2022

June 13, 2022June 14, 2022Chel Owens 27 Comments

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:

Sonnet du Jour, Terrible

June 4, 2022June 4, 2022Chel Owens 37 Comments

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:

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.

The Terrible Poetry Contest 5/26/22

May 26, 2022May 26, 2022Chel Owens 71 Comments

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:

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.
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.)
To Rhyme is what tradition says to.
So, Terrible is what we all need. A soup or stew are what we all feed.
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*.

—–

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 1/27/2022

January 27, 2022January 27, 2022Chel Owens 22 Comments

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is a terrible sonnet about a period/historical romance for a terrible contest.

And the winner of said contest is:

Bizarre Lover Triangle Er Square

by Matt Snyder

I love them it’s plain to see
Watson well is another story ya know
They love me at 221 B Baker Street
Watson has a mind I equally adore

But Em and her Cousin Cee* soothe me
Watson has the biggest heart
But Em & Cee make my head feel free
Then he was shot and I had to think clear

“For I knew his depth of Loyalty & Love”**
But Em and her cousin Cee consume me
Yet I still prayed for his recovery to the Lord above
“His hard eyes dimmed, his lips they shook”**

Watson, oh Watson my Love who I do adore…
But Em and her Cousin Cee I adore far more, so take your sorry ass full of yourself, think you are better than me, want all the credit for cases clearly solved by yours truly, out the door!

*Morphine & Cocaine
**Paraphrased from the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

—–

Congratulations, Matt! You are the most terrible poet of the week! In case you didn’t see, now you get to pick the type of poem and theme for next week!

I had a very, very difficult time choosing one winner from the carefully crafted poems. I finally narrowed it down to my favorite eight, had them demonstrate a talent, then chose the one that looked worst in a bathing suit. In all honesty, these were terribly clever and Matt’s barely squeaked by because he repeated sections enough to irritate me.

Go ahead; read through all of the entries and see if you’ve still the stomach for romance:

Bathing Beauty Blue

by Frank Hubeny

The sky is blue. The grass is shifty green.
The kingdom is on autopilot now
and David has some time to look. She’s seen.
He questions should he, could he, and then how?

Bathsheba’s bathing on her warm rooftop.
She wonders if the king can see her there.
The beast can’t make its wagging tail stop.
It fears they’ll go and cool off somewhere.

He has a wife too many, he’d admit.
She has a husband also after all.
He wonders how to grasp the horns of it.
The beast is charging for an early fall.

The sky is green. The grass is baby blue.
Uriah’s coming home tomorrow, too.

—–

Our Love Canst Wait Not

by Obbverse

My love is a beauty, blue eyes, golden tresses,
In thy sapphire orbs shines a loving light,
I, her slave, my soul she solely posses,
The flames in my heart burn pure and bright.

For thy visage, my love knows no earthly bounds,
When ere I espy thy ruby lips, thy rose kissed cheeks
In mine chest my beating heart palpably pounds,
Is this the bless’d love of which Cupid speaks?

My love, know your love I treasure o’er all others,
Understand I’ll love thee till my dying day,
Pray I meet the approval of thy understanding mother
Then shall we send out our invitations without delay?

My dove, of our love doth thy father remain unknowing?
Best marry soonest, dearest, lest our love start showing.

—–

Perfect Couplings

by TanGental

History is littered with perfect lovers
Like Ant and Cleo and Yoko and John.
But are these blokes and their significant others
Really as solid as they make out in song?
Did Emma’s beauty make Nelson one eyed?
And did Anne B lose her head to King Hal?
Or to Jose, ‘Not tonight,’ did Nappy cry?
Or Bogie tell Lauren, ‘You act like a gal’?
I really do question if they were so perfect
Or whether they were beset with doubts,
Because life tells me most pairs have defects
And each of her screams may be met with his shouts.
No, truly there’s only ever been one biggie.
Those enduring lovers: Kermit and Miss Piggy.

