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.

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.

WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 4/28/2022

Frank won last time; he suggested we write a common four-line meter in a nursery rhyme. Sounds simple enough, right? But… who did it the best and is the winner of this contest?

Nursery Rhymes For A Post Pandemic Utopia

by TanGental

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
When a man with appal-
-ing taste in novelty knitwear
Pushed him off and told him
To sit on his own wall.

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a spider.
She said, ‘Tuffet-chic is so last century.’
The spider declined to comment.

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill.
Everyone said,
‘It’ll be downhill from here.’

Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner.
Plotting…

Jack Spratt would eat no fat,
His wife said, ‘You’re a prat, Jack.’

Mary, Mary
Wasn’t that contrary.
She just liked saying her name twice.
Like Bond, James Bond.

The Grand Ol’ Duke of York
Is so called because he spends several grand
Buying silence.

Ring a ring A Roses
To place your next order
For that important person
Who you’ve pissed off.

London Bridge is falling down
Due to sheer weight of traffic.

Georgie Porgy
Is unlikely to get bail this time.

—–

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

I LOVED the poems this time around! The ‘nursery rhymes’ were so amusing; one of my sons read over my shoulder and kept snickering. Geoff’s poem used many elements others’ did: a few references to other rhymes, unexpected endings, and some current events. He narrowly beat out at least two others with his take on “Georgie Porgy.”

I won’t deprive you of reading the others any longer:

Untitled

by John W. Howell

Frankie is a little trim,
Who never wears clean clothes.
All the piggies follow him
Wherever Frankie goes.

On the way to school one day,
He stopped to smell a flower.
The piggies looked at each to say,
Let’s all do a boy devour.

—–

Chris Gets A Hand

by Obbverse

Will, he had a little slap,
Rock reeled back from the blow,
Will wouldn’t say ‘Chris, shut your trap;’
To no more Oscars Will he go.

—–

Jack And Ill Will

by Obbverse

It was ON
‘Tween Amber and John
Their freak-show biz deal Deppinitely over.

After many years,
Crossed words, crocodile tears
Their lawyers settled, finally in the clover.

—–

Sing a Super Confusing Song of The Old Money

by trentpmcd

Sing a song of sixpence
A pocket full of change
Money has no meaning
In such a tiny range

There were four and twenty black birds
Is that two whole shilling?
Can we just please switch to decimal?
I’m more than willing!

The king was in the counting house
Looking quite confused
Six is a half a shilling, or a fortieth of a pound
Is this stupid system still used?

The queen was in the parlour
Eating milk and honey
I guess in the promised land
You don’t worry about money

The maid was in the garden
With the Jack of Hearts
Oh, wait minute
Isn’t that how a Bob Dylan song starts?

From here it gets even more surreal
An a land with a never setting sun
But at least Britain moved to a system decimal
Back in 1971!

—–

Blackout

by Not Pam

iPhone, iPad, iWatch, and iDon’tKnow
iWatch, but iDon’tKnow
iPhone, iPad, iWatch, and iDon’tKnow
iWatch, but iDon’tKnow
And Facebook, and Twitter, and Instagram, and TikTok
iPhone, iPad, iwatch and iDon’tKnow
iWatch, but iDon’tKnow

Hickory Dickory Spock
Exhale, and take stock
It’s a blackout
No need to shout
Hickory Dickory Spock

Hickory Dickory Spock
Watch Grandma mock
As you forlornly wail
The power must prevail
No gadgets? What a horrid shock.

—–

Untitled

by Frank Hubeny

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
Had breakfast that morning.

—–

The day

by Michael B. Fishman

The day is bright as cooked brown rice,
the winds as calm as tea.
The birds alight on edelweiss
and
because I haven’t eaten in some time
well, wouldn’t you know,
I’m as hungry as could be.

I ate my rice with ketchup.
I ate my rice with beans.
I ate my rice while looking at a map of Manila,
the capital of the Philippines.

I’ve never been to the Philippines,
I’ve never been to Indonesia.
But wait! I could have been, and I don’t know,
because I could have, ‘ya know, amnesia.

My kitty lies over my other kitty,
He does it for all of us to see
My kitty just got off my other kitty.
I hope they don’t have a baby.

—–

Bought the Farm

by Greg’s Blog

Sadie rushed out to the barn,
A whip with her cowgirl charm,
The animals arranged,
An ending deranged,
Now Sadie’s done bought the farm.

—–

Fad Diet

by Greg’s Blog

Fat Larry began a fad diet,
With an eye for sweet apple pies,
He followed the plan to the letter,
And promptly when up one size.
Undeterred he continued to eat,
For the losses he’d soon realize,
Until a peek in the mirror did show,
The pie had gone straight to his thighs.

—–

Photo by Pixabay.

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

Mr. Le Pard: Here’s your badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Terrible Poetry Contest 4/14/2022

The challenge was to write a free-verse poem on bad driving, compliments of last contest’s winner, Matt! So, at long last, who was the ‘best’ at ‘worst?’

Bad Driver

by Frank

I told my shrink that the cops brought me here because of my bad driving and he said I had no record of ever driving a car in my life and I told him, not car, spaceship, S-P-A-C-E-S-H-I-P, and he said I had no spaceship and wasn’t an alien because my DNA test, D-N-A, showed I’m human enough and I told him, well, then why am I in that padded cell and he said I wasn’t in any cell and I asked him if he was trying to drive me crazy and if he was he wasn’t doing a good job of it and then he said I was brought in because I was scaring the neighborhood kids and the judge assigned me to him and I told him that I had a lot of fun turning my head 360 degrees like an owl and he said I couldn’t do stuff like that and I asked him whether he ever saw me and he said no and so I asked him if he wanted to see me turn my head 360 degrees and he said, “Sure, Marvin, go ahead turn your head 360 degrees like an own, go on show me” and so I turned my head 360 degrees like an owl and he called the exorcist.

This poem is in imitation of Gerald Stern’s American Sonnets. There “sonnets” have no rhyme nor meter (and often no sense that I could detect). They are all one sentence long allowing the reader to put in line breaks or not. I would call them terrible American sonnets, but he won some award for them and they are occasionally entertaining.

—–

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

I was AMAZED at the poems this week. AMAZED! Way to make my highly-prestigious judging difficult, everyone. The poems were terrible, plus they were terrible -making fun of a typical free verse, adding a twist or two, using humor or surprise, and adding in cliché poetic elements.
I think Frank’s stood out after all that because of his unique form. How annoying, really. You said Gerald Stern “won some award;” well, now you have.

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

First Time on the Highway!

by trentpmcd

the flowers of spring
and the newly green grass
animals frolicking
after the long winter
I smile as I wonder
how did I get here
to this little slice
of paradise
the torn-up turf
gives a clue
as does the broken windshield
oh, the joy
of freedom
did I tell you
I received my drivers license
yesterday?

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

When we start
It is odd
Is it not?
That the pause in the flow
Might somehow show
A teasing hint
Of thought so deep
Of thinking, not sinking
into sleep
An inner confusion
Leading to the illusion
Of footsteps
well trod
But just rot
Pretending to be art

—–

Untitled

by Dumbestblogger

Steering wheel
Gas pedal
Brake
I’m not sure which is which
I prefer abstract philosophical principles
To hard-headed empiricism
Those colored lights they put over the intersections are really pretty

—–

Road Ragin’

by Gr8bigfun

Driving down the road 🛣️
Minding my own business
When buddy flips me the bird 🦜
I know free verse don’t rhyme
But this guy’s a real turd 💩
With my ego now bruised
My brain explodes 💥
And my senses go blind
What’s this clown’s 🤡
Problem anyway
Step on the gas ⛽
I weave through the rush
My window recessed 🪟
As I pull up to your ride
I start waving my fist 👊
Rhyme a curse at the lady inside
Don’t call the cops 🚓
That’s not meant for you

I got the wrong car 🚗
Mistaken identity I swear
I’m totally raging 🤬
As I punch it again
Blast past a school bus 🚌
This rhyming is insane
I catch a glimpse 👀
As you make the left
I race through the turn 🏎️
And ‘round the bend
Caught in my web 🕸
️The thrill of pursuit gone
What do I do now ❓
I take a deep breath and
In a moment of zen ☯️
My road rage does pass
I rhyme one last time ⌚
And realise, I’m the real ass!

