The A Mused Poetry Contest 4/17/2021 – 5/14/2021

It’s past time for another A Mused Poetry Contest. I blame the management. And aliens.

  1. This month’s Theme is a political campaign slogan and/or speech. You’ve heard the usual promises, mud-slinging, and appeals to special interest groups -now, USE THEM.
  2. Gone are the days of the Lincoln/Douglas debates; keep your poem’s Length brief and snappy enough to… oh, man; you’ve already lost the audience.
  3. Rhyming is up to your campaign manager.
  4. This will be broadcast to general audiences, so keep the Rating clean -or, at least realize that some ****ing ****s will be censored.
  5. What’s most important? HUMOR! When do we want it? By next month!

You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next MONTH (May 14) to submit a poem.

Use the form, below, to keep your record clean until results are posted.

Otherwise, include your poem in the comments, link to it in the comments, or leave a note that you’ve written one and stuck it on your own site in the comments. You cannot just link back to my post because WordPress is stupid and I will not receive it.

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Photo by Aaron Kittredge on Pexels.com

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©2021 Chel Owens

A Liberal’s Rant, a poem

Here’s another side, for the A Mused Poetry Contest, due THIS FRIDAY! You can enter, too! I know you can!

Rap it Up and Give to the Homeless

My neighbor’s flying a MAGA flag.
He’s also saying, “Death to Fags,”
But he isn’t smoking nor feeling tired.
For, all that redneck has conspired
To do is add more barb-tipped wire
‘Round ‘No Warning Shot’ signs he’s acquired
And smugly telling all who’ll hear
That COVID’s nothing we should fear.
I wish someone would tell the fool
That Commies don’t run all the schools;
It’s teachers, risking life and limb
To teach his half-brained kith and kin.

And why must Dr. Fauci ask
The idiots like him to mask?
While nurses, doctors; movie stars
Are worried, daily, of this SARS.
The numbers don’t look good, you see
-At least, until this presidency.
My half of this united nation
Has fin’lly kicked Th’Abomination
The last four years have been a s*it-ler
While we’ve been run by worse-than-Hitler.

But, as I said, that’s all behind us;
No longer divided, we’ll work toward kindness.

Make America Kind Again Yard Sign Printed 2-Sided 24x18 or image 0
Available for sale on Etsy.com

©2021 Chelsea 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

Monkeys, Happy Place, Iceland

In the few seconds between bedtime and actually getting to bed, I snuck over to my Reader’s Feed. And there, an epiphanous* idea appeared:

Why not write whatever pops into my head based on the three random words suggested at the top? Today’s prompt: Monkeys, Happy Place, Iceland.


“I say, Gorillford, this simply cannot stand.” Chimply scratched an errant flea.

His friend fixed him a bewildered look. “What’s that? Iceland’s moorings?”

Chimply sighed. “No, though that is distressing. Bad news, that, after so many years of stability. The country’ll be at Africa by summer. No, I was referring to this whole classification nonsense.”

Gorillford huffed, puffing up onto his thick knuckles.

“I know, I know. ‘Don’t you start’ -but you haven’t experienced the indignity, Gill! Everywhere I go, it’s, ‘Look at the monkey!’ ‘Mummy, may I have a monkey!’ I’ve… I’ve broken a bit; I’ve even considered saying, ‘Sod it’ and pasting a tail back there anyway….”

Gorillford had no reply. His beady eyes nearly popped from his leathery face. His jaw hung slack. A tail? That was far worse than living with mislabeling. He gathered his thoughts to attempt reasoning with his friend.

“You needn’t bother,” Chimply cut him off. “I know.” He sighed and then contemplatively peeled and ate a banana. “I know.”

This would take some thinking. Gorillford snapped his meaty fingers. “Chim.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Hm?” Chimply retained a glum expression as he set the peel atop a fence post.

“I said, ‘I’ve got it.'” Leaning into the mesh between their enclosures, Gorillford grinned. “You’d rather we not be monkeys, yeah?”

Chimply didn’t even look over. “Obviously.”

“Well… given the rate at which these loony bipeds are going, do we really want to be known as apes?” Gorillford leaned back against a vine-twisted log in this, their happy place, allowing the import of his words to sink in.

It didn’t take long.

“My Gibbons! You’re right! Why, come to think of it, they’ve even used us as insults in some of their so-called ‘professional debates.’ If the orangutans aren’t safe, who is?”

“Precisely.”

They both sat, now in companionable silence. Only the clink or clunk of food pails interrupted a peaceful morning.

“Gill?”

