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

Charli’s Starlings

No one knew where the starlings came from. One day, the sidewalks and light posts and old brick buildings were bare; the next, they were scattered with flight.

Up and down Shelden Avenue elderly friends stopped their morning walk and children pointed and pulled at parents’ pants.

Winged, iridescent forms swooped up a wall. Yellow-beaked stills observed from flower pots. A proud male perched atop an awning.

Passersby soon realized that, lifelike as the birds were, they existed solely as pictures. For one woman, that mattered little.

She kissed her paint-stained fingertips in fond farewell, turned, and headed home.

john-yunker-JwbKeN5wBME-unsplash

For Charli and her starling, and for this week’s prompt at Carrot Ranch.

June 27, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves paint. It can be fresh, peeling or in need of a coat. What is being painted and why? Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by July 3, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

 

Photo Credit:
John Yunker

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Play the fanfare, crack out the snacks, and do your favorite dance! It’s time for the THIRTIETH Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest!!

Thank you to so many who’ve been here for all or most of those weeks and to the many other willing participants who’ve joined since! If you are a newbie, I recommend reading my brief how-to about terrible poetry. After that, I recommend writing an entry after a really late night or three, and a severe headache.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is a repeated number. Pick a number, any number, and use it a lot throughout your poem.
    Besides children singing pop songs, I loathe when I have to sit through everyone using the same prompt word for 500 entries. So, irritate me.
  2. Keep the Length shorter than 150 words, so I don’t jump out any windows.
  3. Please Rhyme in terribly, horribly, no-good, very bad ways.
  4. If you can’t tell already, make it terrible. I want crazy people to look at you in fear and for the survivors of Lost to beg you not to repeat that same number again…
  5. Keep things PG or cleaner; there’s no need for crude numerals.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (June 21) 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.

Have fun!!!

 

johannes-w-249542-unsplash

Photo credit:
Johannes W

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow.

I’m speechless, so it’s a good thing I’m able to type.

I read through all the entries this week several times, and kept thinking that I need to make a ten-way tie. Only two or three of the submitted poems were too fancy for our dubious standards, and even those were just barely so.

The winner this week is D. Wallace Peach.

Poots

by D. Wallace Peach

There once was a hairy old coot
Who loved to squeeze out a poot
It was stinky and smelly
Gurgled like jelly
And popped off a sound like a toot

But he wasn’t close to the worst
My granny caught poots in her purse
She saved up the sound
For when grandkids came ‘round
Then out of her purse they would burst

Now MY poots are dainty as roses
No trouble for delicate noses
They make a small putter
Wheeze or soft flutter
But they won’t curl your hair or your toeses

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

I don’t want to encourage next week’s poets to utilize this strategy, but I had to force myself to go through reading hers the second time. 😀

All of you employed bad meter, mismatched rhyming, theme that rambled somewhere and then got lost but came back in a related way, and plenty of references and word usages to make artistic nerves cringe. On top of that extremely high bar, Diana won with the added benefit of -well, if you read it, you know.

I am not pandering in any way when I say the rest of the entries were AMAZING. As a poet sponsor, I am so proud of you all!

Here you are, in whatever order I could use to catch ’em all:

THE LOCKLOOSE GOOSE TRUCE!

by southernwriter122051046

I was hunting in far off Lockloose,
In the woods near St. Patty’s dam,
When I spied me an aging goose,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am,

And I was so damn hungry,
So, I wasn’t a bit choose-y,
So, I grabbed my gun, see,
And shot that ole’ goose-y,

But then it grabbed my gun,
And shot me back, damn!
So, we both lay bleedin’ at the settin’ sun,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

So, now, me and ole’ goose-y
Are bestest chums, by damn,
If you can’t eat ’em, don’t be choose-y,
Just as sure as I’m sure I am!

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Listen…

Hark! Hark! Listen to that bark.

For sooth, or is it for sure? The tea kettle is boiling over, I assure…

Drip. Drip. Drip.

KLANG! KLANG! KLANG!

Ring, ring, ring.

Ka-boom, pop, boom!

Noises! Ack! What, where, how?

My ears are crying green pus, how doth one make it stop now?

Oh, I have my instrument pointed at Earth. It’s picking up all the audio waves. ‘Tis a terribly noisy planet, ’tis sooth, I’m afraid.

Quick Makbobblec3ft0, point the spaceship the other way. We shouldn’t have taken a left at Mars, nay neigh.

For sooth.

KLANG!

—–

Untitled piece

by Greygirlieandme

What’s that noise?
The car started it.
I felt such a twit when
The intermittent twanging
From the bang
When I put my foot down
Was actually
Nothing.
And then the kettle
Got really annoying
When it sang an aria rather than
Its normal whistle.
Don’t they know
It hurts my head
When their infernal row
Makes me see Scarlett.
Bet she didn’t have
These issues at Tara.
All her noises went away in the wind.
And she had a butler to sort them out
Anyway.
All day.
Not like me.
Stupid noises.

—–

The hootin’ toothy tootin’ lady

by RhScribbles

There was an old lady who tooted
The kids all thought it was a hoot
She sniffled and coughed
And ate applesauce
And went to sleep over there
On the sofa
Her bed was piled with laundry

—–

Bawls before kickoff

by Molly Stevens

They’re sitting in the stands,
All settled in their rows,
Bundled in sensible layers
Wearing adorable chapeaus.

The crowd noise is thunderous,
Delighting in their teams,
When a star takes center stage
And utters a piercing scream.

Has there been a threat to life?
A gunman on the loose?
From whence sprung this shrill shriek?
Some sort of harsh abuse?

The throng is shocked into silence
Hoping no one throws a tantrum,
As the screeching goes on and on and on and on
To execute the national anthem.

Oh, say, can you sing?
No! The group decrees.
Hire an opera singer
Who can reach the last high E!

