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
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.
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
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?
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
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.
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):
©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.