“Hm?” The large ape monkey looked over at his smaller ape monkey friend.

“At least we’re not donkeys.”

“He.” Gorillford rolled his eyes and then rolled over to nap. “Ha.”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

©2021 Chel Owens

*Epiphanous is not a word.

7/20/2020 of COVID-19 Home Life

Last time I checked in, I shared Utah’s rising case numbers. Things are looking up since then.

And I do mean “up.” Our all-time high was 867 in one day, reported just two days after I wrote. Fortunately, we’re back to numbers like 736, 731, and 788 for the last three beautiful, blue bars of that graph.

I’ve had a bad headache today since the baby awoke at 2 a.m., compounded by another awakening at 5 a.m. As with anytime I’ve felt a little off, I’m paranoid I’ve got The ‘Rona. That figures, since I still do grocery pickup, mask when I go to a public place, and have not agreed to family invitations to public places. Heck; we’ve gotten takeout five times in the last four months.

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Pizza: The American Meal. Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We did attend church last Sunday. We LDS normally attend every Sunday; with a communal meeting that includes eating bread and drinking water (sacrament) passed around on trays, then a second meeting by age and gender group afterward. Sunday’s meeting was only The Sacrament. We sat with a bench between other family groups. We all wore masks, except Baby Owens. The bread and water trays remained in the hands of the boys distributing them. We even sang with masks on, reading from our individual phones instead of hymn books. Only the speaker unmasked as he shared a gospel message about spirituality from the podium at the front.

My parents also live in Utah, but their local leaders have not reinstated meetings. Ironically, their libraries and recreational centers (swimming pools, gyms) are in business. Different strokes for different counties, I guess.

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In terms of shortages and price increases, I’ve heard that hard currency is running low. The cashier at the kids’ clothing store told me, the internet told me, and the plastic partition at the hardware store told me.

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Perhaps you’ll accept galvanized nails in replacement, Lowe’s?

I was able to procure some antibacterial kitchen hand soap at Wal-Mart when I had to go inside. Being 5’8″ tall with long arms helped that procurement. I brought a bottle of hand sanitizer down for any shorter-armed shoppers that followed. The rest of their soaps were in short supply, as were any bottles of rubbing alcohol:

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Who needs antiseptics when you’ve got a lonely roll of gauze?

The biggest news, for me, is The School Issue. I mentioned, before, that I’m following a TwoFacebook Group concerned with returning children to their desks, come hell or high water. Members of said group were prominent at a recent meeting in Utah County, where they vociferously (and crowdedly) spoke in favor of no masks for their children. Since I know many teachers personally and would like them to remain healthy, I see no-masking to be a selfish, nearsighted opinion.

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Just one of the many, many inspiring and educated adults making decisions for her offspring.

Of all the ways to make the news, Utah, you have to pick this one…

I assumed, recently, that my more-conservative friends have seen the light. With stories about reinfection; with more people we actually know getting infected; with areas shutting back down to curb Coronavirus cases -SURELY opinions would change. Not so. One of my more vocal neighbors just posted, today, about articles against masking and how any legitimate information supporting that idea keeps “getting taken down.”

I know restricting or changing information happens. I’ve seen it. However, I also know that I, like other humans, breathe and cough and sneeze. As such, I’m in favor of wearing a mask, using my turn signal, and not randomly kicking strangers in the shins because it’s my right to do so.

In conclusion, here’s a funny image re-shared by a teacher friend on 2FB:

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Sorry; I’m not sure who came up with these. They’re pretty clever.

Images ©2020 Chelsea Owens, unless otherwise noted. Blog post ©2020 Chelsea Owens

Blue

What will he do
The man dressed in blue
When everyone’s angry
So angry at blue

What will he do
The man dressed in blue
When his child needs him
Needs him in blue

What will we do
Without men in blue
When no one will answer
And no one wear blue

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Politics and Idiots

After composing a beautifully-worded rant against the stupidity of humanity, I decided the world would benefit more from a picture of my baby boy.

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This is from shortly after he began smiling socially -about two months ago, I believe. In all the chaos outside our walls, he is my motivation to stay well and my reminder to be happy with who and what we have in life.

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And here’s my writings from the past week:

Wednesday, April 1: Thought about where things are going in “Let’s Make Some Order in This Chaos.”

Friday, April 3: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Writerinretrospect!

Saturday, April 4: Announced the next Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is a senryu about a small, innocuous animal. PLEASE ENTER!

And, an update on Coronavirus and life happenings ’round these parts.