—–

Squirrels go whirling

by RhScribbles

The squirrel in the attic
Became full of static
From running around in the insulation
Itching and scratching
He left the attic because the people
Heard him running
And they went to chase him out
But it was a nightmare because
He caused sparks that sizzled
From the static in the attic
And then I woke up.

—–

Untitled piece

by Anne Copeland

Terrible noises.
They seem to follow me secretly.
They can be farts
Or doggies squatting
with terrible noises that don’t come out
But I can smell.
Or they can be loud and rude
Especially when the back
of the one I love
is turned directly to my face.
It gives me warning,
but it is too late.
I’m afraid terrible noises
are to be my lifetime fate!

—–

The Bottom Burp

by TanGental

At heart
The fart
Was really very small

And well
It’s smell
Was nothing at all.

But parps
That start
On the tiny side

May grow
You know
And be difficult to hide

Don’t think
The stink
Will give you away

It’s the sound
That’s bound
To make you pay.

Try, my boys
To keep the noise
Under some control

Or you’ll find
Mankind
Won’t be very impressed and may well think you’re some kind of uncivilised idiot.

—–

Cola Etiquette

by Jon

It’s OK to slurp
at the bottom of the cup.
But try not to burp,
or let some come back up.

If you drink it too fast,
a cola will fizz,
and run out your nose,
that’s just how it is.

—–

An ode to Aunt Marlene

by Bruce Goodman

I worry some about worrisome noise, boys.
Cars are not toys
No matter if they bring you joys.
They are dangerous and when one hears a worrisome noise
When driving along the road
One knows instantly that it’s either the engine producing too much heat
Or old Aunt Marlene in the back seat.

The other day while driving along the road,
Just after leaving my abode,
Something went clack clack clack.
Oh what a worrisome noise!
No, it wasn’t old Aunt Marlene in the back.
I’d run over Aunt Marlene’s cat.

Old Aunt Marlene likes to read poetry out loud
When she’s in the back sitting proud.
Last week she read “The Ballad of Dick Turpin”.
It went on and on.
I said, “Can’t you shut up, Aunt Marlene, you’re driving us nuts?”
She said “It’s by Alfred Noyes”.
And I said “Well he’s a most worrisome Noyes.”

Drop the “I” out of NOISE and you get a WORRISOME NOSE.
Blow it.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

here is a poem to sing
grundle pip boing thwack and ping
brrrp tinkle whap hmmp prr-dong
and that’s about the end of the song

no, wait, there’s another verse
and the noises they get a whole lot worse
but so we don’t increase our fears
we’ll just think them so no one hears

—–

Noises Everywhere

by Anneberly

What’s with these ear piercing, skin crawling sounds?
They are eating me alive, I just can’t stick around.

Where would I go? These noises are everywhere.
They’ve even made appearances in my nightmares.

Please save me from these “schlik, squish, slurp” type noises,
Before I become psychotic, and start hearing them as voices.

—–

Visit tomorrow for next week’s prompt, and keep up the terrible work!!

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WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Has the bleak midwinter weather got you down? Try our collection of elemental limericks!

This week’s winner was tough to forecast, but I settled on the first of two poems submitted by Molly Stevens:

Untitled piece

by Molly Stevens

Why does I freeze in Maine year round?
Shouldn’t I be Florida bound?
Palm trees, iced tea, flickering fleas,
And green pies made with limes of key!
Unless, of course, my ship runs aground.

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

Admittedly, Molly’s ‘B’ lines of her limerick were longer than is traditional, but I could only see how much that added to the terrible nature of her construction. I also liked her near-rhymes, her references that somewhat-related to a theme, and that she kept to a limerick format (in general).

I had so much fun reading through the other entries, even if the writers did not read all the directions. Or, to their credit, maybe they felt too shy to write a limerick. For the others, great work! So funny!

Speaking of the others, here they are in submission order:

Untitled piece

by Molly Stephens

Snow, sleet and freezing rain,
Pounding on my window pane,
Do I care
Enough to swear?
Dreaming of a life in Brisbane.

—–

Rain

by Karen

the thunderous rain comes falling down
it hits the ground without a sound
it splashes in puddles
without any trouble
and gathers in holes in the ground

—–

Snow

by Karen

snow is white when it leaves the sky
and yellow on the ground, but please don’t try
they say not to eat
it isn’t a treat
but you’ll heave if I tell you why

—–

Untitled piece

by Geoff LePard

It’s wet
Yet
I get
Het
Up if turns out nice and I have to water the garden.

It pours
Befores
I bores
The in-laws
With my moaning about having to get the hosepipe out.

The rain
‘S a pain
Yet I refrain
Again
From saying the bloody sunshine isn’t what I need right now.

This drought
Ought
Not to have caught
Me out.
English weather is almost as annoying as spelling.

—–

Whether weather wether

by Bruce Goodman

A ewe asked a ram, known as “Heather”,
Whether a wether was a misspelling of weather?
I’ll show you one day
Why missing more than an A
Prevents us from getting together.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

gravity dictates
precipitates
fall
that’s all
mates

is it snowing?
I ask knowing
the white stuff
ain’t fluff
the wind’s blowing

—–

Untitled piece

by Cricket Muse

There once was a terrible storm,
That changed from cold to warm.
The snow and sun mixed
and couldn’t be fixed,
Which is why parkas and shorts were worn.

—–

Untitled piece

by RH Scribbles

in Texas you never know if
it will rain now or in a jiffy
it won’t even snow
so off to school I go, bro
the teachers will all be so beachy

Keep up the ‘good’ work, everyone! See you for next week’s contest!

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WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Oh. my. heck. Yes -even Oh, my flippin’ heck!

I had SO much difficulty picking a winner. There were only two or three poems that were a tad too pretty, and even those chose to do something terrible at some point.

