WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 5/19/2022

What fun! Geoff won last contest and suggested we take the first line of a famous poem and rewrite the rest! So, at long last, which poet wrote the ‘best’ terribleness?

The Dentist and The Crocodile (Not Roald Dahl)

by Not Pam

The crocodile, with cunning smile, sat in the dentist’s chair.
He had a devious plan to broker, which would scare
… And he didn’t care.
He sought a partner in crime, one almost as shrewd as he,
It was all quite divine
Blood would be spilt, you see.
They had discussed it at length, while gnawing an old thigh bone
There was no planning left
It was time for them to go it alone
They crept down to the village, the dentist and the croc,
They had plans, they didn’t intend just to throw a rock
The town folk were in for a dire shock.
In the dead of night, the dentist tore their teeth free
While the croc scared them in a stupor, and you better believe me
Blood was spilt a plenty, it was quite something to see
But though the town folk were blood less, tooth less, lifeless, they didn’t cease to be
Their flesh turned into steel, and they went on a killing spree
Now there’s one thing on their diet, that croc and dentist better flee.

—–

Congratulations, Deb! You are the most terrible poet! Let me know the type of poem and theme for the next two weeks.

The entries were far too clever for me to dub any ‘terrible.’ I had to read through again, pick those who intentionally clichéd, or misspelled, or were just plain painful to read through. Not Pam’s piece beat out the competition for utilizing those elements. I mean –gnawing on an old thigh bone and blood less, tooth less, lifeless. Terrible!

Everyone else did a fantastic job, as I said. Read below to see for yourself:

“A Psalm of Life” stolen from Longfellow

by John W. Howell

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
That someone has used all the cream.
For an idiot so wonton makes for wonders,
Of why we let it on the team.

Coffee is real! Coffee is earnest!
And true black is not our goal;
Thief thou art, and best returnest,
That half and half in its bowl.

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

Mary had a little lamb
She had a goat as well
She had a cat, a dog, a skunk
(with it’s distinctive smell)
She had some tigers and some bears
She had some lions too
With elephants and a giraffe
She had a private zoo
She took them all to school one day
So that teachers could be met
She was a very charming girl
She was the teachers’ pet
But the teachers they became alarmed
To hear the lion roar
They ran into the classroom
And they locked the classroom door
To Mary this was hurtful
So she left in some dismay
She gathered up her animals
And led her flock away
She went in search of somewhere else
To let her creatures roam
And came upon another spot
Her Nan’s retirement home
She found a room where all looked bored
Called ‘Geriatric Care’
So she pushed her pets right through the door
And let them loose in there.

—–

Fiery Ice

by Frank Hubeny

Some say the world will end in fire.
That sounds nice.
For veggies burning ever higher
It’s best to use a roaring fire.
Beans I hear you should fry twice
Though why one would I would debate.
Crispy, fully charred is nice
And now I wait
For fresh-burnt rice.

—–

For Whom the Wave Rolls
Not by John Donne!!

by Trent

No man is an island,
At least I hope.
A body may float a while,
Though drift afar.
If some clod be washed away by the sea,
He might sink.
As well as a big boulder would.
Then again, as I said before, he just might float
Though a floating body is no island.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
If he sinks or floats.
Therefore, stay away from the sea
For whom does the wave roll?
It rolls for thee.

—–

SONNET LXVI
(First line by Pablo Neruda)

by M

(I do not love you except because I love you)
because if I love you, then I love that I love you ?
Because love is what is considered
the opposite of hate & I’d hate to deeply hate you with the hatred of hate that you can only find within what is deemed love!
The love of hate of the hate that I love is my soul desire,such a fool for love & hate.

—–

The Unshaven

by Obbverse

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
After many a gin sunken I’m found slumpen ‘pon the floor
Dryly heaving, stomach clenching, regretting my night out wenching,
‘Tis all quite gut-wrenching, but I’ve known of its ilk before,
Muttered I, ‘I’ll go out and get pi- pie-eyed no more,’
Mutedly, for my skull be ever sore.

