the top I am,
Now how the hell do I get back down.

—–

A haven or Heaven?

by Trent P. McDonald

It would be bliss on Earth here…
(Hold on, I’ll be right there)
Uhm, I like to sit in my chair
(I said I was coming!!)
Not really work, but, well, bumming…
(Hold your horses)
Uhm, bumming about, reading some sources
(Darn it, I’m in the middle of a sentence!)
Doing writing penitence
(Not a story, a poem. What? No, I said I’m, writing poetry…)
No one to bother me, even if it is three…
(Just a minute!)
Uhm, three AM and I’m really in t’ it
(I don’t care if supper is getting cold)
‘Cause being disturbed while writing gets old
(OK, OK, I give up)
So heaven would be to write undisturbed from sundown to sun up…

—–

Heaven to be sung to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda” if it fits

by Bruce Goodman

Heaven is like a suitcase in the
luggage compartment of a train
hopefully the owner
is sitting down somewhere on the train
and will claim the suitcase from the
luggage compartment when the passenger wants to get off.

Heaven is also like the toothbrush that’s in the
suitcase along with some toothpaste
and a flannel
and some aftershave – to be bannal.
I also like to think that Heaven is like mowing the lawn.

Chorus: Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Heaven is on my mine
Kumbaya Kumbaya
Those who don’t want to get to Heaven
can go to Hell
but I’m sure ev’ryone who reads this
will have a better idea whether or not they want to get there
so Michael row your boat ashore.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bryntin

I wasn’t going to do a poem
for the bad poetry competition this week
because the theme was ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’
and that sounded a bit country ‘n’ western
what I thought about it was
that it sounded very much like
the sort of thing that would
have the sounds of a slide guitar in it
god I hate the sound of a slide guitar
‘just settle on a note!’ I think
‘don’t play an instrument
like a drunken man, trying to walk
bouncing off doorways and
speaking whole sentences in one continuous word’
anyway, then I read the lyrics
for the song that is the theme
and saw it was full of peoples dreams
for what they imagine might be plentiful
in this fantasy place, their heaven
so I thought perhaps mine would be slide guitars
stripped and remade into proper guitars
that people played different notes and chords on
one at a time mostly
properly
like musicians, not drunkards
Some might ask
‘wouldn’t slide guitars, for you
be in ‘the other place?’
and I’d say ‘no,
would you deny me the pleasure
in my heaven
of seeing them being destroyed?’
so then I listened to the song
to get my inspiration
and it didn’t have slide guitar on it
so this was all a waste of time really
I’ll probably have to do something
about abundant custard creams instead

—–

For Rent

by Thru Violet’s Lentz

Don’t much wanna go to heaven
wouldn’t know no one there, no way
as the kind that I holds near and dear
won’t be a gettin’ thru them pearly gates.

There’s a better chance you’ll find me
sittin’ round a fire ring somewheres
talkin’ loud and smoking Marlboro’s
next to a tub a ice cold beer.

Wearing an old King Diamond tee shirt
and a pair a too tight jeans
sittin’ on some ol’ boys lap, feelin’ frisky-
in the trailer park o my dreams…

Where on every space there’s a double wide
and the lot rents paid in full
and my sister’s- ex-fi-ance’s -brother-in-law
has done his last parole.

So when I exit life’s long lost highway
don’t you be a worrin’ ’bout where I’ve gone
’cause I’m sure there’ll be a For Rent sign
on a nice li’l trailer in the great beyond….

—–

Big Science Mountain

by H.R.R. Gorman

The mad scientist created
Freeze rays and said, “This is the best,
I dare anyone to beat me.
I’ll freeze banks and avoid arrest,
Then freeze folks at the city hall
To cause the government to fall.
Yessir, I’m gonna have a ball,
With my freeze ray and my money.

—–

Heaven via Hell

by Ruth Scribbles

If you wanna go to heaven
Hell’s where you belong
Cause you can’t get to heaven
Unless you’re in hell for way too long

Walk with the devil
Play with evil demons
Wait for the angels
To carry you all the way home

Oh oh oh
Go to hell
Go to hell
You can’t get to heaven
Except through hell

—–

Thanks, y’all, fer a most entertainin’ evenin’. Come on back, now, once you’ve had yer rest and I’ll post a topic fer next week ’round 10 tomorrer.

marko-mudrinic-EW04roNVHLg-unsplash

Doug: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

I didn’t have the time to make one after your suggested patron saint, but intend to once I take a moment to do so.

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Howdy, young’uns. This here be the Terrible Poetry Contest. We been hostin’ y’all fer 55 rounds now.

If’n yer not sure a’ yerself, click here. Bad poetry’s about as tricky as kissin’ an ornery donkey that may jest be yer mother-in-law.

Here are yer ‘pecifics:

  1. I hear tell the Topic‘s a folk song ’bout heaven. You done heard ’bout “The Big Rock Candy Mountain?” Sing me where yer moun’ain is an’ where you’d be.
  2. I ain’t got all day, so’s a good verse an’ chorus’ll do me fer Length.
  3. And then there’s that Rhymin‘ business. You go’n ahead and do it if’n it’s there in yer heaven.
  4. I say to Make it terrible. Me an’ my boys will ‘termine to add you to our Mulligan Stew soon’s we hear it sung.
  5. Now, son: yer idea a’ the hereafter may just include some things more sensitive types shouldn’a read. Keep things under the PG belt, if’n you can.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 24, 2020) to submit a poem.

Use the form b’low to keep things a secret.

To share all ’round, go ‘head an’ post in those there comments. Let the judge know if’n you don’ see a pingback after sundown.

Y’all have fun now, ya hear!

marko-mudrinic-EW04roNVHLg-unsplash

Photo credit:
Marko Mudrinic