This means that the following pulled ahead by merely a squeak:

Untitled piece

by M.K.M.

Submit to authority, they say with a twitch
The twitch was insecurity
“She’s a snitch” I yell, drug off in cuffs
But this was a figment of my imagination
Snitch! I mumble as the cops catch my bluff
Once again my imagination
I get back to scrubbing the dishes
I still hate my boss for making me use soap
Dumb
Bum
Sum
Crumb. Cake.
Crap…
More crumb cake to scrub away.

Congratulations to M.K.M! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

think what ultimately pushed this one ahead was that I really respected the poet’s masterful rhyming and meter patterns -specifically, his or her ability to lead us along like the poem was actually going somewhere and then throw us against a brick wall of Verse Expectation.

I also liked the theme that then wasn’t really a theme but ended up with a semi-related theme that was just nonsense. I do not say this was a winning element, however, as a few of the other ‘poets’ utilized a similar method.

Speaking of the others; here they are, in roughly the order of submission:

My dumb manager (with footnotes to aid scholars)

by The Ever-Patient Bruce Goodman

My manager is really dumb.
Oh bum.
What a wonderfully dumb manager is my manager.
I haven’t turned up for work in three years and she hasn’t noticed yet.
Heck. (Footnote: “Heck” almost rhymes with “yet”).
I love my dumb manager.
When I married her I knew she would overlook my attendance
in order to get independence.
Isn’t that funny? (Footnote: “funny” rhymes with “money” but I was unable to fit the word “money” in).
I am now going with my dumb manager to Honolulu
so don’t poopoo (Footnote: “poopoo” rhymes with “Honolulu”) my dumb manager.
I said to my dumb manager, “I just know ya
can’t wait to say aloha.”
Hurrah for my dumb waitress manager!

—–

The (almost a) Sonnet to Dumb Managers Everywhere

by Greygirlieandme

Managers come in all shapes and sizes,
And all sorts of capabilities.
Their office walls show their college prizes,
Proving they’ve fast tracked above the minions.

They’ll grind you down with blue sky thinking,
Process improvements and horizon scans.
Kaizen this and ‘Is it agile? that.
Well my paradigm’s not shifting yet.

They stalk offices all over the place,
Brain storming us all to bored ennui.
Bragging about their third rate MBAs
And that it’s not about I but us.

Pie charts, gantt charts, synergized flow charts.
Oh stuff it all, you’re the elephants in the room.

—–

Untitled piece

by Furious Pockets

There once was a boss from the city,
Whose management style was woke.
If you were a man, you’d be out of luck,
For ‘twas only the women he wanted to promote.

—–

The Mutually Exclusive Manager

by D. Wallace Peach, Esquire

Work ‘til five, no overtime
But get that project done

He hopes that you enjoy your work
But growls if you’re having fun

Work, work, working for a crumb
I got a headache, working for a bum
Wish I could quit, my manager’s dumb

He hires on the cheap
Then gripes about training

Moans that my attitude stinks
But does nothing but complaining

Work, work, working for a crumb
I got a headache, working for a bum
Wish I could quit, my manager’s dumb

—–

Untitled piece

by RhScribbles

Dumb managers are
Dumb du dumb dumb

Your boss is dumber
Dumber du dumber dumb

Than a box of rocks
Rocks ro rocks rocks

Take a bathroom break
And never return
That boss will
Really burn 🔥
burn bu burn burn

His popcorn

—–

Untitled piece

by Anne Copeland

Oh manager, oh manager . . .
It’s time for your review.
Your service sucks in every way,
And your personality is peeyew!
I am not your personal errand girl
And my butt’s not yours to pinch.
If you think you can bully me
You need to see the Grinch!
I’m glad I’m not a boss like you
With your tail between your legs
A chicken has more brains than you
And it can lay good eggs.
I used to think you were half a man
But now as I look to see what’s left,
There must have been a terrible theft
For all I see is a garbage can . . .

—–

Untitled piece

by Lisa Bradshaw

There was a manager once
who stood before my desk
do this do that he said.
who me, should I really
but yesterday was something else
and now it’s something new
Make up your mind I clearly thought
you change things all the time
I’ll keep as is the page you see,
as tomorrow for sure
there will be ideas anew.
It’s the pedestal that you require
reserved for people like you

—–

The Misguided Manger

by Peregrine Arc

He has this book, he said.

It’ll revolutionize our corner on the market.

He said.

I sighed. Someone next to me cried. I do not lie. We did not want to try his newfangled ideas, I surmised.

“We’ll make frappucinos better, our Eggs Benedict delicious-ier. We shall be be known as the restaurant that stole brunch!”

Fry. Sizzle. Pop. Smear. Toast. Serve.

Clink, clink, clink. Receipt, receipt, receipt.

“Still we forgot one thing. We never advertised, did we?”

Munch, munch, munch. The same old bunch.

Lovely they were, but the same old bunch.

Lunch, lunch, lunch.

Come get the brunch!

Sizzle.

You are all doing very well, class. I am most impressed at the awfulness of your writings. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for the next week’s contest prompt and rules.

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WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

This week I only had four entries. While this made judging a tiny bit easier, I also felt a touch sad that more people couldn’t fulfill their New Year’s Resolutions of writing more terrible poetry in a formal format.

That’s not to say the decision of who to crown wasn’t difficult. In the end, this one took the prize:

I don’t need no resolutions

by RhScribbles

I don’t need no resolutions
It ain’t in the constitution
What’s up with that
He said, with the hat
On his head
That he said
He would wear until he died
No absolution
Resolve to die?
Uh why?
I don’t wanna
Make restitution
He’s gotta wear a hat on his head
No lie
No revolutions
Just resolutions

Yay, Ruth! You’ve done it again!