Ah, painfully, in a head yet tender I remember, ’twas quite the bender;
E’en as each clang of pain in my brain rings down to its sodden core
Uneasily recalling that I and that barfly signora put away a plethora
Of gin, oodles of Boodles resulted in a sinful night worthy of Gomorrah,
Now that fair maid lies sleepily sated, a beauty without flaw,
Yet I shudder at her ev’ry snore.

Oh, the pain- teeth gritting, hard hitting, never quitting, head splitting,
In the mirror, pale and pallid, I see the sorriest wretch you ever saw,
The red rimmed eyes a ‘gleaming, the mind silently screaming,
A drunk with a liver past redeeming, ’twill need a miracle to restore,
But I’ll drag myself back to that familiar door-
I’ve slammed it behind me a time or two afore-
And retake the AA Pledge once more.

—–

The Second Coming (It’s Huge)

by Doug Jacquier

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Tweeter cannot be on Twitter;
Things fall apart; all his calls are on hold;
So Truth Social is launched upon the world,
The brain-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of intelligence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate conspiracy.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Biggest Ever Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image (it’s huge) out of Mar-A-Lago
Troubles my sight: somewhere from the swamps of Florida
A shape with a Teletubby body and the fake-tanned head of a man,
A gaze blank and clueless, like a bum,
Is moving its slow thighs, (it’s huge) while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant Democrats.
The darkness drops again; and now I know
That after twenty months of rally speech
Rises again the nightmare from the FoxNews cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round again,
Slouches towards Washington to eat Dorritos and drink Diet Coke?

—–

Stomping My Woods in My Round This Morning

by Greg’s Blog

Whose woods these are I think I know
Their place is on the golf course though
He Rory‘s up a Tiger tail
In anger bent and gave a throw

My little cart may think it Strange
To watch him stomp around insane
Swearing, cursing and Spiething nails
Please end this round and end the Payne

My caddy’s head begins to shake
As if to say it’s a mistake
Rolled up cuff, the language Fowler
As he waded into the lake…

At the next tee, I’m Jacked to see
If I can hit the green in three
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree

—–

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Thank you, everyone! Come back to learn the next two weeks’ prompt.

Deb Pam: Here’s your badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 5/5/22

Welcome (welcome! welcome!) to the biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Everyone starts out terrible; some poets never move on from there! This ‘contest’ is about embracing the bad, letting go of inhibitions, and poking fun of those stodgy writers who can’t see the farce for the poetries. I’ve typed up a map in case you’re still lost. For the rest of you, here are the specifics:

  1. Geoff Le Pard’s poem won last time‘s contest, so he’s set our Theme and Form:
    Take the first line of a famous poem and then rewrite the rest as [the poet] see(s) fit. Bonus points if [you] use the original meter and rhyming scheme.
  2. I believe the Length is entirely up to you.
  3. Rhyme? If you feel inclined.
  4. Don’t take it from me. Take it from Maya Angelou, Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, John Keats, Sylvia Plath, William Blake, William Wordsworth, and the immortal Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz. Seriously; take it from them and make it terrible.
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MDT on Thursday, May 19 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week. It hasn’t gone through unless you see a message saying it has.

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 option to choose the next iteration’s topic and type of poem.

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

—–

©2022 Chel Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/1/2022

It’s finally time to announce the winner of Colleen Chesebro‘s challenge to write a terrible burlesque poem on aging (ageing):

PEW

by Matt

20’S COOL
30’S COOL
40’S Pew!
What’s that smell? oOoOO that smell, can’t you smell that smell?
Like cheese and a rotten egg got married
yet, rarely it, happened.
50’s Pew!!
That smell lingers from room to room everywhere you walk, in the house, at work, at the groceries store.
How that humanely possible?
60’s and beyond
making me sick, pungent,salty and sour
milk
Serious, seriously serious…that came out of your heiny?
I’m smellin’
it’s poor English but you sure do, yee old farty pants

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are the most terrible poet! Let me know the type of poem and theme for the next two weeks! Exclamation points!