—–

THE BIRD

by Matt

Your blinker
is on
Still…
Oh
How much
Slower must I
go to get
You off
My
Ass!
Veins they but protrude
Shades of red flush my face
Cut me off
The hell ?
Holy
Shit a
Spider in front of
my face!
Smash Boom
Crash
not me, thankfully
we is stuck
behind rubber
neckers but you, you!!!
Pass everyone by on
the
shoulder yield
does not
mean
stop
every single one of y’all
gets the bird!

—–

Untitled

by Tangental

My driving is perfection.
I know this because I drive a Ford Cliche,
And have one aim when behind the wheel:
to remove the worst driver in the world,
Arthur Goode, from Britain’s roads.
In my car, I am perfection,
I am the enemy of the Goode.

—–

Bad Driving

by Michael B. Fishman

For, I say; fore.
Out of my way for I am a bad driver.
Four violent torso twists, the club a blur of polished wood, and the ball barely moves

but my back hurts.
For what it’s worth –

to toot my own horn –

I’ll say that I’m not bad with
irons,
or putters,
but drivers,

I am a bad driver.

Drivers are the chink in my Armour bologna Cracker Crunchers
lunch with a Butterfinger candy bar fun size dessert armor.

I ate at an Italian restaurant, name now forgotten, and I was so taken with the bombolotti, that squat little powerhouse noodle that expertly trapped the slightly sweet sauce and diced onion and, I think?

Parmigiano or pecorina cheese as a culinary captive to caress my …

my…

no provincialism here: my slobbering mouth. So I had to

compliment the chef directly.

I drove myself, chest first, proudly displaying my all’Amatriciana sauce stained shiny Sahara sand satin shirt to the kitchen,

but,

before
I
could
say anything:

The chef, garbed in his winter jacket,

for it was
winter whence
we
met, met
me
at the door and said:

“I cannot unlock my car door”.

I, taken aback, said: “Why not?”

He said, “I have gnocchi.”

I drove him home. I only exceeded the speed limit once,
very briefly,
to make a light.

—–

Poor Parking Parable

by Obbverse

What a dazzlingly bright sizzler of a triple digit day
It was down at the Crucible Mall
What a joy it was to be beneath cloudless azure skies
In a Midnight Blue Horizon
With no fu…nctioning air-conditioning
Not a park to be found within spitting distance
Of the Mall’s shady walls
Nary a one
Thanks to one selfish bas- parker
who had left two half spaces on either side
Of the fat-wheeled Ford F150 parked athwart the middle line
Of the only two miserably designated Disabled car parks
Lolling In his F150 sat
A fat-as slack faced cowboy
Hairy mitt draped on the wheel
Cab wreathed in vape smoke
He paused but for a second to chug down his Bud
Before leaping down agilely and
Lightly-
Lightly for such a heavy gutted hombre-
Onto the asphalt
Belched heavily
And strode back into the Booze Barn
For ‘nother nourishing six-pack
No Disabled card on view
Nope, not right nor fair but…

Never mind.

After parking way out back in the back of beyond
Out in the furthest and farthest
Rarely traversed reaches of the car park
Far from the Mall and the madding crowd
I gamely sweated my way across
The shimmering tacky asphalt
Trekking towards the far-off
Sliding doored cold comfort of
Krogers
My journey through Hades proved to be well worth it though!
Oh
So gratifying it was to see our invalid invalid
Looking fair fit to be tied
Getting roughly cuffed and arrested by someone
Healthily buffed and in a well-stuffed XL black uniform
And
As a bonus
Our cow-poke’s big-as truck getting all
Set to be towed
I joined in with the surrounding crowd
Easing in beside
A finely groomed and elegantly dressed elderly gent
‘Another ass who believes it’s his right to use not just one
But two Disabled parks’ he offered
Eyes hard as tempered steel
‘It’s rare to see such justice playing out before our eyes’
I croaked agreeably in my parched cracked voice
Seems all about us most folks agreed
And as the baddest example
Of good driving I’d seen in quite a while
Was hauled away
Everyone enthusiastically yet oddly waved him ta-ta’s
All with both hands
But sans fingers
‘Cept for middle digits
I bade the elderly gent a hearty good day
And walked
away
He went gladly off on his way
His wheelchairs wheels
Making one Hell of a deep impression along the
Fords flanks
Which made for quite the racket too
But everyone in the vicinity
Who should have witnessed this
Had to have been deaf-finately handicapped

If not deaf, blissfully, smilingly unaware.

—–

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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

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

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/3/2022

Dumbestblogger decided we needed a limerick about grain. Given such a difficult idea, who wrote the winning poem?

Tom’s Mistake

by Joanne Fisher

Tom thought the best way to have a great brain
was to consume a great deal of grain
so he drank a large amount of scotch
till walking along some tracks he did botch
managing to get run over by a train

—–

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

Who’d have thought a limerick about grain would be possible? Well! I enjoyed reading through all of these. I had a few favorites at the end; admittedly, my junior judges helped choose the winner. Joanne’s poem won for skipping a more traditional limerick format -in a clever, distracting way and for the humorous twist.

Read the rest for more cleverness:

Terrible Limerick – Grain

by Frank

There once was tiny wheat grain
all soaked in a wonderful rain.
He sprouted. Oh, dear!
Now he’s done it I fear.
He thanks God that he ain’t got a brain.

—–

(Unfortunately, I came up with a second stanza.)

by Frank

The grain in the dirt in the pot
praised God for the stuff that it’s got.
“I won’t worry away
on this cold wintry day.
Bodda bee! Bodda hye! Bodda bot!”

—–

SOBRIETY

by M.

My distaste for barley & rye
is why I hate blueberry pie
Dad offered a sip
But, I took more of a nip
then barfed blueberry pie in his eye

—–

Untitled

by Richmond Road

I limp because I’m in pain
I am sensitive. Let me explain.
It all has to do
With a lump in my shoe
It is sand. But only one grain.

—–

Field Of Dreams

by Obbverse

This new farmers lot was not a happy lot
Till crop rotation helped fill in the plot,
Come harvest, in a quiet green field
A bounty of seeds’n’buds is revealed-
So, wild oats adds little profit to the pot.

—–

RATastrophe

by Greg G

Da bins damn full of dem rats;
Dey filled it all up wid der shats.
Gone ruined da grain,
From hunger we ’ere slain,
Me should’ve procured dem damn cats

—–

Lady of Skye

by Bruce Goodman

There once was a lady of Skye
Who had a grain of sand in her eye.
She said, What the heck
I’ feeling quite feck-
less. I really wish I would die.

—–

Tasty

by Nope, Not Pam

Marjory and James were having a brawl
She’d made cinnamon tarts he didn’t like at all
She snuck them in his meal
But after the great reveal
Had to quickly sidestep the vomit freefall

—–

Brave Little Train

by Dumbestblogger

There once was a brave little train
Filled to the the brim with some grain
It jumped off the tracks
And sat in the rain
The grain has now all turned to hay

—–

This is terrible for many reasons, not least the subject matter

by TanGental

One consequence of the war in Ukraine
Will be a world shortage of its fabulous grain
Which is one reason to put the boot in
On that a***wipe Vladimir Putin
Again and again and again and again…

—–

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

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

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/17/2022

Matt won, once again, for a terrible pantoum about embarrassment. He came up with a new contest for this past week: a cento on compassion. Who, of all our lovely entrants, came out as worst best?