Hers and another’s were neck-and-neck for first place. I decided that Ruth’s lack of direction saved the day again. I mean, what is with the hat?

I also love her rhymes that show up when they are supposed to but also when they probably shouldn’t, and her bad meter.

I’m not saying the others didn’t have plenty of awfulness and humor. Here they are, in order of submission:

New Year’s Day Resolutions

by Greygirlieandme

Are made to be broken.
Like my heart, given to you as a token,
when my love was awoken.

Maybe I can lose some weight
If I send it back to you, wrapped in hate.
Then you can serve it on a plate.

There, that’s one kept.

Without my heart I’d be less bitter,
Although I might not be fitter.
And what a post to put on Twitter.

Half and half on that one then.

Maybe I’ll run it round myself,
Leave it on your windowshelf.
Topped by your stupid Christmas elf.

Yep, that’s exercise done.

Perhaps I’ll no longer drink red wine,
There’ll be no need, I’ll be just fine
You made me drink it, your taste not mine.

Hey, another one ticked.

But now here’s one I won’t stick to
I must stop really wanting you.

—–

Resolutions Derailed

by Molly Stevens

It’s New Year’s Day so what do you say?
Is it time to make a resolution?
Nothing radical. Nothing tragical.
After all it’s not a revolution
Eating more vegetables and fruit
Is now an action for dispute.
Listeria! Hysteria!
E. coli! Holy Moly!

Can I get into shape, wriggle and rock?
Stop pushing snooze on the alarm clock?
How about stashing cash and accruing fortitude
By driving fast past fast food?

But officer, I can explain.
I was merely a passenger
On the self-improvement train.
Choo! Choo! Boo! Hoo!

A ticket for driving at breakneck speed
While I was merely trying not to overfeed?
I’m suing McDonald’s for this misdeed,
And I’ve got a terrific chance to succeed.

Don’t lecture me about eating no fat,
Do you think I’m related to joyless Jack Sprat?
I’m out of time for idle chitchat.
Yes, of course, I want fries with that!

Choo! Choo! Chew! Chew!

—–

Resolution Sonnet

by Bruce Goodman

The megapixel race
is a disgrace.
Photographs may have been getting clearer
but the megapixel camera phones seem to be getting dearer.
Let’s hope that in 2019 camera resolutions will peak
and we’ll all get cheaper photos, so to speak.
In the meantime I’m going to eat lots of chocolait
while I wait
and hope that my resolve
doesn’t dissolve
like it did last year
when I decided to wear
nothing but outrageous wraps
in order to look gorgeous in high resolution snaps.

Many who entered slipped back into the ‘too pretty’ area of verse. Let go your meter, your patterns, your main topics, and your artistic sensibilities. Then, enter tomorrow for next week’s competition.

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WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard since last week’s contest. No -I’m certain I laughed even more this morning. My four-year-old kept looking up from whatever-he’s-getting-into-so-I-can-write and asked if I was all right. Repeatedly.

I’m in favor of calling everyone a winner. Buuuuut… two poems had the same level of my definition of terrible poetry; so, in a first-ever gesture, I am assigning two winners:

Awake in a Manger

by Molly Stevens

Awake in a manger
His bed lined with straw
The little Lord Jesus
Looked up at his maw.

With a moo moo here and a moo moo there
Here a moo, there a moo, everywhere a moo moo.

The mother and father
Looked down where he lay

With a neigh neigh here and and a neigh neigh there
Here a neigh, there a neigh, everywhere a neigh neigh.

The little Lord Jesus
Let out a great bray.

Hush little baby don’t say a word
Mama’s given birth in an animal herd.
If that animal herd don’t sleep
Mama’s gonna fall apart and weep.

I love thee Lord Jesus, but I beg thee and pray,
Give me relief, some sign of your presence.
Hark! The herald angels looked down on the fray,
And sent down a helper – an angel named Clarence.

Now every time there’s a crying King
An angel gets at least one wing.
E-I-E-I-O.

—–AND—–

Christmas Cheers

by Gerard LaDamus

Christmas time is here,
Christmas time is near,
Let’s have a Christmas beer,
For the New Year

Good times we will have,
With Santa and the elfes,
A true Christmas blessing,
Having Zen on our shelves

Let the bubbly flow,
Soon we’ll be kissing under the mistletoe,
Toss the figgy pudding,
Nobody likes that crap, who are we kidding

Christmas presents wrapped with care,
Let’s hope jolly ol’ Saint Nick soon appears,
Maybe I’ll get a rabbit or a hare,
It’s better than a box of Bartlett pears

Baby it’s cold outside,
Get close by my side,
Let’s make an Christmas elf,
We can name him Relph

Christmas time is here,
Christmas time is near,
Let’s have a Christmas beer
For the New Year

—–

Congratulations, Molly and Gerard! You are the Most Terrible Poets of the week. Share the crown, I suppose. Sing to all of your terrible prose!

Molly had me cringing as I chuckled, at her insertions of mismatched chorus in her traditional carol. I started laughing aloud at the baby braying and could only feel admiration as my poetic sensibilities were twisted uncomfortably for the remainder of the poem.

Gerard, a first-time contestant (welcome!), dashed away with those same sensibilities at his terrible meter, timing, spelling, and subject matter. I mean –what is this song about? Admittedly, the element that bumped him to first was ‘elfes’ and ‘Relph.’ Argh.

Do yourself a solid, and read (sing?) the rest of these. If I could find music for all of them, I’d offer to release a Christmas album for you all:

Yuletide balls

by Bruce Goodman

We’re hanging our balls on the tree
pa rum pum pum pum
We got them at various shopping malls
pa rum pum pum pum
They come in all shapes and colors
pa rum pum pum pum
And some of the balls are our mother’s
pa rum pum pum pum

Chorus:
Balls! Balls! Wonderful yuletide balls!
We’re hanging them on the tree
There’s nothing to match them
I warn you – don’t scratch them
Everyone who sees them is filled with admiration
If the tree and balls catch on fire there’ll be a conflagration.