Sunday, April 5: “How to Wake a Teenager,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, April 6: An inspirational quote by LA, of “Waking Up on the Wrong Side of 50.”

Tuesday, April 7: “Going Postal, IV.” Poor Ron.

Wednesday, April 8: Today.

I also posted on my motherhood site. I probably ought to log in and check that sometime… Apparently, I wrote “This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.”

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens, including photo

A Tribute to Masercot

I love the bloggers I’ve met online! As such, I want to pay a monthly tribute to my favorites with a post in their style.

Today’s author is Charles, AKA masercot. Although his “Moosehead Stratagem,” “Ask a Genetically-Modified Bio-Engineered Super-Intelligent Dog,” and history lessons are …interesting reads; Charles is most famous for his irreverent lists on varying topics. I will therefore attempt just such a list, in the voice of masercot.

Why It’s Better to Not Be Bright

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Instead of staying up all night wondering if life has meaning, you can stay up all night watching reruns of “Saved by the Bell: The New Class.”

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If your girlfriend just smashed the car into a cement piling and called your number, she’ll immediately say, “Oh! I forgot!” and call someone who can help instead.

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Pretty much nothing at work is your fault. Even though it probably is.

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You’re a shoe-in for any political office. Don’t worry about how to get there; people with money and slightly more brains will help you.

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Whenever your grandmother turns to you and asks what Thirteen Across is, your dazed and blinking expression will help her realize you’re singing the theme song to “Saved by the Bell” and she’ll have to ring for the nurse.

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Offers like “extended warranty” and “variable interest” sound interesting and exotic.

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Since ignorance is bliss, you’ll be euphoric. (That means you’ll be stupid.)

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I know I fall a bit short of the master so, if you liked what you read, give masercot a Follow.

 

Photo Credit:
Daniel Mingook Kim
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Hello poets, and welcome to the 31st Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!

Read the basic how-to about what we do around here if you’re confused. If you don’t want to click a link and read an outline, that’s cool. You can also stay up all night and write whatever comes out before drinking coffee.

Besides that, here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Just to be inclusive, the Topic is small rodents’ opinions on political policies.
    I am a moderate and do not approve of anyone shaming, judging, hating, or blaming others for their views; but the politicians themselves are free game.
  2. Don’t filibuster for too long. Keep the Length to 200 words or fewer.
  3. Rhyme if it makes your constituents happy. Or, just promise to.
  4. Most importantly: Make it terrible. In fact, make “Make it terrible” your slogan. Slap “Make it terrible” stickers on babies and kiss their sweet mothers for the camera.
  5. I realize this sort of thing can raise some blood pressures, so keep your poem PG or cleaner. After all, in rodent politics they don’t actually want fur to fly.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 28) to submit a poem.

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

For a more social experience that’s high in vitamins and minerals*, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
My Name

*The Terrible Poetry Contest is not actually high in vitamins and minerals.

A Little From Column A

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I’m fairly private about religion, political opinions, and social security numbers of family.

I keep the last item private for obvious reasons; the first two are more complicated. Mostly, I hate being categorized. My husband doesn’t get it.

“I love being put in categories,” he says. “I don’t understand why you don’t.”

I sigh. “Because I’m not ever put into good categories.”

My 18-40 white male breadwinner who works in the technical industry and has above-average intelligence looks back at me, confused.

From the limited mental capacity of over a decade of child-rearing, stay-at-home housekeeping, and intentional numbing; I attempt to talk expound.

Problem is, I have difficulty. Maybe it’s that limited mental capacity thing I admitted to just now. That, and I am nearly crippled at the idea of conversation. Challenges within conversation take out any other remaining limbs. Finish off with a general uncertainty and low self-esteem, and you’re lucky you caught the words I thought to type tonight.

I do not want to be categorized because of the limitations that puts on my character.

know that others’ opinions ought not to play into my self-esteem at all. I hear that I should just be me and everyone will love me for it. I think, sometimes, to try it out.

Then, telling the mother of an acquaintance that I think unborn babies preaching the gospel to spirits in heaven sounds wonky gets me labeled as anti-her religion. Asking a close friend to not disparage feminist viewpoints lands me in his radical/liberal/male-stabbing/unreasonable/lesbian camp. Suggesting that making one’s kids dress nicely for special events causes a sudden drop-off in the number of texts from the mother I suggested this to.

Where are all these people who will like me for who I am? Are they hiding in their own categories somewhere?

How can I expect to enjoy the sensation of being stuffed in a box when I’m left to sit uncomfortably, in the dark, and listen to the retreating steps of the one(s) who put me in there?

Picture Source: Pixabay