My Story

by Dumbestblogger

This is my story, this my refrain
Will we find closure or circle the drain?
She got run over by a damned old train
I’m falling for you now, just like the rain
New heights I’m gaining every day

You upset the apple cart
And one man in his time plays many parts
The knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts,
And took them clean away.
G’bye, I’m going out to play!

(Credit to; Fanny Crosby, Wage War, Steve Goodman, Clint Black & Hayden Nicholas, Traditional, Ira Gershwin, William Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll, Shel Silverstein)

—–

Congratulations, ‘bestblogger! You are the most terrible poet of the week! Let me know the type of poem and theme for next week!

Picking a winner from the intentional mishmash of mishmashing proved tricky. Dumbestblogger’s work stood out to me for its lightheartedness and fun despite 2020-2021.

All the rest were clever and delightfully obscure in many cases:

TRY A LITTLE KINDNESS (Glen Campbell)

by Matt

Oaths of thy love, thy truth,thy constancy (W.Shakespeare)
Enthroned with him above the skies (J.Newton)
She wept,nor would be pacified (W.Wordsworth)
What is so real as the cry of a child? (S.Plath)
And here you come with a cup of tea (S.Plath)
Let’s do each day a kindly deed (R.Service)
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear (W.Blake)
Hi-Fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles (A.Ginsberg)

Fleetfooted quicksilver,God of transience (A.Ginsberg)
I told my wrath, my wrath did end (W.Blake)
We REAL cool (G.Brooks)
Does my sassiness upset you? (M.Angelou)
Well,son, I’ll tell you (L.Hughes)
Your love,and recompense the moon with mine (PB.Shelly)
Of meadow sweet and white anemone O.Wilde)

—–

A Cento Animico

by talesfromthemindofkristian

The Owl and the Pussycat went to see,
The Elephant (Though all of them were blind),
Like Love, unkindly passing by.
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
A host of golden daffodils, they dance.
The reprieve papers are not signed, behind.
It was a poignant portrayal of the effects.
A collage of fragments of poetical objects.

“The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear, “The Blind Man And The Elephant” by John Godfrey Saxe, “The Way It Is,” by William Stafford, “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” by William Wordsworth, “Reprieve,” by Alison Prince

—–

Untitled

by Not Pam

The ceaseless dissonance of wrong
Was smitten with a startling sound
Of all the public places dear
Whenever you’re in trouble won’t you stand by me

The glad song falters to a wail
Should tumble and fall
At length I to the boy called out
For coppers I can dance or sing

“Whence comes,” I said, “This piteous moan?”
And darlin’, darlin’, stand by me, oh stand by me
Of peace with unselfish unconcern?
For gold-escape from locks and chains

By thy free grace unmerited
She checked herself in her distress
I’m on my knees. I beg of you
Oh stand by me, won’t you stand by me

Simon Armitage-“Give”
William Wordsworth-“Alice Fell, or Poverty”
John Greenleaf Whitter-“Divine Compassion”
Ben E. King-“Stand By Me”

—–

This world may end, not you and I. (Bee Gees)

by Frank Hubeny

Part 1: The Lover’s Petition
I’ve got to say it and it’s hard for me. (Bee Gees)
Lord, we don’t need another mountain. (Hal David)
Love should be everything or not at all. (Bee Gees)
Oh, listen, Lord, if you want to know. (Hal David)

Part 2: The Lord’s Response
My love is stronger than the universe. (Bee Gees)

—–

For Our Children

by Gr8BigFun

Suddenly there came a tapping, (1)
Out of the night that covers me. (2)
Who are these coming to the sacrifice, (3)
With throats unslaked, with black lips? (4)

We wear the mask that grins and lies, (5)
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. (6)
Though it be darkness there, (7)
Some say the world will end in fire. (8)

No man is an island, (9)
And all the men and women merely players. (10)
We passed the school where children played, (11)
And that has made all the difference. (12)

Footnotes:
1) The Raven – Edgar Allen Poe / 2) Invictus – William Ernest Henley / 3) Ode to a Grecian Urn – John Keats / 4) The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Samuel Taylor Coleridge / 5) We Wear the Mask – Paul Laurence Dunbar / 6) Dover Beach – Matthew Arnold / 7) There is another sky – Emily Dickenson / 8) Fire and Ice – Robert Frost / 9) No Man is an Island – John Donne / 10) All the World’s a Stage – William Shakespeare / 11) Because I could not stop for Death – Emily Dickenson / 12) The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost

—–

A Great Reaping

by Obbverse

I wandered lonely as a cloud … (William Wordsworth)
In Flanders field the poppies blow, (John McCabe)
When all at once I saw a crowd (Willy Wordy)
Between the crosses, row on row. (Johnny Mac)

Continuous as the stars that shine, (Willy Wordy)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow, (Johnny Mac)
They stretched in never ending line… (Willy Wordy)
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow. (Johnny Mac)

—–

Thank you, everyone! Come back tomorrow to learn next week’s prompt.

Ian: Here’s the honorary badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 12/21/2021

Your family may need to add these new holiday favorites to their Christmas playlist, because it’s time to announce the winner of the Terrible Poetry Contest.

And that is:

Ye Hairy Gentlemen

by Greg Glazebrook

On the twelfth day of Christmas
She’ll drive a holly stake through your heart…

Cut, cut, I think we’d be safer taking this in a different direction?

doG blessed ye hairy gentlemen
You’ll be warm on this very day
Remember that the rest of us
Will be frozen until May
With razor blades we’ll come for you
And shave it all away
O shavings of back hair and Bengay

We’ll stuff the clipping into bags
And ship them on their way
To far-off Nike sweatshops
In Hong Kong and Bombay
Where they’ll stitch them all together
With labels that say “Made in U.S.A.”
O tidings from Tài Sǔn and Ganmay

And when those man-hair sweaters
Arrive upon our shores
We’ll click on over to Amazon
And buy them by the scores
We’ll wrap them up for Christmas gifts
And cold, we’ll be no more
O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

Damn these things are scratchy,
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night…

—–

Congratulations, Greg! You are the most terrible poet of this holiday season!

I sat and hummed through every terrible entry. As is usual, I had a difficult time choosing just one. In the end, Greg’s parody won me over with its creativity, its terribleness, and its cleverness. I can’t say I’ve ever heard a carol about man-hair sweaters.

Now, turn off that Mariah Carrey and tune in to what these other, excellent songwriters came up with:

Poopy Christmas

by Bruce Goodman

The news it came out in the first year of Biden
The cupboards were bare and the truckers were hiding
Jen Psaki declared, “Let them eat buns”
To which the President added a whole lot of ums.

Christmas hell oh Christmas hell
Sing a Christmas Gloria
Bringing crumbs to all the world
But peace to those with gender dysphoria.

—–

Deck the House

by trentpmcd

Deck the house with big bright lights
Falalalala, lalalala
People will drive miles to see these sights!
Falalalala, lalalala
Now turn on reactor three
Falala, lalala, la-la-la
A billion megawatts just for me!
falalalala-la-la, la-la-la
***
Visible from Betelgeuse
Falalalala, lalalala
A thousand years of electric use
Falalalala, lalalala
I show off just once a year
Falala, lalala, la-la-la
With a trillion lights of holiday cheer!
falalalala-la-la, la-la-la

—–

OH WHAT A HOLY NIGHT

by Matt Snyder

Oh Holy night
Late December back in 5 B.C.
Circular things in the sky are bright you see?
Oh Holy night
In the manger was born what’s his name?
Ya know the Spanish kid, no I don’t mean the goat…the kid
Hey-Suess yeah him, this Holy night
Why is it taking so long to see the light?
OH ho ho ho holy night
I’ve fallen and I can’t get up
I think I sprained my knee-eeees
Oh right, on time
What a sweet baby, oh what a holy night
Oh? I said his name wrong!
Oh hear……Everyone shouting
Yout idiot, you tool!
You need to go back to biblical school
Oy Vey! What a night!