—–

Jane Austen’s Heroines

by Ruth

With perfect language, carefully polite
Jane Austen’s heroines all hold their own
Societal conventions bind them tight –
Behave as ought or reputation’s flown.
In modest clothing, virginal, demure
Sweet innocence, with countenance so chaste
Correctly dressed they sit, erect and pure
All model females of the human race.
But underneath blood flows through passioned veins
Romantic love remains their heart’s desire
They will not settle for a lesser gain
Good friendships set their marriage beds on fire…
With sweaty limbs entwined in crumpled sheets
Jane Austen’s heroines find life complete…

—–

Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?

by Bruce Goodman

Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?
You know you’re overweight and find it difficult
To wear nice clothes that fit and aren’t preposterous.
It’s really not your fault; it’s how you’re built.

You call me your giraffe because I’m thin.
I try to eat a lot but nothing works.’
I walk on legs that look like skinny pins.
You laugh at me, and yes! your laughter irks.

But what a pair we are! The butt of jokes!
The fatty and the skinny grocery shopping!
One short, one tall, a pair, a gal and bloke,
The hippo and giraffe, one lean, one whopping.

And yet you are my love, my day, my night,
My sun, my moon, my stars, my world, my light.

—–

Wild Ride: A Tragic Romance Sonnet

by Greg

My handmaid’s fingers, all torn up and raw,
with one final tug, she’ll tie off the bow.
My corset so tight, a breath I can’t draw,
I’ll slip on the dress, I’m ready to go.

Off we descend from the castle above,
tonight he’ll be waiting down by the stream.
Driver don’t kill us before I know love,
to meet my fair prince beneath the moon’s beam.

The horses barreling out of control.
Into the air then crashing back down,
the carriage breaks free as we start to roll,
a ruckus so loud we woke half the town.

Terror in his eyes and a terrible squeal,
my poor prince laid down beneath the front wheel.

—–

Mistaken Identity?

by joylennick

An ‘old’ lady (certificate states I’m eighty-three.)
Eighty-three? That can’t be me…
I don’t smell of moth-balls, or click my teeth,
don’t have arthritus, or bunioned feet.
A waft of ? perfume…Chanel No. 5,
I’m eager and curious – glad I’m alive.
And when the music rings out,
I’m there with a jive.

But, first thing in the morning
do I spring out of bed?
No, I regretfully admit, I sidle instead.
And how long takes my ‘toilettte?’
I – ummm – vaguely mumble…
it takes quite a while
for me to assumble.

Forgive spontaneous poem. Couldn’t resist. (I’m now nearly 90. Help!)

When music rings out,

A waft of ? perfume

—–

Thank you to everyone!!

Matt: Here’s the honorary badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery (I’ll fix the URL one of these days):

The Terrible Poetry Contest

January 20, 2022January 20, 2022Chel Owens 34 Comments

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

What in the heck is terrible poetry? You could ask half the internet or even half the published poets out there. You could look over the first explanation I ever gave, here. Or, you could sneeze into a hanky and add anachronistic adjectives.

Ready to roll?

Topic: A sonnet about a period/historical romance. Sonnets are love poems. Period romances are love stories that take place in the past, and somehow still work even though the lovers lacked toothpaste.
Length: A sonnet. You’ve fourteen lines of a specific rhyming pattern (see below) of three quatrains followed by a couplet. The sort of people who run terrible poetry contests are not sticklers for rules, however, so you can get away with one paragraph that might rhyme.
Rhyming: Yes. The first and third lines of each quatrain are supposed to rhyme, plus the final couplet. Near-rhymes or too many rhymes are an easy way to terrible-ify a poem.
Simply make it terrible! Send Shakespeare shivering. Wake Wordsworth! Kick Keats into Conniptions. Send your lover such awful endearments that he or she wonders if you’ve fallen off the balcony a few too many times.
Rating: PG or cleaner. Inappropriate behavior didn’t exist in the past, after all!

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Thursday (January 27) to submit a poem.

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

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 week’s topic and type of poem.

—–

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

March 15, 2021March 15, 2021Chel Owens 20 Comments

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.