The poems this week were terribly clever! I had to pick Matt’s because it was -oh, man, Matt- very terrible with the clever. “Heiny?” “Farty pants?” Ugh. No! 😀

Don’t stop there, though. Go ahead and enjoy the others:

Untitled

by The Bag Lady

Pulling myself out of the bed
To pee again, something I dread
I’d rather be sleeping instead
Or I could just wet the bed.
Look in the mirror to check what needs shaving
Hoping fingers with razor will be behaving
I don’t want the blade to start engraving
Till blood starts running and raving.
Then there’s dressing, always a treat
Groaning to put socks and shoes on my feet
Stretching on layers smoothed to look neat
Pulling on and tucking in trousers a feat.
Finally finished, its time for a drink
Or breakfast, that’s what most people think
I prefer coffee—makes my eyes start to blink
Then into my recliner I sink.
Morning routines seem to be the way
Doing it over and over each day
Keeps unforeseen accidents at bay
When hair turns relentlessly gray.
Old age comes to us all they say:
“if you’re lucky” or “better than the alternative” way.
Those words spoken cause some dismay
Cause it’s always the young speaking that bray.

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

Stop your crying, I’m not dying
Sit beside me, pretty nurse
Please hold my hand, please understand
That we must delay the hearse
Do I repel you? Please let me smell you
Let me get a little whiff
You’re a fantastic aromatic
Please come closer as I sniff
I know I dither as I wither
My mind and body growing thin
I know this body’s looking shoddy
But a heart still beats within
So though unsteady, I’m not ready
To depart this mortal life
Let’s have a giggle, have a wiggle
You can pretend to be my wife
Though I disgust you, I still trust you
And my bark’s worse than my bite
You’re such a cutie. Do your duty
Look after me tonight
I know you know that it’s all show
My days of love are far behind
Imagination. Agitation.
Just be patient. Just be kind
Yes, I’m older, but I’m no bolder
Senility is bliss
I’m just ageing, I’m not raging
But ….. how about a kiss?

—–

Gnarly
A dig at Joyce Kilmer’s’ ‘Trees’ a trite, turgid self-important load of sappy claptrap if I ever read one.

by Obbverse

I wish I never had to rheumily see
My skin so weather-worn and leathery.

This toothless mouth remains hard- pressed;
My teeth have long gone South and West.

A bod that looks like God had a bad day,
A face beyond all hope, and Oil Of Olay.

A pate that requires new summer wear;
A Blue Jays cap in lieu of lost hair.

When snow falls I dream of hot dry Spain;
Stuck in sodden Toronto, who’d not complain?

When God tires of bad poetry, and poor old me
Put me on the mantel, not ‘neath no cold Yew tree.

—–

This poem attempts to imitate the lyrics of songs like the classic “Bird is the word”. If you’ve never heard that song, don’t look it up.

by Frank

I’m over the hill
over the hill
la-dee-dee
da-dee-dee
da-dee-dee-dill
overly
overly
over the hill

(repeat ad nauseam)

—–

Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com

Thank you, everyone! Come back to learn the next two weeks’ prompt.

Matt: Here’s your badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 3/18/22

Welcome to the biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Most poetry is terrible. We’re just out to make fun of it. Need to know how? Click here.

Here are the specifics for this contest:

  1. Colleen Chesebro has decreed the Theme to be aging (or, ageing). The form is a burlesque poem. Burlesque isn’t difficult; after reading the definition, I realize we write in that form frequently. The idea is to mimic styles or subjects of others in a funny way.
  2. Therefore, Length is up to you.
  3. Rhyming is up to you.
  4. Making it terrible is up to you! I suggest you choose to, since you’re not likely to win otherwise. Parody the satire out of a pastiched poet. Please.
  5. Rating: PG-13 or cleaner. Aging can bring out the worst in us.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, March 31 to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week. It hasn’t gone through unless you see a message saying it has.