Everyone who sees them shine bright
pa rum pum pum pum
Says see how they catch the light all through the silent night
pa rum pum pum pum
After we’ve finished hanging our balls
pa rum pum pum pum
We’re going to start making the hors (hors should rhyme with balls if you’re reading it our aloud)
d’oeuvre
pa rum pum pum pum
For Christmas dinner
pa rum pum pum pum

Chorus:
Balls! Balls! Wonderful yuletide balls!
We’re hanging them on the tree.
There’s nothing to match them.
Be careful not to scratch them.
Everyone who sees them is filled with admiration
If the tree and balls catch on fire there’ll be a conflagration.
Alleluia!

—–

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas, by Death Metal Grunge

by Death Metal Grunge (AKA Bladud Fleas)

ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

Gotta dead tree an painted all the chrissmas lights blaaack
Got yooza present, here’s the receipt, so you can take it baaaaack
To Waaaal-maaaart. Yeah, shame they don’t do death head tattooooos
Cos that is what I wooda bought for yooz. Yeah.

ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

Decorated the room and nailed my sock above the FIRE
If I said it didn’t hurt a bit I’d be a LIAR
It’d learn me to take my foot outta it BEFORE
But the blood splatter goes with the gizzards and the GORE

YEEAAH Santa’s gonna puke.
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

(ad lib & fade)

—–

Reindeer’s Fly at Night

by Anneberly

Sung to the tune of “Christmas Don’t be Late”

Reindeer’s, reindeer’s in the sun
Sleep for hours and have no fun
They can’t cook, nor can they bake
Lazy reindeer’s, need to wake
Santa’s sleigh is packed with toys
For all the lil’ girls and boys
Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

Santa’s sleigh is packed with toys
For all the lil’ girls and boys
Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Sung to the tune of We Three Kings

We three drunks of the neighborhood bar
Pounding shots we daren’t drive the car
Bloody Mary, beer and brandy
Oh my gosh, I’m seeing stars

Bourbon, I love you, high as a kite
Bar with a mirror lit up so bright
To the gutter leading, hope I’m not bleeding
Guide us to thy Michelob Light

Chicken wings, my mouth is on fire
Give me a pint to douse the hot pyre
Drunks forever, barfing never
Karaoke carols join the choir

Oh-ohhhh, bar of wonder, bar of blight
Bar of cocktails, blurry-eyed sight
Olives and cherries, I’m feeling merry
Cheers to a tipsy Christmas night!

—–

Candy Canes

by Ruth Scribbles

Sung to the tune of “Deck the Halls”

Line the streets with sugary treats

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

‘Tis, time to sleep and not make merry

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

Merry is as merry does

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

Does the candy go buzz buzz?

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

*

Merry Jane is insane

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

She puffs a pipe and always gripes

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

If you give her some advice

La fa la fa la fa la fa la

She will turn you into ice

La fa la fa la fa la fa la

—–

Mingle Smells

by Peregrine Arc

Sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells”

Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today.

Dashing through the roads
In a stolen minivan
Past the cops we go
Laughing all the way
Ha ha hah!

Cops on phones do ring
Making handcuffs tight
Oh what fun it is to run
From committing crimes tonight!

Oh! Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today.

Oh! Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today…

—–

All I Want for Christmas

by Natalie K.

All I Want for Christmas

All I want for a Christmas is a kid who eats,
A kid who eats,
A kid who eats.

Oh, all I want for Christmas is a kid who eats,
Then I could have a Merry Christmas.

It seems so long since I’ve not said,
“You didn’t eat your dinner, so no snacks in bed”.
It seems so long since I was glad,
Not sitting at the table and getting mad.

All I want for Christmas is a kid who eats,
A kid who eats,
Oh, a kid who eats.

Gee, if I could only have a kid who eats,
Then I could have a merry Christmas!

—–

Christmas Chaos

by Brad (Writing to Freedom)

Technically this was written for last week’s theme, but we’ll go with it!

Twas the night before Christmas and chaos filled the house

Elves were chasing Santa’s mouse

Mrs. Claus was posing with a potted Dancer

Vixen was determined to ride Prancer

cups were flowing with spiked nog

creating a bit of a toy backlog

yuletide traditions were put aside

preparing for a naughty sleigh ride

with visions of mischief and merriment

Santa long past the age of retirement

this tale has gone awry

on Comet, on Cupid, it’s time to fly

You were all wonderfully awful! Come back the Saturday after Christmas to enter again!

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WINNER of the Fifth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

If I thought past contests were difficult to judge, I didn’t know what terribleness was looming on the near horizon!

I had a solid four truly awful, terrible, teeth-gnashing poems that I just could not choose a winner from. So, after carefully spending at least five extra seconds on each and then going with my initial instinct, the winner is:

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

‘Twas the night before Christmas

When all thru the city

The Santa’s were out

Delivering things, what a pity

A pity it is, because

No one is sure

If Santa is Santa

Or a cur in a fur

A fur made from cats

Why cats?

Cats are fat

But they bite the tails

The tales of curs

And history reveals

That this data is concealed

To keep folks from squealing

And then there was a noise

A noise – no, a growl?

a growl and a howl

A howl and a poke

and then he awoke

Congratulations, Ruth! You are the Most Terrible Poet of the week. Ruth has entered for weeks, and has been too clever a writer to sink low enough to win this contest -before today.

The final-round poems all had the following in common: rhyming, allusions to the original poem, humor (though that is certainly not a necessary requirement), off-topic rambling, and originality. Besides my closed-eyes-random-finger-pointing and highly subjective judging; Ruth’s final oomph was that her verse rambled off somewhere odd yet still worked cohesively.