—–

Untitled piece
To “Happy Christmas, war is over” by John Lennon and Yoko Ono

by Hobbo

And so, a Jolly Christmas for all shades of LGBTQIA
Which it will be all day long
(Covid is over if you wear a mask)
For the straights and the not-so-straights
(If you want sprouts, just ask.)

A super-duper Christmas
with mulled wine and warm, cloudy beer
If you see three wise men looking lost
The Star pub is over here.

—–

THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY AND HIS HELL HOUNDS

by Definitely Not Pam

Come they told him,
Have some rumma rum rum.

There’s no good to do,
Let’s have some funna fun fun.

Bring your hell hounds along
For a runa run run

We’ll set them on the king
It’s sure to stunna stun stun
Ruma stun stun
Funna stun stun

He’ll get diahorea
Stinky bumma bum bum
When we come

Rums rum rum,
Opps funna fun fun
Runna run run
Opps stunna stun stun
Bumma bum bum
Dunna dun dun
Rumma fun run stun opps dun

Oh what fun
Tiggles my tumma tum tum
I’m just poor Hades,
Oh humma hum hum

What gift for him?
Thruma thrum thrum thrum
It’s gotta be good for the King’s
Tumma tum tum

I know I’ll play for him
Strumma strum stum
Thruma thrum thrum
Numma numb numb

Oh you look scared
Opps gumma gumma gum
The hell hounds like the scent of fear
What a humma hum hum

I’ll play my drum for you
Don’t look so glumma glum glum
I’ll play thrash metal for you
Oh slumma slum slum
Glumma glum glum
Humma hum hum

Oh don’t freak out
It’s not a scruma scrum scrum
It’s just me, the hellhounds and my drum

Come they told him
Have some more rumma rum rum
You’ll wish you were never born
You better learn to runna run run

It’s just me, the hellhounds and my drum
It’s just me, the hellhounds and my drum
It’s just me, the hellhounds and my drum
Isn’t this so much fun

©NopeNot Pam

—–

Untitled Piece
Wham’s “Last Christmas”

by Geoff LePard

Last Christmas
You let go a fart
Full of rot and decay, I near passed away
This year
Your disgusting rear
Has been truly exceptional…

—–

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Mechula.*

by Obbverse

(OK, let the old chestnuts get a’roasted. Michael Bublé, you’re up.)

It’s beginning to look like I’m insolvent,
Where’d my cash flow go?
Down to my last 5 and 10, my credits maxed out again,
Oh, the painful amount of IOUs I owe.

I’m beginning to wish I’d not seen loan shark Carmine,
Now all hell will start,
And da brass knuckles he will bring will make my head fair ring,
Then he’ll rip out my heart.

A pair o’ brutes in ill-fitting suits with pistols that shoot,
It’s Carmine’s repo-hit men,
Dey say ‘Carmine wants to talk, let’s take a walk.’
But I daren’t say ‘willkommen,’
I’m not mad nor dumb or fool enough to open this door again.

It’s beginning to look like I won’t make Christmas,
My debts Carmine won’t ignore,
What an ugly sight it is to see some thug pounding heavily
On my barred and bolted door.

*Bankruptcy, Yiddish.

—–

Grandchild Was Invaded By an iPhone

by Ruth Klein

my grandchild was invaded by her iphone
walking home from school, would you believe?
you can say that iphones don’t possess one
and as for me and grandpa, we do grieve

she’d been watching too much youtube
and we’d begged her- please, stop, please
so addicted to the boob tube
that she began to bow down on her knees

everyone now sing…..

—–

Sale! The Yearly Christmas Call
Sung to the tune of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”

by D. Wallace Peach

Sale! The yearly Christmas call
Shoppers flocking to the mall
Carts careen through crowded aisles
Cash and credit reconciled

Frantic all ye lists are waving
Budgets set already caving
Wrap those presents for the tree
Run out of tape, oh woe is me
Wrap those presents for the tree
I need tape, oh woe is me

Feed the crew from out of town
Baking cookies past sundown
Table’s set and goose is done
Spilled the gravy, so much fun

Dinner’s gone in seconds flat
Cooked all day and barely sat
Washing dishes like a maid
Boy, I wish my job was paid
Scrubbing dishes like a maid
How I wish this job was paid

Football’s on, the offense crouched
Husband’s slouched upon the couch
Cat’s in the tree, and globes are smashed
Kids are bored, the house is trashed

Hail the end of Christmas Day
When the kindred drive away
Flip the cap and swig a beer
Pooped out from another year
Take a nap and get in gear
New Year’s Eve is almost here.

—–

Untitled Piece
to the tune of “I wish you a Merry Christmas”

by John W. Howell

I wish you a monster isthmus
I wish you a monster isthmus
I wish you a monster Isthmus
Until you lose weight.

Glad tidings will be not only for me
Glad tidings will be not only for me
Glad tidings will be not only for me
You may spot your feet

Oh, turn down the figgy pudding
Oh, turn down the figgy pudding
Oh, turn down the figgy pudding
And lose a whole chin

We are not leaving till we get some
We are not leaving till we get some
We are not leaving till we get some
Melba toast is a win

—–

Untitled piece
from Frankie, the fictional one-eyed post mistress of Carrot Ranch who delivers mail on horseback:

by D. Avery

Burt an’ me we travel so far
Deliverin’ mail with no van or car
He’s a sturdy strong horse
Keeps us mostly on course
In these parts we’re without par
*
Packages too many ta count
But I can trust Burt, my loyal mount
We sweat an’ shiver
But always deliver
With time ta Saddle Up unannounced
*
Oh bartender I wonder if you might
Reward me for my work tonight
I delivered a song
After a day so long
But at the Saloon I’m feelin’ alright.”

—–

O Holy Grail

by Writing to Freedom (musebrad)

O holy grail, thy will always prevail
our faithful attempts to pursue the American dream
race to the mall or find solace in an aie
married to a destructive consumer regime
on Macy’s, on Kohl’s, to the mall we go
for shopping is the holy grail we know
~
fall on your knees before the corporate pleas
o holy grail, o holy grail
for thee, we must never fail

—–

The Little Bummer Boy

by anxietyoholic

COVID they told me!
Ra bum bum bum bum

Contacts to trace, you see?
Ra bum bum bum bum

Say Hello to Quarantine
Ra bum bum bum bum

Disinfect and clean, clean, clean
Ra bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bummmmmmm

So to mask or not
Ra bum bum bum bum

I wish a vac I got
Ra bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bummmmmmm

I am a poor boy too
Ra bum bum bum bum

Just like that other dude
Ra bum bum bum bum

So I’ll get hydroxychloroquine
Ra bum bum bum bum

And be OK like him
Ra bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bummmmmmm

It’s all fake news he said
Ra bum bum bum bum

800 thousand dead
Ra bum bum bum bum

I was as brave as he
Ra bum bum bum bum

Look where that’s gotten me
Ra bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bummmmmmm
Ra bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bummmmmmm

—–

Thank you all and Merry happy Christmas.

Greg: Here’s the honorary badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2021 The poets, and their respective poems.

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 2/6/2021

Sometimes you just can’t meditate away a series of suckiness. I thought I was alone in wanting to release a little steam in this responsible way; have I ever been happy to be proven wrong! These bloggers are my people.

As such, I had such a difficult time selecting a winner. I laughed so much! It is with a caveat that all were truly good, therefore, that I select the winningest to be:

Short and Not So Sweet, by Sweet, sweet Ruth
Wear your mask

Damn it

Wear your mask

Or I’ll take mine

And stick it up your $$$

A Take on Roses Are Red, by Grandma’s Ramblings
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
If I had a brick,
I would throw it at you.