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 option to choose the next iteration’s topic and type of poem.

—–

Photo by Ivan Samkov on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

That’s a Moray

I found this oldie-but-goodie online. If the one source I found is correct, we’re not sure who penned this parody:

When the moon hits your eye,
Like a big pizza pie,
That’s amore.

When an eel bites your hand,
And that’s not what you planned,
That’s a moray.

When our habits are strange,
And our customs deranged,
That’s our mores.

When your horse chews dried grass,
And then begs for more, alas,
That’s some more hay.

When your sheep go to graze,
In a damp marshy place,
That’s a moor, eh?

When your boat comes home fine,
And you tie up her line,
That’s a moor, eh?

When Othello’s poor wife,
Becomes stabbed with a knife,
That’s a Moor, eh?

When you ace your last tests,
Like you did all the rest,
That’s some more A’s!

When on Mt. Cook you see,
A long aborigine,
That’s a Maori.

When your chocolate graham
Is so full and so crammed,
That s’more, eh?

http://homepage.ntu.edu.tw/~karchung/intro%20page%2024b.htm

Photo by Jonathan lajoie on Pexels.com

Do You Sense What I Sense?

Said the husband as she burnt the ham
Do you smell what I smell?
(Do you smell what I smell?)
It’s charred, it’s charred; the oven’s all alight
With the men here to fi’re fight
With the men, here, to fi’re fight.

Said the slow man to his pride and joy
Do you taste what I taste?
(Do you taste what I taste?)
A smoke, a musk making us both wheeze
With eyes red and nose set to sneeze.
With eyes red, and nose set to sneeze.

Said the man to whom he’d vowed to cling
Do you feel what I feel?
(Do you feel what I feel?)
A fire, a fire burns the whole household
Let us run out; stop, drop, and roll
Let us run out; stop, drop, and roll.

Said the firechief to neighbors, stopped to stare
Listen to what I shout!
(Listen to what I shout!)
The man, his wife really aren’t that bright
They thought smoked ham needs firelight
Now, their house is qu-ite the sight!

And to ah-all, have a good night!

Photo by F. Hektor on Pexels.com

©2021 Chel Owens

Here I Am Now, on My Diet

Hello, Mirrah. Hello, Flab-buh
Here I am now, drinkin’ watuh.
Water’s great, ’cause it’s so thinning;
I am sure I’ll think that way once I stop swimming.

I switched on some Richard Simmons
But felt shy with those fit womens.
Tried some lifting, like Dwayne Johnson;
Pulled my groin and now I lumber like Ron Swanson.

All the ‘experts’ choose what’s latest
For fad diets; they’re the greatest:
Quinoa, kale, and cauliflower,
Cel’ry, coconut, açai, and no flour…

Thought I’d try to make some headway
Exercising through a Couch to 5K.
Joined a Ragnar; friends were hearty –
They’re about to organize a searching party.

Chorus:
Steak, in-bone; and malts; and fritters; ice cream cones; and donuts; burgers –
Don’t leeeave me – at the Weight Watchers where – I might – get *tsk*ing looks and stares.
Choc’late scones; and whipped cream mountains; food, alone – I miss, so
Please don’t make – me – wait -I’ve been here, starving,
ONE
WHOLE
DAY

©2021 Chel Owens

A Conservative’s Lament, a poem

I tried to rant, I really did. Maybe you can do better for the A Mused Poetry Contest, due THIS FRIDAY!

Wake Me Up When November Ends

Four years have slowly passed
The leftists weren’t s’posed to last
Wake me up when November ends

Opposition tried to pass
A block to t’Insurrection Act
Wake me up when November ends

Here comes impeachment, ‘gain
Broadcast from TV stars
Our Free Speech is blocked, again;
They’re afraid of who we are.