Again, almost-first-placers, amazing terrible job! I had to confer with my seven-year-old for his opinion. (If he ever ‘helps’ again, know that he’s a Captain Underpants fan.)

Everyone else, keep trying. I know, somewhere deep in the recesses of your talented minds, you can get worse.

Thank you all for entering! PLEASE enter again next week. The prompt will post tomorrow morning, promptly at 10ish MST.

Here are ALL the other entries, in order of submission:

Twas the Night Before Christmas

by Bladud Fleas

Twas the night before Christmas, the twenty fourth of December
No, wait, actually it was the twenty third, I seem to remember
Hold on, let me do the math; it was the twenty tooth actually
Hmm, come to think of it, I’m not sure of that exactly factually
Let’s just say, for now, it was sometime before Christmas Day
The harvest was ready and the people were making hay
No, that don’t sound right, does it? How am I so wrong?
De-dah-de-dah…subtract one, carry forward..Right! on with my song!
Twas a (possibly) a night in December, or November, or June
To be honest, the sun was shining, so let’s just say noon
Twas in the middle of Summer, approx. around about midday
O, look what you’ve done, I’ve forgotten what it was I was going to say.

—–

‘Twas the nightcap before Christmas

by Bruce Goodman

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a drop of alcohol could be found in the house.
Grandma had hung her stockings by the chimney with care (to dry if you may)
And I says this place is drier than a cowboy’s armpit on a cold day.

The grandkids were nestled all snug in their beds,
And grandma said she’d hidden a wee drop or two under the bed.
And I said, well go ‘n get it and we’ll have a wee nightcap,
Before settling down to a long winter’s nap,

So we had a wee dwink or two
And I said I knew
The names of the reindeer off by heart
And grandma said she reckoned I didn’t because I was a silly old fart.

There’s DASHER! and DANCER! and PRANCER! and CLATTER!
And grandma said that CLATTER wasn’t one of the reindeer
And I said what would she know? And anyway to boot
I was going up on the roof to clean the chimney so St Nick didn’t get soot on his suit.

So we had another tipple and then I went up on the roof and granny held the ladder
And I called down that one of the reindeer up here was called CLADDER!
I said it’s as slippery up here as ice cubes in a dwink, and grandma said that was impossible,
But it explains why I spent Christmas in hospital.

When she visited me on Christmas day
I said to granny where’s my Christmas present
Cos it’s drier in here than a cowboy with a hat on his head
And as she left granny said she left the stuff underneath the bed.

MAREWEE CHRITHMITH!

—–

Fin

by Stephen Robert Black

Twas The Night Before Christmas
Which made it Christmas Eve
I think
My poetry
It stinks
That rhymes
I need a drink
That also rhymes
Does rhyming the word rhyme with the word rhyme count as a rhyme
Pourquoi?
That’s French for why
I think
Oh Lord….
Fin

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Tis the afternoon that comes just before Christmas Eve
And I’m rushing around like you wouldn’t believe
The dog’s barfed up tinsel, my tree lights are dead
I couldn’t find any clear ones, but the minimart had red
Just like Trump’s hall of fiendish stalactites
Or with the points up, does that make them stalagmites?
I burned a batch of cookies for jolly old Saint Nick
Defrosted some corn dogs from July that even then tasted ick
No carrots for the reindeer. No veggies! I’m out.
January better hurry up, cause I’m all tuckered out.
Fa la fella fa, dee da dee da
Fifi folly duh, ta da, ta da!

—–

Christmas Crimestoppers

by Babbitman

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And on a roof broad and flat…
Santa was calling to rat on a rat!

He’d delivered some gifts a few seconds ago
And had spotted some lads in the alley below.

“I recognise that bunch of naughty young chaps,”
He said as he watched them swap money and wraps.

“That’s crystal meth!”, said Santa with shock
And he reached for his mobile, which he kept in his sock.

“I’m breaking bad!”, thought our Mr Claus.
But there was a small problem that caused him to pause:

“I can’t call the police, they’ll want my name –
They’re bound to think that I’m playing a game”.

“I need to do something, but can’t ring the coppers…
I’ve got it! I know! I’ll call Crimestoppers!”

So he dialled oh-eight hundred, triple five, triple one
But noticed that all of his credit had gone.

“It’s a good job that this call is free, eh Prancer?”
Said Santa as he calmly awaited an answer.

The operator picked up the crime-stopping call
And noted the details while Santa told all.

“You might get a reward”, the operator said,
And there came a chuckle from our hero in red.

“Thank you but really I prefer giving tonight,
But only to those on my list – Goodnight!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent P. McDonald

Twas the night before Solstice
And all through the land
It was dark before the hourglass
Was empty of sand
Except down below
The planets belt
Where hotter weather
Was sure to be felt
For the tilt of the Earth
Made night long
So we celebrate
By singing a silly song
About the night before Solstice
And all through the land
Oops, I’m stuck in a loop
So I’ll just disband….

—–

Untitled piece

by The Wise Greek

Twas… Honestly I don’t remember,

Wait it’s not even day?

Wait Charlie stay!

I know its a holiday so don’t go to room,

Cause I know if you do your mom is going to beat me with a broom.

I know you’re sister is staring at my wallet,

Daring me to say she can’t have any money,

I know your mom’s glaring at me.

Fluffly I swear if you don’t stop bearing you’re teeth at me!

Wait its December?

I honestly thought it was November.

—–

Christmas Eve Thing

by Michael B. Fishman

Twas the night before Christmas and I’m all by myself
got my camera to photograph that goofy red elf.

2018’s the year where I’ll get him recorded
and for my effort the Pulitzer committee will see me rewarded.