Congratulations, Ruth and Grandma! You are the funniest poets for the week!

There is a range in this month’s offerings of serious ranting to humorously falsified situations to political tirade. Like I said: fantastic entries. Ruth’s and Grandma’s stood out to me because they were so short and pointed. There was some juxtaposition of my knowing they are both sweet ladies, compared against the not-so-sweet message of the poetry as well. Congratulations, you two!

Don’t skip off before reading the other entrants, though. They are golden:

Snarky snickersnackery, by Doug Jacquier
The time has come, so all us said,

to not talk of many things:

of twits and tweets to ‘mind your beeswax’

of savages and would-be kings

of whether votes are fixed or not

and whether pigs have wings.

 

Be gone, your wretched plague talk

of drinking Kool-Aid with your bleach

of bingeing booze and Netflix

of not going to the beach

of ‘who is that masked stranger?’

No more, I do beseech!

 

Let’s rid ourselves of poverty

Of coherent speech and word

Spike the ‘like’ and ‘whatever’

Treat WTF as if a steaming t**d

Let’s have a pedant as a President,

a VP proud to be a nerd.

 

Fie upon the boomer bashers

Flinging our legacy askew

Blaming us for every ill

From planet to housing queue

End their blameless sanctimony;

Vegans, anyone, on the barbecue?

Untitled, by Bruce
When the officer stopped me for speeding
I explained that he wasn’t being kind.
“Haven’t you read the road rules?” he bleated.
“Hell no,” I said, “can’t you see that I’m blind?”

“Take more care when turning those corners,
Use the brake and slow down a peg.”
I said “Are you stupid or something?
Can’t you see I’ve only one leg?”

The officer was starting to get snarky,
He said “I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“Nah officer,” I said. “Nothing much.
I never think much when I’m drinking.”

So we sat on the side of the road.
He accepted a swig from my flask.
Then he remembered his duty:
“Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

He gave me a ticket for that
Will self-righteousness never cease?
At least it gives Joseph Robinette a reason
To support defunding the police.

Untitled, by Geoff
I hate it when you’re late
I loathe your clothes
(I detest that vest)
I abhor you for
That girl-next-door
Niceness.
It pisses me when you kisses me
Despite my animosity
Not making you cross at me.
How can my integral animus
Not cause you to make a fuss
When I swear and cuss
At what’s become of us?
It fills me with repugnance
When you say, with me, you want to dance
And despite my ingrained odium
You put me on a podium
And say that for all my revulsion
I’ll still find absolution
If only I’d learn to stop the rhyme
And see that we can be sublime
If we both take the time
To stop the hate
For it’s not too late.
To love.
Nah, bollocks.

After Eden, by Frank Hubeny
Was it the tree? Was it our choice
to be like gods that day?
That fruit, recall, did not agree.
Perhaps it really was the tree
when we did not obey.

Untitled, by Minakshi Khaitam
When the world was struggling in lockdown
When loneliness was taking us down
Sunrise and sunset was the only hope in the lockdown
The chirping of birds and fresh air was a new sound
In this gloomy time, love bloomed for me and cupid landed on earth
My prince had come on the bike to pick me up and take away me from loneliness
His presence added stars and charms to my life
I was struggling yesterday and today I am a happy soul

From the Erotic to the Idiotic, by Arthur Richardson
In starting this I’m feeling somewhat scared.
Ottava Rima is a form that’s been
Used to good effect by poets who’ve fared
Rather better than I have; have been seen
To well succeed by being well prepared,
Writing something comic or obscene
To voice complaints or a criticism
Couched in a caustic witticism.

The master of them all of course was Byron,
Trundling on for sixteen thousand lines,
Mainly, it appears, with a hard-on;
All through Don Juan you can read the signs.
I hear some say though, ‘I do beg your pardon,
Where’s the evidence he so inclines
To write throughout in a sexual fervour.
He’s less like Eros, more of a Minerva,

Goddess of verse, wisdom, strategic warfare.’
I suppose that’s true to a large extent
But what, after all then, do we care
About the character of his true intent
in being so satiric, with such flair?
It’s very unlikely that he would repent,
Retract his underlying eroticisms,
Replacing them with courtly mannerisms.

So, just as Byron sought to undermine
Hypocrisies inherent in his times,
Should we not then, also sharply shine
A piercing light today on similar crimes
Committed not in your name, nor in mine;
Those negligently, cruel paradigms
Of power, designed for the hegemonic,
The devious, deviant, selfishly moronic?

Johnson, Bezos, Bolsonaro, Trump,
To name but four of the perpetrators,
Head a stinking army, nay a rump,
Of psychopathic, snivelling people haters,
Hoovering up the profits, as the slump
Is hitting labourers, the wealth creators,
Driving millions into destitution,
Smothered by a capitalist pollution.

This Ottava Rima effort is pathetic
Compared to Byron’s brilliant Magnum Opus
In which he is poetically athletic,
A swirling cauldron filled with hocus pocus,
Learned, comic, endlessly eclectic,
Never losing pertinence or focus.
Would he were here now with his sharpened claws
To scratch the eyes out of those bloated boors.

But he, of course, was more a Tory than
The politicians and poets he sought to trash.
Raised more a lord than a common man,
His sympathies are, likely, less to clash
With the monsters of our devious plan
Than we who would indict them in a flash.
To use his searing wit, all things Byronic,
Could undermine our aims. Now that’s ironic!

But the plot to use a sharp Ottava Rima
To savage all things oligarchical,
Is pregnant in this adolescent scheme, a
Side swipe at the trad monarchical
(Perhaps I’m just a poor deluded dreamer)
State that’s verging on the farcical.
As Lenin had it, there’s a fine solution:
In Greece, Byron died for Revolution!

Let’s take them one by one, these devious infants:
So Johnson first, designated Boris,
Building, despite himself, a stout resistance
In us common folk who’ve not read Horace
As he has. At least, that’s his insistence;
More a classical flower, than a florist,
Vainglorious popinjay we should require
To shuffle off into his own satire.

A blockheaded buffoon, an unctuous creep,
A man who lied his way to head the Tory
Party, while most of us were fast asleep,
Infighting among ourselves, (another story),
Elected to oversee the State’s upkeep
But acting like the Womble Tobermory.
Yet underneath his foolish, clown-like antic,
Flows a dark and dangerous semantic.

It’s a strain reflected in that Bezos creature,
An exploiter making depredations on
Each worker picking a book, or other feature
To reinforce his empire, Amazon.
‘Do as I command, or I will beat ‘yer!’
They just cannot do right for doing wrong
Inside his evil factories of the cursed.
His form of exploitation is the worst.

Designed to manufacture profits, obscene
By any standard of civil or moral code,
The employment contracts he’s invoked have been
Introduced to undermine, erode
All human dignity at work. We’ve seen
A fetid jubilation, a la mode,
Among the tax avoiding oligarchy
Celebrating his malign malarky.

So what of Bolsonaro? What a jerk!
A fascist placeman, product of a coup
Displacing all the socialising work
Done to favour those, like me and you
Who don’t own either Jaguar or Merc,
In the favelas. So we ask, just who
Will, one day, bring this criminal to trial,
Wiping off his vile and hideous smile?

Of course, the situation in Brazil
Is mirrored in those South American states,
Where humanising work, used to instil
Just distribution, is overturned. The fate
Of millions of the poor, drowned in the swill
Produced by CIA-backed gangster mates
Of US President (The Gangster) Trump,
That preening, self-regarding Heffalump.