Only recent mem’ry’s best:
Forgetting riots, loss
Wake me up when November ends

*Sad Harmonica solo*

Summertime went awf’lly fast
Campaigning’s done and voting’s passed
Wake me up when November ends

Count all the votes again
Like we did for Gore again
Wake me up when November ends

Here’s all the jokes again
From my Facebook ‘friends’
Laughing at my pain again
…Like I may have done about Clinton…

Hypocrisy and hatred rest
Wond’ring at the ‘friends’ I’ve lost
Wake me up when November ends

…..

End of year’s now come and passed
Th’impromptu siege just couldn’t last
Wake me up when November ends

Forty-two ‘xecutive orders, passed
Change is coming way too fast
Wake me up when November ends
Wake me up when November end
Wake me up when this pres’dency ends

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

©2021 Chelsea Owens

The Jones Family Newsletter, poetic edition

Ohhhhh, you better not doubt
You better not sigh
You better not pout
When you see all our truths –
The Jones Fam’ly is writing a poem!

We’ve written this list
We’re sure it’s concise
To make you all pissed that we’re writing these facts –
The Jones Fam’ly is sending a poem!

Steve sees no end to dividends;
Sue’s sponsors all love her;
The twins won State, the dog eats steak;
Oh, the upper class concurs:

The Joneses are out
Out, out of the sky
We’ve got some real clout
And we’ve got a few honest claims –
Our family just sent you a poem!

There’s still time to enter the A Mused Poetry Contest. The deadline is this Friday!

©2020 Chel Owens

Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

The Sincerest Form of Poetry: Review, Q&A, and Book Release With Geoff LePard

Geoff LePard -thank goodness- is unlike other authors. Where most would see a greening woodland dappled in midday light and write about fairies, Geoff is apt to whip up a dialogue ‘txixt Madame Rootbringerton and her onerous neighbor, Sir Pansybottom.

And that dialogue is not always appropriate for general audiences.

When Geoff announced plans to write and publish a book of poetry, I therefore wasn’t sure what to expect. Spurred by forays into this site’s Terrible Poetry contests and encouraged by his muse, Geoff pursued his dream and has produced The Sincerest Form of Poetry.

All of life in one easy couplet

To write poetry I need inspiration. Often that comes from my appreciation of the craftsmanship of other, better poets, whose skills I aspire to emulate. For this anthology, I have chosen two such sources: in part one, the search for Britain’s favourite poem led to the publication of the top 100 and I have used a number of these to craft my own take on those beautiful and inspirational works; in part two, my love of the sonnet form, fostered by reading Shakespeare’s gems has provided a selection covering many topics and themes. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed creating them.

-Geoff LePard

Half parody pastiche and half sonnet, Monsieur LePard outdoes himself. After reading, I came up with a few questions which he has graciously answered:

1. Many of your poems seem inspired by a certain topic or event. Could you pick one (parody or sonnet) and describe your inspiration for it?

-Sure (and your surmise is quite right). In the first section – Parody? Hmm, I might debate that some time, though I’ve had them called pastiche too which is worse – sorry, moving on… Foreign Is Quite Ghastly is a political rant, inspired, or maybe despaired is the appropriate term, by one word. Brexit. A word that will define my generation’s stupidity, pointy-headed narrow-mindedness and casual xenophobia.

Foreign Is Quite Ghastly
(Home Thoughts, From Abroad, Robert Browning)

Oh to be in England
Rather than ‘abroad’
To say travel broadens the mind
Is really quite absurd.
It’s dusty here, and full of smells
Against which the most robust rebels
And, God, the din the locals make
And don’t get me on what they boil and bake.
I’ll gift a kidney if you’ll just allow
Me back to England. Now!

The birds they have hereabouts
Have beady eyes and beaks of steel,
And I really must confess my doubts:
These evil beasts cannot be real?
Back home in dear old Blighty
Our beaded tits are cute and flighty
And fill my soul with careless rapture.
Hearts should sing! They shouldn’t rupture!

I’ve got my ticket, I’m on my way
Back to England’s green gold shores;
I’m done with ‘foreign’, outdone my stay
Take me home, to know-all bores,
To potholed roads and warm flat beer:
I’m an Englishman: get me outta here!

