WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 6/9/2022

Not Pam placed first last time we poem-ed and challenged entrants to write a sonnet about soup. At long last, let’s see who served up the winning poem:

SOUP DU JOUR

by M

Vichyssoise is the soup du jour today
cranberry, pineapple, pine nuts and peas
potato and leaks and cream take-away
thats not soup, that is garbige if you please

mushrooms,more mushrooms, more mushrooms for me
withsome cream and salt and pepper to taste
cant forgot the crootons and sharp, cheese
seriously kid that sounds, like; such a waste

you have yours and I have mind now shove off
fighting words to, me just you weight and see
oh yeah? PUNCH to the gut I, make you cough
peas, leeks, ghee dumped! In your bowl with great glee.

I hate you grandma with all of my heart!
Oh billy, just eat your damned soup which you know in your heart will give you incredibly stinky smelly nasty mushroom farty farts. Kids, today.

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are the most terrible poet! I’ll be contacting you about your grand prize!

As usual, the poets in this kitchen were too clever to be terrible. Of those who served a questionable bowl, judging the best recipe proved difficult. M’s won for his cringe-worthy misspells, his “mushrooms, more mushrooms, more mushrooms” bit, and for that truly terrible final line.

The rest of the menu’s worth perusing, although I’d leave your appetite for dessert:

A soup of a sonnet

by Bruce Goodman

This soup tastes like you got it out of a can
And by “can” I don’t mean like Andy Warhol painted.
This soup should come under a ban.
I just about fainted.

Has anyone ever told you that you can’t cook?
So not only are you fat and ugly you are also a fake.
Some faults are possible to overlook,
But your soup-making incompetence takes the cake.

One sip of this undesirable brew
And I was under the table in the throes of death.
If I was Johnny Depp I would sue;
The smell is enough to make me hold my breath.

And yet you claim soup-making to be your forte.
If you’re going to cook stuffed cow’s udder stick to sauté.

—–

Here is mine in eight lines. The title is In my Bowl

by John W. Howell

Shall I compare you to a summer’s day,
or sit guessing as to your content way.
The window to your soul so darkly kept,
A hint of substance will stay hidden yet.
To dip a careful spoon below the scum,
May help unmask a hint of nature done.
To all who wonder what happened next,
The spoon was eaten by an unknown beast.

—–

Scottish Soup: A Sonnet

by Ruth

My Scottish senses love the cooking smell
Of soup that starts with deeply smoked ham hock
Boiled up with split red lentils, seasoned well
Traditional good food from fresh-made stock

Or leek and tatties make the perfect base
With chicken bouillon, carrots, onions too
Add herbs and salt and pepper judged to taste
A little milk to finish – that’ll do!

Pearl barley thickens broth like fattened rice
With cheap-cut beef and root veg simmered low
Soup fills you up at such a decent price
Well-blended flavours make your tastebuds glow

A bowl of love with thick-sliced bread to eat
Now that’s a hearty dinner hard to beat ♥

—–

Silly Soup

by Frank Hubeny

Today I fear they’ll feed me silly soup
to help my nightmares scare up some disease.
With windows open breathing summer’s breeze
I dream the ground is dizzy, in a loop.
I dream of ropes and jumping through a hoop.
I’m doing more or less just as I please.
My nose as well’s deciding should it sneeze.
While waiting in the chair I start to droop.

The soup contains assorted sorts of beans,
some once-white rice and onions, too, I guess.
There’s stuff in it I can’t identify
to add some color to the grassy greens.
I spilled the soup. Oh, my. I made a mess.
I’m force fed now with silly soup. Goodbye.

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

Soup – a bit like food
A bit of a waste
Like dressing up in the nude
It’s lacking in taste
Broth – a bit like a meal
But from food an estrangement
Nothing to feel
But a rearrangement
Of nutrition
And now that you’ve looked
A suspicion
It’s a bit undercooked
So much less than a stew
When there’s nothing to chew.

—–

Cravings

by Not Pam

My thoughts turn as the winter’s chill descends
To mushroom soup, on what joy it does bring
It is lush, it is rich, it makes amends
Just thinking about it makes my heart sing

Into the kitchen I merrily go
Thrilling a sing to cull my appetite
To search my cupboard but what do you know
There isn’t any mushrooms, oh what a blight

To venture out, and join the endless queue
The idea certainly doesn’t appeal
Perhaps another flavour soup will do
Wait, what about asparagus and veal

Bother, its only mushroom soup I crave
I’m going to bed, stomach just behave.