But I’m hungry so first I’ll make me some nice, hearty bisque.
And maybe I’ll make it with some gooey lutefisk.

Can I ask you a question, my Christmasy chum?
Did you ever try writing some poetry, hmmm?

Don’t answer ‘cuz honestly I really don’t care
anymore than I care ‘bout your smelly footwear.

So maybe, dear reader, I’ll deck the halls because:
I really want my two front teeth,
or maybe I just want
you,
or blue,
or white,
or…
Sorry, my thoughts became a little abstracted, but when I saw who mommy was kissing I got a bit distracted.

Now I’ve lost my count in this Christmas extravaganza
and I know Chelsea said only eight or nine when it comes to the stanza.

(I just counted and that’s seven. Please, dear reader, pretend you didn’t just read this parenthetical non-stanza. It’ll just be our little secret; alongside that one time when Dasher and Comet got some . . . oops, never mind that and forget I even mentioned it)

I have one final thought for you before it’s too late
(and no, it’s not to tickle my manly breastplate)

It’s whether you’re at sea or straddling an isthmus,
Please have yourself a merry, happy, jolly, healthy little Christmas.

—–

Untitled piece

by Sheri J. Kennedy

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the office
The peeps were all fluey and all full of coughses

Their eyes hung in bags with bulging lids droopy
Their answers to emails were all nincompoopy

They swallowed more syrup and dreamed of their beds
While blurred visions of monitors multiplied in their heads

The holiday was coming, they leaned upon that
While doing their darndest not to barf in their hats

A bottle of OJ, another pain pill
They pushed around paper, just an hour to kill

Away to the door they stumbled in stupors
A stop at the party and boy were they poopers

At last up their driveways they wove their way home.
And fell in their beddi-byes to spend Christmas alone.

—–

‘Twas the Morning before Monday

by Anneberly Andrews

‘Twas the morning before Monday, when all of the outdoors
Were weeping, not sleeping, as people rode their snowboards

Down the mountainside time and time again
Mother Nature complained about a serious migraine

Pleading for the sun to fade behind a thick, dark cloud
And the humans to quit being so loud

Enough was enough, she ended the noise quite quick
When the weather turned icy cold, and instantly made them all sick

—–

‘Twas the Night Before Brutality

by Peregrine Arc

‘Twas the night before brutality
When all through the house
An axe murderer came stirring
And boy, was he a louse.

Stocking footed and booted,
he tracked mud and then he looted.
The silverware, the tea, the candles and dough
for Christmas cookies were his favorite stow.

The children were on their Xbox, headphones in place;
their mother, upstairs with a giant toothache.
And then the burglar, oaf that he was,
made his first glamorous and stupid faux pas.

“I’m getting a cookie,” a young tot said.
“Or maybe I’ll eat some dough instead!”
Off the children went, all in a gang,
When they came upon the burglar and broke off in a bang.

“He’s stealing our silverware!” started the one.
“That’s my gummy bear candy cane from my mum!”
“He’s stealing everything–let’s get them, boys!
I’ll go for his knees–you hit him with Tolstoy!”

And on they tussled, right onto the floor;
the axe murderer was caught, a thief no more!
When suddenly they heard the mightiest roar;
their mother was awake and, boy, was she was a boar.

“What in heaven’s name is that noise!”
“I told you to pipe down. I’ll take back your toys!
Harold, I need you. Harold, wake up!
The boys have destroyed the house and I need some back-up.”

Click-click-click
down from the bedroom came ol’ Susie and Harold Pick.
In an instant they saw what was the matter
and Susie doused the intruder with a heaping bowl of batter.

“I’m calling the police, you axe murder you;
Harold has got you hogtied–it’s true!
Nobody steals Christmas from our kids
All you’ll get is a knuckle sandwich!”

—–

Holiday Confusion

by Molly Stevens

‘Twas five months before Christmas when all through the stores
Christmas decorations replaced ingredients for s’mores.
It’s summer, you say? What a waste of my dime!
There’s no commercial benefit to having downtime.
You can’t have too much shopping and wrapping and joy
And singing repeatedly Little Drummer Boy.
Par rum pum pum pum,
Rum tee dee dum,
Dum dee dee dumb.
I’m perfectly fine and my thoughts are as clear
as the midnight when angels let out a loud jeer,
“Give Santa the boot and tell him goodbye,
Send up a rocket, it’s the Fourth of July!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Sheri Saretsky

Twas the night before Christmas
After being laid off
Feeling scroogish and angry
And full of bitter scoff
And the reindeer were noisy
As I yelled from the hall
That this Christmas was cancelled
I had just hit a wall
But the morning was coming
As I opened the door
To see packages falling
From outside to the floor
I remembered the shopping
From my computer at night
Back when I had money
And it wasn’t so tight
I thanked God that I finally
Saw my OCD as a gift
And I made up with the reindeer
So they could give me a lift
My anger subsided
As I loaded the sleigh
I passed out all the presents
And knew it would all be ok.

—–

Untitled piece

by Jordy

Twas the night before Christmas
and feeling alone
not a creature was stirring
not even their bones

Went into dreaming
to get a fresh streaming
feigned a get away
accidentally landing in the UK

Stuck in a snow storm
wearing flip flops and t shirt torn
darned if I didn’t miss Bali
astral body took the wrong trolly

Phone booth in the distance
it would take ten pence
Mrs Santa answered
saying the one went onward

Saw Santa and his reindeer
racing in the sky so clear
bridging the distance
I climbed onto Blitzen

While the snow is glistening
I am freezing yet
cheerful to be part of this team
only to pull out the Jim Beam

Thankfully to wake
in a warm bed I did make
but be damned to want
to go back and not faint

To be bold
and not fold
under pressure
from cold weather

Mistakes can be made
next time be sure
to arm the astral with fur

I’m not pointing fingers (Diana), but there was a sudden, suspicious influx of entries this week. I hope you all return to give me ulcers next time.