—–

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

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

The A Mused Poetry Contest 2/7/2021 – 3/5/2021 (AKA 7/2/21-5/3/21)

February 7, 2021Chel Owens 30 Comments

Phew! After last month‘s hilarious entries, I had a bit of trouble thinking of what our next venture should be. What to do, what to do…

Let’s try an oldie but a goodie: A Funny Love Poem Inside a Greeting Card.
Most greeting cards can’t hold a ballad, so a few stanzas ought to do us for the Length.
I’d recommend rhyming. I mean, you are serious about this love interest, aren’t you?
Yes, this is love (or something like unto it) but the Rating‘s PG or cleaner. After all, some kid might stumble across your offering while trying out all the musical cards.
Only in stories do lovers say all the right words, remember every birthday and anniversary, and get just the right present. We are not writing a story, here, we’re writing a humorous poem. As such, make us laugh. Laughter’s the best way to a person’s heart; right?
And, as a side note, whoever said this was a card expressing love to a person? What if you’re more fond of a juicy cheeseburger? Just a thought…

You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next MONTH (March 5) to submit a poem.

Use the form, below, to remain anonymous until results are posted.

Otherwise, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. You cannot simply link back to my post because WordPress is stupid and I will not receive it.

—–

Enjoy.

Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com

—–

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 10/9/2020

October 9, 2020October 9, 2020Chel Owens 18 Comments

Just in time for Halloween, this week’s challenge was to write the wittiest message inside your next anniversary card. So, who wrote the wittiest?

Unaltered By Time, by Michael B. Fishman
148,920 hours since we said, “I do”,
and honey, baby, I still love you.

You always fight fair, you sometimes let me win.
And who really cares if you’re no longer thin?

You’re the mother of my children and one day you’ll agree,
that it’s probably a good thing that the kids look like me.

You’re the one and only entry in my little black book,
and it’s never been a problem that you really can’t cook.

Your eyes are as bright as that very first day,
and it doesn’t bother me that your hair is all gray.

All these years later, and I happy I met ‘ya?
Every minute, every day, oh sweetheart, you betcha.

Congratulations, Fishman, on a-musing me! You won for the clever, terrible, almost-sweet mentions to your sweetheart.

Others went a similar direction. Others, still, went farther for a good laugh. Read and enjoy:

Untitled, by Trent McDonald
Happy Anniversary!
(Only 4 days late)
Did I tell you today
That you look great!?

And can you believe
It’s been 10 years?
So full of smiles
(And full of tears…)
I remember that day
Oh so very well
(A party the night before,
I still felt like Hell.)

But you were beautiful
In your gown and vail
But my hung-over mind
Was only thinking of some tai..(BLEEP! – sorry, keeping it PG 😉 )

But overall it was
A day from Heaven
Even if the rings were forgotten
By my best man, Kevin

And since that best of days
When you were made my wife
I’ve counted my blessings
So thankful that you are in my life!

(Did I make it up to you
With my poetry?
Will you please unlock the door
And perhaps forgive me?)

Untitled, by Jon
Dear, Oh dear,
Another year!
Let me be clear:
I want to share,
as many as you dare!

An Anniversary Messsage, by H.R.R. Gorman
They say marriage is about sparks,
About that someone who in the dark
Sets your mind and loins aflame.
But isn’t that meager? Lame?

I’ve learned in this blissful year
That’s it’s more like cracking a beer
Open and accepting farts
Are made by those with good hearts.

So while I take a hot shower,
You grunt on the throne with power.
It’s the sign of your loving care
That you keep pooping and don’t stare.

Happy Anniversary!

Untitled, by Hobbo
Married now for fifty year
And I still think you’re hot
So, love is in the air, my dear
When you say,”Yes. Why not?”

Aunty Jess, by Mister Bump
To write this prompt, it wasn’t hard,
I hardly ever send a card.
My family is very scant,
Except down under, have an aunt.

Another aunt in Lancashire,
She’s eighty now, delightful dear,
Her birthday now is round about,
I’d better pull my finger out!

The card’s awaiting me to send,
My missus made it last weekend,
Better than I could have bought,
But to the message, gave no thought.

No flow’ry message was supplied,
Just “Happy Birthday” stamped inside,
As long as there’s no writer’s cramp,
All I’m waiting for’s a stamp.

Must keep my cool, not overkeen,
Her birthday’s not ’til Hallowe’en,
By then must break out from my bubble,
If card is late, I’ll be in trouble!