—–

Untitled

by Simon

There was a ship named Tilly
Rumour was spread around town Kelly
The gore news tightened their Belly
A ghost from Kelly sells soup in Tilly

Wonder What is so silly about a soup?
Whoever sells the soup it’s a coup
Free marketing, let’s buy a Scoop
Said the man in blazers named snoop

It’s a religious town people are scared
No man gets in the ship to stay sacred
For the people, I’ll go alone. He dared.
People stared, he glared, he cared.

Dared, he ordered a soup named Silly
Waiting for order is not so long. Chilly
Was the soup commented by Billy
He was the protector of town Kelly

What is so gore about it? That rumour?
Billy said, the soup menu is a Humour
Eat your own tongue, stay Calmer
Just the name of the soup, is that Rumour.

Think it sounds silly?
Why don’t you Visit Tilly
Read review from Billy
Fill your belly.

—–

The Naming of Soups

by TanGental

There’s a type of soup called Vichyssoise

Sounding posher than mulligatawny,

Hinting perhaps of a little French class

With a touch of something porny.

That’s how it is with those old soup names,

They’re weird and a little bit freaky:

There’s one that recalls this old man’s shame

When it speaks of his cock-a-leekie.

And, truth be told, I’ve sampled broths

That are nearer piss than porridge

As well as ones that stop all coughs

Even though they’re downright horrid.

Let’s cut the crap; no more this soupish snobbery

Accept the truth: both yours and mine’s a strone.

—–

Soup Kitchen

by Obbverse

The joy of mash and chicken soup-
Won’t that warm my dark cold soul!
‘Yes’m, soggy spuds, gimme a scoop,
Slop up my plate and fill that bowl.’

‘Look lady, I come here for the food,
Your sole job is just to fill my cup-
Say, Sister, you can call me drunk’n’rude
But if you just prayed for me, back it up.’

‘You see another broken down bum
But I see a Miss priss with a ladle,
I’ll say ‘thanks’ but I don’t welcome
Your airs and graces at my table.’

‘I’ll take your free tray and gladly eat it
But spare me mealy words- now beat it.’

—–

What is Soup?

by Greg

The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.

Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.

Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.

What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.

—–

Untitled

by Shauni-Michelle Chadburn

Mushroom recipe, for total catastrophe, lockdown curiosity turned into insanity. A Hallucination interpretation with a twisted sense of humour, exploitation an observation a naieve, unsuspecting consumer. Not a substantial bliss, psychosis a diagnosis that’s ferocious, somewhat precocious totally atrocious like being inflicted with some hellish hypnosis. Digesting the fungi when did the fun die, out in the garden it grows, or in the haystacks it’s time I face facts this was not how it was supposed to go! Totally mad, slightly insane, revisiting and reliving all the emotional pain, it is trauma it has engrained, it would have been safer to, do, cocaine.

—–

Soup

by Richmond Road

that I scoop out of the entrails of our love
the little bits of pre-digested nourishment
that fall like manna from above
our love that travelled the universe like a comet
with all the colours of a parrot
oh, wait. that’s vomit
and I think I see a bit of carrot
floating around in there
somewhere
with the noodles and oodles of emotion
I have the notion
to express
like milk from the breast
all the best, to us
with love
Brutus

—–

Ode to a hammock (sorry) ham hock

by Doug Jacquier

Oh, soup of green split pea and ham

(no, never, thrice never to Spam)

shall I compare thee to a cabernet,
cellared long in boiling heat in the loading bay?

Do I dare take a sup

from the pig-leg supping cup (or the ladle)
after gorging full well of peach melba
on a rolled-up ragged-trousered beach?

Or should I await the tourist bus

filled with them (and not with us)

disgorging ag-ed crones of Japanese

desperate for their afternoon peas?

Nay, fie, upon the soup-less have-nots!
I will gluttonise the whole damn lot

and leave them gasping in my tomorrow’s wind.

—–

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Thank you, everyone! It’s been a blast for me; I hope you’ve had fun as well.

M: Here’s your badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery. You’ve got quite the collection now:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

The Greeeaaat Whiiiiite Chew Toy

I’s once, a great
White beast o’ prey
But now, me fate
Be torpid play

Fare well, Ahab;
See, I’ve no kneed
Fer vengeful rehab
‘Midst carpet seas.

©2022 Chel Owens

©2022 Carolyn Cordon

Written in response to Carolyn Cordon’s fun, new challenge! Join in!

…I am asking, for some kind of creative writing, using the image above, and a random number hmm, lets see, 28.