Trump as President, you’d hardly believe it!
Yet perhaps the Yanks really do deserve ‘im.
Not those, of course, those that would retrieve it
But all the racists, those that would preserve ‘im
to mouth the hatred as they do conceive it.
Most of us, it’s true, would rather swerve ‘im,
Stoutly chuck him into History’s litter.
(At the risk of sounding satisfyingly bitter!)

But I’m justly sad that such could be elected,
Whose message is crude, insanely autocratic.
Instead of tending to those who should be protected,
He’d rather promote the semi-automatic.
Let’s hope there’ll soon be sense, he’s deselected
And we see the last of this phoney aristocratic,
No good piece of putrefying shit.
(I hope I haven’t overstated it!)

I’ll now conclude this Italian form of verse;
I do not have the stamina of a Byron.
I know it’s bad but it could get much worse,
Won’t earn me any pension to retire on!
Be fearful, though, you despots, you who curse
Humanity: you will feel the iron
In our depleted souls eventually.
You’ll be overthrown and we’ll be free.

A Yorksher Rant, by Hobbo
Tha’ mun think that, am med o’brass
Well, shove it up yer Khyber Pass
Fifty bob fer chips wi’ scraps
I dunt pay that fer good flat caps!

Tha’ thieving sod, tha’ll rob me blind
‘all take me stick, ‘ave ‘alf a mind
To stick it where the sun don’t shine
Tha’ robbin’ git, tha’ greedy swine.

I’m an O.A.P tha’ knows
I wotchit, where me money goes
So, tha’ can keep thee chips, instead
‘all mek do wi’ some drippin’ bread.

Translation
You may think that I have lots of money
Well, you can put that money in your bottom
£2.50 for french fries with trimmings
It costs me less for decent headgear.

You are a thief who is prepared to scam me
I am inclined to take my walking cane
And put it in a painful place
you robbing villain, you greedy scoundrel.

You know I’m an old age pensioner
And I have to be prudent with money
So you keep your chips for yourself, whilst I
Will have some bread spread liberally with pork fat.

I No Longer Care, by Joanne Fisher
There are certain bloggers
who want you to look at their posts
but under no circumstances will they
sully their own eyes by looking at yours

I believe in mutual support
but no one else seems to

I go out of my way to
read people’s posts
but the favour is not returned

So why should I care anymore?
When I have almost a thousand
followers but less than fifty
bothering to read what I write?
Why should I bother reading my
WordPress feed every night
when no one else seems to?
I could be doing something else.

When you believe in
mutual support and
no one else does,
it really sucks. WordPress
sucks.

Untitled, by bereavedandbeingasingleparent
Brexit completely messed up

Government has gone corrupt

Contracts given to party donors

Paid for by bigger bills for homeowners

100000 covid deaths

They couldn’t even care less

A nation scared forever

No virus tracing whatsoever

Care Homes lambs to the slaughter

Country becoming an second rate backwater

School system in utter disarray

While Johnson moans about his own pay

Massive backlogs at the ferry ports

Backing Ministers subject to damming bullying reports

Empty supermarkets shelves

Ministers looking after themselves

U turn after U turn after U turn

Economy in a massive downturn

Leaders downing the finest wine

Yet free school meals must be declined

Desperately trying to remove worker rights

Refusing to make safe dangerous high rise sites

All this just in one year of Johnson being in charge

A dangerous dishonest charlatan at large

So before he gets on with having another affair

Will someone please comb this numpties hair.

Cognitive Assonance, by Sudrakarma
The mental gymnastics required for those leaps
must be exhausting; The Hill was too steep.
Projecting your crimes unto every other
with a straight face you’d sell-out your mother
before you’d begin to point at yourself;
that precious pride should be put on a shelf,
wrapped in the flag that you desecrated,
with the constitution you once advocated.
No, you’re not the patriot you once pretended;
your line of credit’s been over-extended.
The amount of denial and projection required
to maintain positions in which you are mired,
are swirling with madness into the commode.
I’m really surprised
your head
doesn’t
explode.

Firing Up, by Obbverse
As far as finances go
I’m in a proper pickle,
My once flush cash flow
Has dribbled to a trickle.

The bills wash endlessly in,
Only my heart goes out,
My means are paper thin,
My prayers never more devout.

No assets left to seize,
All my boom’s gone bust,
I’m down on my knees,
Not one ‘In God We Trust.’

Pacing the floor by the door,
Going postal for that relief cheque,
To pay off Bill’s Convenience Store
Before he wrings my scrawny neck.

I gather together every letter
In shivering mittened hands;
One time a real go-getter,
Now hold only final demands.

Grab the largest pot
In the stone cold kitchen,
Dump in the miserable lot,
Got troubles? I’ll pitch in.

All those weighty dispatches,
Gone in a stroke
Thanks to Safety matches
Hello, hellfire sulphur and smoke.

…The letters dutifully brought
By the conscientious postman
Though warm, were too short,
More a flash in the pan.

Will Bill come by torchlight,
Say ‘200 bucks or go to jail?’
Cold comfort on a cold night?
‘Bill, bring a Molotov cocktail.’

Thank You Governor Evers, by Dumbestblogger
I needed a new car, so I bought one
That was the easy part
I went to get a title, like an old fart
And they said, “hey, don’t get smart!”
“Here’s a special COVID chart.
on this side is the license part,
And over here the title part
As you can see, it isn’t smart
To breathe air and transfer titles at the same time.”
Well that’s dark
It’s not like I came here on a lark
Am I the first person to come here and park
Thinking that help would be mine?
Maybe so
Fifteen minutes later
And I’m staring at paper
With a URL
Near as I could tell
the solution to this entire caper
Oh, wait. We’re talking about the government
Their websites don’t work
I love being legally obligated to use malfunctioning technology to print off a piece of paper that I then need to send to Madison through the post office
I feel so much safer
I want just want to write on the freaking paper in the first place
Is that too much to ask?

Untitled, by Deb Whittam
You know, I ain’t usually one for following the rules,

But sometimes, just sometimes,

They’re there for a reason, you fools.
Just take roundabouts my friends,

They’re designed to keep the traffic flowing,

Now let’s pause here, you do comprehend?
The other lanes clear, my ignorant friend,

This is your chance to hop on and go,

Before you send me around the bend.
Too dangerous you think and sit still,

You ain’t seen anything close to danger yet,

I’m going to be coming in for the kill.
Exactly where did you get your license again?

Wasn’t a cereal box, was it?

Sorry let me make amends.
You’ve sat there an eon and let me stew,

That, you clodhopping lout it a fatal mistake

Get out of my way, grandma’s coming through

Africa, a Parody, By Rawgod
[Verse 1]

Trump wanted to win an award so bad

He’d even take one that he knows he never earned he’s such an ass

And he’ll travel anywhere to get it

He took a call 12:30 at night

They said he’d won a big award from a country he never heard of

They even said they’d pay his way there

He never stopped to read the fine print

He’d have to travel with peasants and their animals

The trip would take a couple of days

But the prize was waiting there for him

It didn’t take much to attract him there

And he had no idea that the call was a fake

He never even stopped to pack a bag

He ran all the way to the station

[Chorus]

Trump took the train down through Africa

The shithole countries wouldn’t let him fly in

They wanted to show him they were just as human

As the people in America who exploited them

[Verse 2]

The great man cried out in the night

As he grew restless waiting to be given his brass trophy

He knew the prize was his birthright

As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti

He sought to cure his ego’s need

Frightened now that this was just a hoax

[Chorus]

Trump took the train down through Africa

The shithole countries wouldn’t let him fly in

They wanted to show him they were just as human

As the people in America who exploited them

[Bridge]

Hurry up man you know it’s waiting there for you

Now you’re taking the train down through Africa

Riding with the peasants and their pigs

You even had to shit with your ass hanging out the door

And no T.P. to even clean your fat ass

[Chorus]

Trump took the train down through Africa

The shithole countries would not let him fly in

They wanted to show him they were just as human

As the people of America who exploited them.