Untitled, by Deb Whittam
Roses are red
Violets are blue
We’ve grown old together
What are we going to do?

Hard of hearing,
You snore, I fart,
Thirty years together
It’s way too late to part

Untitled, by Gary
So sorry this card is late

So sorry I’m a bit overweight

I thought we had an anniversary last year

Do we really get them every year, my dear

Just 122 words is perfect for a food shopping list

Or divorce papers which I have chosen to miss

I’ve really got no idea why you put up with me

Especially as I’ve just spilled coffee over your settee

Untitled, by Ruth Scribbles
Thirty years ago

We tied the knot

You promised peaches

That’s all I got

Always on the cards, by Over Soil
Last second writing “All my love” so cursory,
Time and again made us forget each anniversary,
For us, protecting trees was always on the cards,
So what better than a trip to a nearby plant nursery.

Untitled, by Ellen Best
I love your beard … when its not there.
And the shine … that’s not hair.
The way that you snore sounded sweet
Well until, the first time it woke me from sleep.

I love the ring in your nose
The way you bite at your toes
Because you can’t be arsed,
to get the clippers off the shelf.

I like all the things that you do,
But you never bag the dogs poo.
Now that might make me mad,
just a bit.
I am glad we got wed,
Though you spent a week in bed
Because of jet lag
As I recall you to say.

Romance is not dead
We’ll have adventures you said,
So we married on a beach in the bay
Even the bomb squad didn’t ruin our day.

—–

Photo by Asad Photo Maldives on Pexels.com

Thanks for playing!! Return tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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

The A Mused Poetry Contest 10/3 – 10/9/2020

October 3, 2020October 5, 2020Chel Owens 39 Comments

Welcome, one and all, to the A Mused Poetry Contest! We are very serious about humor here.

These are the specifics for this week:

At Ellen’s suggestion, the Theme is the wittiest message inside your next anniversary card. (And, coincidentally, happy anniversary to her and her husband!)
The Length needs to be short and sweet and easy on the ink. Let’s keep it under 122.5 words.
Rhymes are a popular and catchy way to sell greeting cards, but it’s not a requirement for this contest.
The Rating can be PG-13 or cleaner (please avoid cussing).
The years have been kind to your sweetheart …or, maybe not. Either way, make him/her laugh. They’ve put up with you this long, after all…

You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 9) to submit a poem.

Use the form below to stay anonymous for a week.

Otherwise, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Drop a comment if you try to link back and it doesn’t show up within a day.

—–

Have a wonderful anniversary!

—–

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/14/2020

February 14, 2020February 15, 2020Chel Owens 18 Comments

Roses are red, violets are purple, and first loves are a reason to give up on poetry and wait for 50% off chocolates… But, who among these nostalgic poets deserves the first box?

This week’s winner is:

Playground

by Bryntin

I watch you at play time
good on the hopscotch or having a climb
I wonder if we could perhaps have a kiss?
although I’m not really ready for having kids

can you tell me why you girls wear skirts?
and why they call them a blouse and not shirts?
I have lots of questions for girls, you see
and you are one, so that’s alright for me

so I think, for you, I’ve got the hots
even though you have got lots of spots
would you like a share of my gum
that I’ve kept stuck up under my desk?

one thing I’d like to know about you
do you support Liverpool or Man U?
if it’s the Mancs we’ll have to part
I’ll ask Helen instead, she’s a right Scouse tart

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

As usual, everyone’s entries were painful to read. I groaned, cringed, and nearly cried. To help narrow results, I decided to be a stickler for the rules posted and consider those poems that seemed to come from a younger person writing to his/her first crush.

Bryntin’s poem, overall, kept this tone. It sounded like the sort of terrible composition one might put together for an early love. It speaks of hope, love, sports, and curiosity. Well done.

As to the rest, I sincerely hope your past crush never finds and reads these:

Awkward First Crush

by Deb Whittam

I saw you kissing her today,
Yup my best friends, but I know
I’ll forgive you, for you are it,
The one, my love, Ok you’ve
Never spoken to me but
When you do you’ll realize
We’re meant to be together like
Paper and pen,
Sneakers and chewing gum,
Young love and desire.
‘Til then I’ll wait and talk to my
Her, she loves to gossip.