In the meantime, keep practicing!

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WINNER of the Fourth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Sheeeesh, people. Though not as close a tie this time, I still think first place was split about three ways. I had to delay the contest to allow for time to climb the highest mountain in Utah, in order to consult with The Guru of Poetic Awfulness. Going off his advice, plus past winners and slight aspects I liked more than others… the winner is:

O! Radio!

by Michael B. Fishman

The radio’s antenna is bad.
When it first broke: “Oh, egad!”
I fixed it with glue,
what else could I do?
Huh?

My head: stuffed like the brick. Oh, antenna, desist.

With frustration I pace, “Ah,” I to frustration. “Why do I tarry? Why not I make merry?”

Dash the radio. (Mary?) Hosanna! From where? From my despair do I dare to pose such a posing question?

Remove your madding thoughts. Becalm like the bluebird.

Explain, voice, my choice. Will my radio play? Will my hips again sway?

I wait sans answer.

The faucet drips leathery through my vino-filled veins. The antennaless radio’s static-buzz, like the vivific current of the vacant velvety Vermillion river vaguely venturing via Verndale home to Victoria.

(plop . . .) Oh Mary, forsake me not.

(buzz . . .) Yet I stand

(plop . . . ) like the deerskin covering the thorny tree,

(buzz . . .) forsaken.

Congratulations, Michael! You are the Most Terrible Poet of the week.

Michael’s poem almost had it all: awful meter, a tirade of alliterations, made-up lingo, and plenty to get me thoroughly lost and wishing to smack my head against a good pentameter to make it all stop.

For the almost-first-placers, great job! I had to really dig to pick a winner from amongst you.

For the not-almost-first-placers, you still write too pretty. Try breaking out of a pattern, making fun of poetic angst, or leaving readers hanging at the end of a perfectly reasonable stanza like an unresolved chord progression.

Thank you all for entering! PLEASE enter again next week. I will post a prompt tomorrow more promptly than I did today.

Here are the other fantastic (and terrible) entries, in order of submission:

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

The foundation stays broke

Doors and Floors

Sway and sag

Stick and scrape

Tilt and twirl

Well if you are a marble

You twirl from one side

Of the room to another

Then the windows

All are stuck shut

Foundations are finicky

This poem is icky

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Fie to electric appliances
A freezer of thawed burger
Lightless, coldless, and iceless
Spoiled-milk refrigerator

Woe to the washing machine
Growing microbes of mold
A soup of dank undies and socks
Mildew makes me blow my nose

A pox on the dishwasher
I weep at the caked-on guck
Plates spotted like a chicken
It won’t scrape off and that really sucks

I could go on and on forsooth
About the vacuum clogged with mutt hair
The blender, micro, crockpot, and other stuff
But my appliances are dead and don’t care

—–

WonderWoman and SuperGlue.

by Bladud Fleas

Oh, Honey!
what did you do
with the glue?
In the drawer?
Oh, heck, it
seems to be
stick-
ing!
Yes, it’s stuck!
good and true,
Hon, that one where
you put the glue.
You did what with
the glue top, Dear?
Oh.

—–

The Banshee Toilet

by Peregrine Arc

Oh woe is me, for I dearly have to pee.
But the truth is, our toilet, why, it’s a banshee.
Every time I go to attend the flow,
it gives off an unearthly bellow!
Eeeek, it cries, after I thrust the lever down.
Eeeek, it sounds, down the hall and across the town.
What is one to do, when nature calls and your knees are crossed?
When you’re hopping around downstairs, until you’re suddenly quite lost?
Grab some toilet paper, my dear
and don’t let the Banshee know your fear.
For urinary tract health is a real concern.
Never hold it, our mothers said–listen and you’ll learn.

—–

That Object That Always Breaks in My House

by Bruce Goodman

Day after day, at home, the same thing breaks;
‘tis not the dawn that breaks o’er yonder hill,
(although of course it does for goodness sake),
‘tis something else that is my bitter pill.

Perhaps my car doth brake when I come home,
but that’s a different spelling, I perceive.
The brakes of cars could break, as could a drone’s,
but that is not the break that is conceived.

The thing that almost daily breaks that’s mine
pains me to the core and can’t be glued.
It’s not the breaking eggs at breakfast time,
nor be it breaks for lunch to eat some food.

Know when you leave for work and we’re apart,
each day, and all day long, you break my heart.

—–

Untitled piece

by TanGental

When I come back as a potter
In the next like, I will stop
My nemesis that makes me utter
rude words; the curse of the china tea pot.

The lid never ends up in its groove
It just follows its own trajectory
As if it just has to prove
Its aim is it’s out to get me

into trouble. I’ve dropped it more times
than the cups it has brewed
And while I really don’t like to whine
If the tea ends up stewed then I’m screwed.

I’ve repaired the lid, I’ve even soldered the spout
When they try and stop me, I cry ‘get off me’
I just have, on my own, to sort this mess out
After all if I don’t then the alternative is we will just have to drink coffee…

—–

Optically Challenged

by Jon

Called CD player on the box,
that should have been a clue;
The gadget oughtn’t be
considered as having
the remotest thing to do
with performing any function
‘ere it went kerploo

—–

Ode to dirty house

by Ruth Scribbles

Oh house you are dirty
The dust is flirty–flurrying
Finding its way up my nose
Ahhhchoo

The crumbs are thirty or forty
Too many crumbs
The rubbish is overflowing

Where are my cleaning fairies
When I need them.
Dirty house I hate you

Please, please, please enter next week’s contest. Some of you just need to tweak your poetic taste buds down a level or two. Do not try for merely day-old leftovers; try for yesterday’s lump of green putty you found in your refrigerator one midwinter’s morning.

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