Trump took the train down through Africa…

[Etc. Repeat to fade. ]

—–

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

Ruth and Barbara, here’s a badge for you to use on your site. Congratulations, again!

©2021 The poets, and their respective works

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 12/11/2020

After traveling the vast wastes of my comments section and e-mail only to find a few more entries floating amongst a specific search in the Reader’s Feed, I nominate WordPress for some New Year’s Resolutions….

But, that’s not why we’re here! We’re here (unless you’re lost) to name the poet who wrote the most amusing limerick about resolutions! And that is:

Untitled, by Ruth Scribbles
The girl said, “Oh no! I refuse!”
You simply just want to bemuse
I vow I won’t change
I love being strange
My nose wants to sport two tattoos

Congratulations, Ruth! You are the funniest poet for the week!

Understandably, many took this opportunity to reflect on a serious year full of serious things. Of those attempting humor, I selected Ruth’s because her surprise ending left me snickering the most. Well done.

Maybe you’ll re-think your goals this year after reading all the entries:

Untitled, by Richmond Road
Is it time for this year’s resolution?
To atone for last year’s contribution?
My performance next year?
No better, I fear
I am lazy. Don’t expect a solution

Untitled, by Richmond Road
Here is this year’s resolution
We’re dismantling the constitution
You can’t run. You can’t hide
We have reached the low tide
Step aside. This is a revolution

Untitled, by Matt
There once was a fat guy named Matt
Who resolved to lose weight and that’s that
Shoved his cat aside, and to his wife he lied
that his cat food diet is what he takes in stride 😻

You say you want a resolution, we-e-ll, by Doug Jacquier
There is an old man from Australia
Whose wisdom will not falter or fail ya
New years is his forte
So list to his thought, ay?
‘Resolving is useless, inter alia’.

Untitled, by Frank Hubeny
Those demons look deeply demented.
Based on deeds, none of them have repented.
Resolutions to keep
Are not won on the cheap.
With such demons you’ll turn up tormented.

How I wish I could make resolutions
That would stick when they’re stuck in solutions
When solutions go weak
Resolutions will streak
At the cost of some nasty pollutions.

Every plan I attempt goes to pot.
Every dream I cook up has a spot.
Resolutions today
May resolve in some way,
But they’re not, though, the kind that I’ve got.

Untitled, by Willowdot
This year I can say without doubt.
Is defunct and driven us all up the spout.
The virus has plagued us
Upset and betrayed us
It’s enough to make us all pout.

So what will happen next year
Maybe more of the same I fear
So I vow to sleep
My council to keep
Until it’s time for 2022 to appear.

But have I resolutions you ask.
I will definitely be wearing a mask
I shall keep my distance
And leave nothing to chance
Keeping covid free will be my task.

So what’s in store for you
Is ignoring the rules what you’ll do.
Or will you like me
Cover, wash and flee
Steadfastly ignoring advice that’s not true.

So really at the end of the day
There’s not much more I can say.
The Vaccine is here
Hold out your arm dear
And let’s kick the old Covid away.

Untitled, by Tnkerr
There once was a girl with a toothpick
Who resolved to write nary a limerick
She gave a small laugh
And slipped into her bath
A nude poet who’s anacoluthic

A New Year’s Resolution, by Hobbo
Ecological, his resolution
Eliminate foul air pollution
He stopped eating beans
Cabbage or greens
An effective, but small, contribution.

The Dissolution Of Hope, by Geoff Le Pard
Annually we solemnly resolve
Our past crimes to try and absolve
Yet we suffer conniptions
When our plans become fictions
And all hopes of success dissolve

Re-resolved, by Obbverse
It’s time to repeat the same damned vow I swore
Like last year, and all too many years years before,
It’s my traditional annual end-of-year vow-
‘Next year I’ll be a better man than I am now,’
So many broken promises, still plenty more in store.

Untitled, by Sara
On the treadmill I walk, my flubber a-flapping
Think I would have lost some with all that Christmas wrapping
So, here I am,
Here it goes,
The chafing on my thighs as red as Rudolph’s nose

Untitled, by BS
A cat spoke up with meows
His resolutions he sealed with vows
To catch more mice
Would be nice
But all he got was cows

Untitled, by Bruce
My New Year’s resolution’s a vow,
Though some smell a rat or a cow.
It’s the one day a year
When I shed all my gear
And reluctantly get in the shower.

Untitled, by Rugby843
It is late in the year 2020
Of faulty leaders we have had plenty
C’mon 2021
Get the job done
So we have a new year entente

You’ll have to say it all the time you know, by Herb
The end of the year should be fun
And that year had its place in the sun
But it sends the mind reeling
The terrible feeling
of saying twenty-twenty won

Untitled, by Arthur Richardson
The trouble with trying to be humorous
is that senses of wit are quite numerous.
This nonsense solution,
with a rhymed resolution,
is a punchline that stays unassumerous.

Untitled, by Minzkhaitan
Winter chills and the virus development never stops me to look forward
Blanket of hope gives the warmth of the new tomorrow
Child in me gets excited to set the new plans upright before we takeoff from 2020 to 2021

Untitled, by Deb Whittam
A middle aged woman named Debbie,
Had gotten kind of heavy.
She resolved to lose weight,
Began running every day before eight
Now she has more aches than an old chevy.

—–

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

Now, resolve to return tomorrow for next month’s prompt.

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

©2021 The poets, and their respective works

WINNER of the A Mused Poetry Contest 12/11/2020

Whew! One month ago, readers were challenged to write an a-musing Christmas newsletter poem. Humor and terrible poetry abounded, and one stood out as the winner:

Mabilene’s Christmas newsletter, by Doug Jacquier
Merry Christmas to all of you’s,
time for our annual catch up and news
We know you always look forward to this
so everyone here sends a big kiss. XXX

Hubby Dwayne knows it was really dumb-crazy
but since the lockdown he’s been a bit hazy.
Wore a mask to the bank and passed the teller a note;
six months in prison, that’s all he wrote.

Our eldest, Billie-Jean, she’s doing so well,
especially since she learned how to write and to spell.
She’s a Social Influencer now, raking in the money.
Praise the Lord, it’s the land of milk and honey.

Our boy, Nathaniel, is the world’s greatest nerd;
want a new app and you just say the word.
His latest is a thing of digital beauty;
Sort of a cross between the Bible and Call of Duty.

Young Charlene, well, she tries really hard
she’ll never be a whizz-kid or any sort of bard;
but I have to tell you she’s making considerable progress
on her ultimate goal: Member of Congress.

Old Mabel, our dog, she keeps pumping out litters
despite her bouts with the mange and the skitters.
Last winter we sold one to a damned fool yuppie;
it’s now in dog heaven, that poor slush puppie.

I’ll sign off now and wish ‘Season’s Greetings’
(I don’t want to miss one of my AA meetings).
Love to you all and always remember
I’ll be back in your mailbox this time next December.

Congratulations, Doug! You are the funniest poet for the week!

As usual, I had great difficulty selecting one poem to win. Doug’s was clever, like others; followed a funny theme, like others; and it rhymed, like others. I chose his because I snorted at “[s]ort of a cross between the Bible and Call of Duty” and the lines involving “yuppie” and “slush puppie.”