—–

Love Sick

by Annette Rochelle Aben

They tell me not to fall for you
But you’re fine as wine and I wish you were two
My insides are so confused too
Kinda of like, but sorta not, having the stomach flu

—–

Is This Love?

by Lucy

Your eyes,
Your hair,
Your cheeks,
Your stare.
Fart jokes and burps,
Spitting and slurps,
What’s a girl to do
But sigh, and bury
All those touchy feelings
Those horrible feelings
Those—Oh, wait, another fart joke.
Marvelous, you. Oh, marvelous.
I laugh, we curse,
Smile, we converse
About everything and nothing
Five second rule,
Doesn’t matter. You watch your friend
Hit his head in the locker.
Not a shocker. You laugh,
I roll my eyes, my heart stutters,
Am I in love? Is that what this is?
You wiggle your fingers
You walk like a caveman
With his mouth busted in
By his stupid hands.
Why do boys do stupid things?
Well, they’re boys.
You talk to me,
I say something,
You say something,
Conversation—is that what that is?
Are we talking?
Is this real or a dream?
(Oh god I hope it’s real, please be real)
I remember when I came to your birthday party
and you invited me over to sit with you
and I died. Well it would be more memorable if I did die,
So, I guess I didn’t?
And you turn to me so often
Another fart joke
Diarrhea, the squirts, the squirts,
The worst, the worst. Why does my heart flutter?
Oh, and I returned a pencil that wasn’t yours,
You were confused about that
But I insisted.
I wanted to smack you in the head with my math book,
But that smile made me take another look.
Maybe I’d hit your friend.
And you’d be okay with that, I think,
Because why not, he needs it more than you do.
You flap your hands around
Make a diarrhea sound
From your lips
And then you farted,
Your friend farted,
We all died inside
As the teacher ran to get Febreze;
It was like tear gas, and eggs
In some jelly of horse farts
And sewage from a donkey. I like you, okay?
You’re so weird,
And then I don’t like you. It’s weird.
You’re weird. I’m weird.
So I say nothing and keep this to myself.
My heart sunk when you said you didn’t know what
To do if someone had a crush on you.
Well, I’m right here, darlin’.

But I wouldn’t say that,
So I just nod and agree,
Pretend we understand the world
When we can’t, and alright,
I just, I just like you
Even though your farts are often
And might make me dive in a coffin.

Also P.S.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I really like you
You have tp on your shoe.

—–

My first crush

by Bruce Goodman

You came to help me milk the cows in the cow shed.
We were too busy so nothing much was said.
You called them “dingly-dangly bits”;
I called them “tits”.
(I’m talking about the cow).

My sister said it was unnecessary to do my hair
Before I milked the cows; the cows wouldn’t care.
But I told her there’s someone I’m trying to impress
And it wasn’t Bess.
(Bess was the name of one of the cows).

Anyway you went on to higher things and wealth
And I was left pulling the dingly-dangly bits by myself.
You’ll never know that I had a crush on you
Standing like a goddess amongst the cow poo.

—–

Before and After

by Michael B. Fishman

12/20/63
Dear Miss Peterson,
I love you. You are pretty and you are nice.
I like when you smile at me when I say something in class.
I don’t like when we get homework in school
but I don’t get mad when you give us homework because you are cool.
Thank you for being my teacher and for being pretty and for smiling a lot.
I hope you have a nice Christmas vacation.

01/07/64
Dear Mrs. Kinney,
I wasn’t really sure what it meant when you said you got married
or why your name was changed so when I got home from school
yesterday I asked my mom. She told me all about it and I don’t think
you are very nice. I wouldn’t do that to someone. I don’t love you
anymore and please do not give us kids any more homework.

—–

Brut and Bali Hai

by The Abject Muse

Sometimes when I miss you bad

and I’m feeling really sad

I hitch a ride and go downtown

to the drugstore.

I wander the aisles

until I find, the scent of Brut

so sweet, so fine.

I take a sniff & close my eyes.