In structuring the poem, I began by focusing on certain well-established tropes that are raised by those whose experiences of ‘foreign’ have not been good: the strange smells when one alights from train or plane; the noise from local markets or minarets, made less attractive because it’s in a language that no self respecting Brit would want to understand; and the strange local diets inflicted on our poor traveller, which is a strange conceit given the British have adopted the mild curry as their own national dish. To give one example, I well recall my first holiday in Spain – I was 22 – when I was prevailed upon to spend a week on the Costa Brava, amongst so many other Brits. One sign, on a café, said it sold ‘tea like mum makes’: not only was it squarely aimed at we Brits and our obsession with tea but the joke had to be in English because it wouldn’t work in the local tongue.

In verse two, I’ve turned to another snobbish stereotype: that somehow Britain’s green and pleasant land – it’s natural environment – is so much nicer than everywhere else: our climate is benign; there are no poisonous creatures that will kill you (unless you have an unusual, and frankly not very British allergic reaction to say a bee string); there are no tier one predators that can out do a domesticated Brit (sure, cows can trample you and there are a few dogs I’d not want to be alone with for long) and the risk of being eaten is very remote. Further more our indigenous fauna are cuddly and cute, made more so by the propensity to anthropomorphise them in children’s literature – Wind In The Willows even rehabilitated a rat for pity’s sake. Everywhere else you have snakes that kill with a toxic glance, mammals whose teeth fail all health and safety procedures and bird life that put the lie on the theory that the dinosaurs died out.

In the final verse, I turn to consider what it is that draws the Brit home and poke fun at our acceptance of our inadequacies because, well, they’re so much better than everyone else’s inadequacies. Essentially it’s a dig at the one British past-time at which we have no superiors: our ability to moan. In the last two lines, there are two allusions which you probably need to be British to get: ‘warm flat beer’ is a reference to the chief Brexit stirrer, Nigel Farage who would often be photo’ed in a British pub sipping a pint of the ghastly muck, to prove his domestic credentials. And ‘get me outta here’ is a cultural reference to the TV show ‘I’m a Celebrity; Get me Outta here’; we like to make a big play on our cultural superiority: Shakespeare and theatre, the BBC and TV dramas and comedies Nowadays our exports are of a more prosaic nature: The Great British Bake Off, Strictly Come Dancing and Top Gear. How far have we fallen.

2. In my experience, some people are afraid of writing poetry. What advice would you give a writer who feels timid at the idea of trying a poem?

Oh dear, that’s easy to say: just write. I think people expect poetry to be a special skill and they have to have the knack or they can’t do it. I like to think of poetry as structured prose anyway. If you can write a sentence you can write poetry and some poetry is just differently aligned prose anyway.

Your lesson to me [when I applied for some advice years ago] is a great place to start. Go outside, sit and stare and then write down all you see, hear, smell and, if you do, taste and touch. Then see if anything jumps out at you as an idea or thought you’d like to pursue. Poetry doesn’t have to be about imagery or emotion, it doesn’t need metaphor or simile. It can be glib and silly. The fact that I like form is my weakness rather than a guide to how it’s done. I often wonder if we fail our children by offering them so much in rhyme that they feel the need to rhyme their poetry and that carries through to limit them in adulthood. 

3. What would you rhyme with ‘orange?’

Some say it is those on the fringe
On whose votes this election will hinge;
But despite all the chatter
It’s skin tone that’ll matter:
A grey face or one that’s orange.

—–

On Geoff’s permission, I’ve included another of his poems that I enjoyed:

The Inner Musings of Clouds
(Daffodils, William Wordsworth)

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Which is pretty daft for a man of fifty,
Cos, unlike a cloud, and I’m not proud
To admit, I’m not, these days, so nifty
As once I was. I’ve put on weight
Through beer and pies, and grown a paunch
That’s round and hard. I’m not the slight
Young fella, who’d down a vat at lunch
With space to drink the same at dinner.
Clouds are lonely, so posits old Will,
Like me, they’re seen as less saint than sinner
Who’ll rain on everyone’s parade, until
The fun stops. But we don’t care, cloudy and me;
We are what we are: grey, fat, round and free.