Truly, all the others are a hilarious read as well:

Untitled, by Dumbestblogger
The dog died
Our RV broke down
We spent two weeks in Vegas
Retirement is fun

Untitled, by Trent McDonald
Hello
Friends and Foe
A few words
For you to know
It was a year of plenty
This 2020
It started slow,
But our fortunes continued to grow!
In March we sold TeePee
Each roll, ten and fifty!
In April a boom
Of selling lessons on Zoom
In May, for a price
We sent people to places quite nice
Each month we made more and more
Suckering both the rich and the poor
Cashing in on Covid fears
And rumors made in election years
Our fortunes soared
As people hid, quite bored
Trusting their luck
Sending us buck after buck
So you may moan
About being alone
About work being closed
And say the world is hosed
But I disagree
It was a great year, at least for me!
So in my holiday note
This year I’m gonna to gloat
For I am on the good list
For making money hand over fist
And sleep on bags of gold
From all of the garbage I sold
But don’t crawl to me
Looking for a present
Under your tree
I said I was smart
Not that I have a heart
There’ll be no money sent
Begged borrowed or lent
But don’t take it so hard
I did send you this card!
Merry Christmas (at least for me 😉 )!

The things that brought laughter this year, by Bruce
Aunt Mavis got covid and died.
The pot plant I got for my birthday died.
The cat died.
The canary died.
The kid’s interest in school died.
The eldest daughter’s marriage fell apart and died.
The car died.
We feel so out of place here where we live. I know that sounds dumb
But we’re thinking of moving to New York where we won’t stick out like a sore thumb.

Anus Horribilis – a bum year, by Geoff
Well 2020’s been one hell of a year
Though as you see it deserves one cheer.
In January our eldest lad
Decided to become a dad.
His wife however wasn’t happy
And strangled him with a unwashed nappy.
While we were dealing with that little trauma
Debbie our girl had her own drama.
She thought she’d do home repairs
But impaled herself on the stairs.
We entered March rather nervy
When we heard Aunt Joan had viral scurvy.
If that wasn’t bad enough,
Uncle Martin choked on snuff.
In April Grandpa called a meeting
To say ‘I’m gay’ though any joy was fleeting
As Grandma Susan showed her ire
By setting the old boy on fire.
May and June, they were grim
When cousin Mervin dissolved his twin
And my dear papa fared far worse
When too much beer caused his spleen to burst.
The months from July to September
Weren’t the sort you’d want to remember:
I broke a leg, Jane had conniptions
While Tiny Tom ate the kittens.
October promised to be better
We were given an Irish Setter
But sadly I must report
The bloody dog saw me in court:
Apparently I’m responsible
When he ripped out the postman’s tonsils.
I was bailed through November
Which brings us to December
Christmas looms;
We’re fighting the gloom.
I know many dear souls have passed away
And it will be quiet come Christmas Day.
But let’s try, shall we, to take the positives.
At least I’m not feeding my bloody relatives…

Christmas Catch All Ya’ll Up, by Obbverse
Hi guys, it’s time to keep ya’ll in the know,
With the festivities near we’ve horns to blow,
Folks keep sayin’ ‘times is hard, the ‘conomy’s shot’
But we’re happy as clams ’cause we got the lot.

My Jimbo’s gone up yet another pay grade-
He must’ve sold every pickup truck Jeep ever made,
The twins is gettin’ schooled and they’s top o’ the class,
We’re hopin,’ with luck, they’ll dredge up a C and pass!

Our Cody won the Jumbo Bear at the tri-county fair,
Took out them three ducks with two rounds to spare,
At the bake off my apple pie took out first prize as well;
The only blue ribbon you’ll see on this Southern belle.

Our Jolene’s playing Mother Mary in the nativity play,
Their damn Rodeo ain’t playing Joseph if I have my way,
No mistletoe kisses a’tween Jo Hatfield and Rodeo McCoy-
I sez ‘Jolene, you don’t have no truck with that bad boy.’

But then that dang new preacher had to up’n speak
‘Let’s try to forgive and forget, turn the other cheek,’
If I believed that liberal trash I’d be a’wineing at Mass-
This Southern Baptist knows Rodeo’s coveting Jolene’s ass.

Still, I must say they look good together, they act pretty tight,
They’ve practised at the Church Hall religiously every night,
Now Jo is a shining star as Mother Mary, positively glowing,
We’re praying, when Christmas comes Jo won’t be showing.

Christmas Newsletter, by Frank Hubeny
Larry’s Earth is on the Moon.
Greg’s might be on Mars.
Lulu’s livid with the news.
Sue shoots shooting stars.

I’m the final one who’s sane.
At least, I can pretend.
I have no time to rush away,
So Merry Christmas, friend!

The Christmas Email 🎄, by Willowdot
T’was the night before Christmas, I’m peeling the sprouts,
I’ll regret it tomorrow of that I’ve no doubts.
I’ve spent hours wrapping pressies for under the tree.
Everyones socially distancing so it’s up to me.
This year’s been a bummer so I thought let’s spread the joy
(cough) Here’s our news which is bound to annoy.
Let’s start with grandpa well he’s loosing the plot
he’s been stalking the estate quite a lot.
Since they said he can drive no more,
he been acting like a bear with a head that’s sore!
Hubby has been busy washing hands and making masks
when people get too close he takes them to task.
Jerome, Cathy and Hermione are fine,
in and out of school all the time.
Fighting over computer, laptop and tablet …all of them mine!
We’ve all had to isolate at different times ,
we’ve done as we’re told to avoid fines!
We’re all sick of watching the neighbours breaking the rules.
How will we ever be rid of this Covid surrounded by fools.
The chickens stopped laying last week,
the hamsters are missing we’ve not heard a squeak.
We’ve had our fair share of hospitals and Ambulances too.
But to fair in lockdown there’s not much to do!
My goodness is that the time,
I must get this sent then open the wine.
Merry Christmas to you and you bubble,
let’s hope 2021 is less trouble.
The Vaccine is coming we’ll all grow two heads..I don’t really care, in 100years we’ll all be dead!

The Christmas Newsletter, by Hobbo
So, if by chance you meet
And concern is in her voice
Our living on the street
Is environmental choice

Untitled, by Deb Whittam
Ho, ho, ho, it’s Christmas yet again,
But in line with new protocols,
I’m implementing social distancing.

Split shifts on the Christmas line,
One and a half reindeers apart please,
Hey Elf one, was that a sneeze?

And ensure you use hand sanitizer,
Yes Dasher, on arrival and after breaks,
It’s vital, for heavens sakes.

And Elves no sharing tools, no sharing anything,
And if you’re feeling ill at all,
Please don’t come in and please toss tissues in the bin.

What?  Recompense for lost shifts?
Please, who do you think I am?
If you want to negotiate, Santa just ain’t in.

Untitled, by Ruth Scribbles
Dearest ones!

Sublime greetings to you and yous
Our CASTLE is fab, how is your zoo?

Hasn’t 2020 been the best?
We are special and blessed!

We have accomplished so many wonderful things.

Our gloriously framed masterpieces
Adorn the walls of our arboretum

Our new website for virtual viewing
We are not bragging, it’s full of cooing
(httd://weWouldNeverBrag.kiss)

While our paintings were drying,
We each learned a language.
Now we have zoom pals,
What an advantage!

We are just awesome
Our talents just blossomed

I wrote my memoir. Jim started the podcast “we are the greatest.”

We have enjoyed our together time-
Isolation, is the best!

We learned to be perfectly positively toxic.

I, for one, will be sorry to see 2020 go!

Love,
from our castle to your shack,

Ruth and Jim

Untitled, by Brutus Richmond
Another Christmas coming
And thanks, I’m doing fine
No cards are in the mail
Santa’s gone online
There’ll be no ho, ho, hoing
They’ll be no reindeer tasks
I won’t hear Christmas carols
The choir are wearing masks
There’ll be no get togethers
Forget about your rights
A blessed social distancing
Preventing family fights
For me it’s bar and humbug
On just another day
A shocking year is finishing
Another on its way
So that’s my Christmas greeting
For whatever that is worth
But I pray for all your happiness
I pray for peace on earth

—–

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

If that doesn’t send you off in the right holiday mood, I don’t know what will! Return, tomorrow, for next month’s prompt.

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

©2020 The poets, and their respective works