I remember your lips

the way they feel

so hot and so unreal

I get a sort of contact high

Cuz you’ve been sipping Bali Hai.

The magical wine

that’s yours & mine

and makes me feel not shy.

I pray to God for me you’ll wait

for the day your friends can’t call me jailbait.

Do you love me, or love me not?

I hope you do because you’re hot.

—–

The Girl With the Cat-eyed Glasses

by Trent McDonald

The girl with the cat-eyed glasses
Stopped by today
Ancient beauty!
Her friend played a folk song
On a guitar
They all sang along
She smiled
Her teenage smile
Full of age and grace
At me
She laughed
At my stuttered joke
For a minute I held her huge hand
In my tiny one
I wished I could leave
On a jetplane
With the girl
With the cat-eyed glasses
*
True story. I always liked older girls. I was 5 and she was 17, you know what I mean? Strangely enough, teenage kids from my parents church would stop by, play a few folk songs and then leave. The girl with the cat-eyed glasses stopped over on her way to the prom and told me she was dressed up because we were getting married. “But I’m too young to marry!” the 4 or 5 Trent protested. She actually wrote an essay about me for her English class. And received an A. My mom still has it. Ah, the girl with the cat-eyed glasses….

—–

i was 5 and she was 6

by Matt Snyder

shall we ?
i grabbed wendy’s hand
we whistfully whisked ourselves down to the nighborhood school playground
look the monkey bars meant for monkeying around
so we did

kiss her, they yelled
kiss her on the lips, they teased
wendy and i just wanted play
play on the monkey bars that day

i was pushed and goaded
go on they said and do the deed
so i pressed both lips boldly against her cheek

they just laughed
no, on the lips the older girl yelled
a real kiss they all squeeled
so we did
then ran home crying as fast as we could
because not all first kisses are always
so good

—–

Downstairs

by Matt Snyder

Wendy i love thee let me count the ways
one, i have liked you since i was 5 maybe even before
we played and played house and with fisher price little people
till we couldn’t play no more
two your bunny thumper is cool thanks for letting me pet him
if we could try some of our own heavy petting (whatever that means)
3 i love your smile and the way you move
and then when we were in the playroom playing lights off lights on
you show me yours I’ll show you mine
till you mom told us to stop turning the lights on and off
but it’s those three
Wendy
in how i love thee

—–

Dear Miss Flanagan

by Doug Jacquier

I love your ~~sunburnt brown~~ pretty freckles

And your ~~shiny beautiful~~ cute red hair

And your green eyes (sorry if ~~their~~ there not green)

You look just like that film star (can’t remember her name but she’s really pretty, like Doris Day but not her)

I know you catch me staring

And I can’t help going red

Please don’t marry drippy Mr. Smith

Wait for me to catch up.

Sined
You Know Who

PS – There really was a Miss Flanagan upon whom I had the biggest crush imaginable and, yes, she was always catching me staring and she really did marry drippy Mr. Smith and broke my heart. Of course I would never have delivered this fawning missive but I would have re-read and ‘edited’ it a lot and hoped she wouldn’t find it in the back of my exercise book.

—–

being known

by kriti

the world keeps spinning
but what are we searching for
are you the answer?

—–

Oh, Jackie

by Wordifull Melanie

Oh, Jackie
You make me happy
you don’t even have to try
i just look at you and sigh
and I really thought I’d die
when you sat across from me in the lunch room
even though you really only stopped to talk to your sister who is in my home room
when you grabbed my sandwich and took a big bite
I have to say it just felt Right
Oh, Jackie
if you’d only see
You and I are meant to be!

Jackie + Melanie = ❤

—–

To You

by Ruth Scribbles

Petunias are pink
Your brother stinks
My nose twitches
When it itches
You smell good
Be mine
Valentine

From me

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

There’s a girl in my class so shy and so cute
She’s so clever as she can work out a cube root
She the star of athletics team and her name is Anita
Runs for the county as she is as fast as a Cheetah
One day at lunch she came over to talk
I fumbled my words and started to squawk
One hot summers day I found my voice and asked her out in the end
We became good pals but never lovers as she already had a lovely girlfriend

—–