To pick up your own copy, visit Tangental.com or Amazon. Stick around his blog for some great stories and some envy-worthy views of Geoff’s garden as well.

The beautiful cover for The Sincerest Form of Poetry, ©2020 Geoff LePard

—–

Geoff Le Pard started writing to entertain in 2006. He hasn’t left his keyboard since. When he’s not churning out novels he writes some maudlin self-indulgent poetry, short fiction and blogs at geofflepard.com. He walks the dog for mutual inspiration and most of his best ideas come out of these strolls. He also cooks with passion if not precision.

My Father and Other Liars is a thriller set in the near future and takes its heroes, Maurice and Lori-Ann on a helter-skelter chase across continents.
Geoff 1

Smashwords

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Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle is a coming of age story. Set in 1976 the hero Harry Spittle is home from university for the holidays. He has three goals: to keep away from his family, earn money and hopefully have sex. Inevitably his summer turns out to be very different to that anticipated.Geoff2

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In this, the second book in the Harry Spittle Sagas, it’s 1981 and Harry is training to be a solicitor. His private life is a bit of a mess and he’s far from convinced the law is for him. Then an old acquaintance from his hotel days appears demanding Harry write his will. When he dies somewhat mysteriously a few days later and leaves Harry in charge of sorting out his affairs, Harry soon realises this will be no ordinary piece of work. After all, his now deceased client inherited a criminal empire and several people are very interested in what is to become of it.


Geoff3

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The third instalment of the Harry Spittle Sagas moves on the 1987. Harry is now a senior lawyer with a well-regarded City of London firm, aspiring to a partnership. However, one evening Harry finds the head of the Private Client department dead over his desk, in a very compromising situation. The senior partner offers to sort things out, to avoid Harry embarrassment but soon matters take a sinister turn and Harry is fighting for his career, his freedom and eventually his life as he wrestles with dilemma on dilemma. Will Harry save the day? Will he save himself?


Geoff4

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Life in a Grain of Sand is a 30 story anthology covering many genres: fantasy, romance, humour, thriller, espionage, conspiracy theories, MG and indeed something for everyone. All the stories were written during Nano 2015.


Geoff5

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Salisbury Square is a dark thriller set in present day London where a homeless woman and a Polish man, escaping the police at home, form an unlikely alliance to save themselves.
Geoff6

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Buster & Moo is about about two couples and the dog whose ownership passes from one to the other. When the couples meet, via the dog, the previously hidden cracks in their relationships surface and events begin to spiral out of control. If the relationships are to survive there is room for only one hero but who will that be?
Geoff7

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Life in a Flash is a set of super short fiction, flash and micro fiction that should keep you engaged and amused for ages.
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Apprenticed To My Mother describes the period after my father died when I thought I was to play the role of dutiful son, while Mum wanted a new, improved version of her husband – a sort of Desmond 2.0. We both had a lot to learn in those five years, with a lot of laughs and a few tears as we went.
Geoff9

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Life in a Conversation is an anthology of short and super short fiction that explores connections through humour, speech and everything besides. If you enjoy the funny, the weird and the heart-rending then you’ll be sure to find something here.
Geoff10

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When Martin suggests to Pete and Chris that they spend a week walking, the Cotswolds Way, ostensibly it’s to help Chris overcome the loss of his wife, Diane. Each of them, though, has their own agenda and, as the week progresses, cracks in their friendship widen with unseen and horrifying consequences.
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Famous poets reimagined, sonnets of all kinds, this poetry selection has something for all tastes, from the funny, to the poignant to the thought-provoking and always written with love and passion.
Geoff12

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Geoff Le Pard’s Amazon Author Page

©2020 Chel Owens
Geoff LePard’s works © Geoff LePard. Don’t cross him; he’s a lawyer