So further to that, I want a piece of creative writing that is twenty-eight words onlynot more or less, but exactly 28, not including the title. And don’t get clever with the title, by making it a long one, the title must be of 5 words or fewer. It can be poetry or prose.

Sonnet du Jour, Terrible

In honor of the last Terrible Poetry Contest before summer break, I give you my very best at terrible-ness. Do as I do, or even worse, and you’re guaranteed to win:

Photo by Navada Ra on Pexels.com

I don’t like soup it makes me think of love
Erstwhile torment forsooth magniloquent
Like when my boyfriend made me soup with doves
Pain angst pain angst pain angst I’m eloquent.
I took a steak he cut out from my heart
Or flank -oh, agony! At least the taste
Was better, far, than soup I think in part…
But haste I hates or waste on waist for taste
“You make no sense,” he croons from slurping spoon,
“The dove I caught, the steak a homophone.”
“Alas,” I rage to azure suns, then swoon
At this failed step to feed my sex hormones.
Something symbolic and depressed goes here
And then I rhyme with ‘soup’ and sound unclear.

A Mother’s Promise, in memory of Uvalde

I’ll see you soon,
I tell the sunshine behind your smile –
I promise your eyes; trusting, beautiful, brown.
Have fun at school. I’ll see you soon;
You say, I’ll see you soon.

what why
I ask I beg I cry
shadows block me
I’LL SEE YOU SOON
I scream at them
at nightmare sounds
and
crying crying crying
they stop me
hold me
stop

I’ll see you soon, I whisper
to what’s left
what’s left of you
my girl my
sunshine my
future my
promise

to empty eyes

and dead. dark. face.

©2022 Chel Owens

Not quite there, but that’s what I’ve got; a tribute to the parents of those killed at Uvalde, Texas.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 5/26/22

Welcome to the LAST biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest before summertime (here in the Northern Hemisphere)!

If you still aren’t sure what terrible poetry is or how to write it, read here. Now; on with the show:

  1. Last time, Not Pam‘s poem won! As such, she’s chosen the Theme and Form of this go-around to be a sonnet about soup.
    A sonnet is a fourteen-line poem written in iambic pentameter, with a rhyming pattern.
    Soup is the liquid version of solid food.
  2. Need to know the Length? It couldn’t be fourteen lines….
    (But if you go half that, we’ll count it as bonus points toward being terrible.)
  3. To Rhyme is what tradition says to.
  4. So, Terrible is what we all need. A soup or stew are what we all feed.
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner. What’s in your bowl?

You have till 8:00 a.m. MDT on Thursday, June 9 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 a grand prize I’m willing to mail if s/he is willing to be mailed*.

—–

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

*Don’t worry. I never save addresses for nefarious purposes.

Reasons to read your work aloud, a re-form of D. Wallace Peach

I have an irksome sensitivity
to the sounds of words
and
the rhythm of phrases and sentences.
When I search for the right word,
it’s not just the meaning
I’m chasing.
I’m looking
for the right number of syllables,
the sharpness
or softness
of the consonants.
As I nestle a word into a sentence,
I listen for the subtlety
of alliteration,
a rhythm
in
the
flow
of
the
words
that form phrases,
phrases into paragraphs.

Photo by olia danilevich on Pexels.com

© D. Wallace Peach

From “16 Reasons to read your work aloud,” by D. Wallace Peach. Re-formed by Chel Owens.

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.

Not That Bad of a Habit, Surely… Not That Terrible of a Poetry Parody

Every time you come around, you know I can’t say no
Every time I see that brown, I want you to console.
I open up my eyes (and mouth); my diet plan explodes
But all -night- -I- -taste- something won-der-ful…

Candy jackets lead to
Closets, hiding alone
Whispered nothings to a Snicker’s, or Toblerone.
Swearin’ I won’t eat one more; we know how that’ll go
I can’t help it with these blues; no booze; I chews

My bad(?) habit
Means I’m passed out, red in the face
And we know I’ve lost control of the size of my waist
I was lookin’ to eat well …but I’ve got canapés
I shouldn’t eat it after nine, I whine
I’m fine, my choc’late habit is all mine….

Ooh-eye, ooh-eye
My choc’late habit is all mine
Ooh-eye, ooh-eye
This bad(?) habit is just fine.

©2022 Chel Owens

Thanks, Pixabay

I’m sure Geoff said we were supposed to take the first line of any sort of poetic piece, right? Like, a song; right? …I’m doubly sure you can do better for this round of Terrible Poetry. Go ahead!

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