It's time for our annual BAD POETRY CONTEST!
This week is a special, heart-touching time of year, when all young writers turn to thoughts of bad poetry. That’s because, each year at this time, we take a week to celebrate my birthday — not with cards, not with songs, not with cutesy memes on Facebook that will make me want to gag. Instead, here we do the more creative thing… we create bad poetry. The badder, the better.
A note about bad poetry: Some people just don’t get it. They seem to think we’re making fun of great poets. No indeed. We’re making fun of ALL poets. Those who think they are deep. Those who want to show they’re smarter than you. Those who rhyme “love” with “dove,” “glove,” and “above.” And most of all, those who call out, “Hey, look at me! I’m sensitive!” So the time has come once again to your bad poems. Stop the wordsmithing madness and start constipating on wrong rhythms and awful word choice. The 2015 Bad Poetry Contest is here!
For those not in the know, we deal with books and publishing 51 weeks out of the year, answering questions and offering insights to writers and those interested in the world of publishing. But one week out of the year (my birthday week), we set aside the topic of publishing in order to share something much deeper… much more meaningful… much stupid-er. In the old British tradition of offering something falsely deep yet with a veneer of thoughtfulness, we hold a Bad Poetry Contest. Each year the readers send in truly horrible poetry, then a team of experts (me…and sometimes Mike, if he’s sober and I can convince him to help) offers a thorough evaluation of each piece (“That sucks… but this sucks worse.”). Eventually we come up with a winner, who is presented with a truly fabulous Grand Prize. One year it was a lava lamp — the epitome of stupid cultural crud posing as something deep and thoughtful. Another year it was a very special book that had been sent to me in hopes of finding representation: Does God Speak Through Cats? And once it was a 45 record of Neil Diamond singing “I Am, I Said” (which contains these deep thoughts: “I am, i said, to no one there, and no one heard at all not even the chair.” Wow. Sing to me, Neil.) You see the theme here? We go for a mood of deepfulness and reflectivosity. And YOU need to participate.
This year’s Grand Prize? A copy of what has been called “the worst self-published book ever.” How to Good-bye Depression is the product of that great writing mind Hiroyuki Nishigaki, who added to its fame by creating this winning subtitle: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Every Day. Malarky? or Effective Way? (No, I’m not making this up. That’s the subtitle. Complete with punctuation errors.) Chapters of the book include Erase your bad stickiness and multiply various good feeling, Save sex energy and rotate vortex, and, of course, my favorite chapter, Stare, shoot out immaterial fiber, uceed in concentrating, behave with abandon-largess-humor, and beckon the spirit. (I checked to make sure I had that one exactly as published — right down to the word “uceed.”) Let me just point out that I’m not only a huge fan of this book, I’ve long been in favor of rotating your vortex. I’m not as big on shooting out immaterial fiber, unless you’re out-of-doors and wearing the proper headgear. Anyway, this book can be ALL YOURS if you win the 2015 Bad Poetry Contest. So don’t delay, brethren and sisteren.
Some rules:
1. Don’t send me a birthday poem, unless you want me to slug you. Yeah, this is my way of celebrating. But “Happy Birthday oh Chip o’ mine, Hope this finds you well and fine” gets tired in a hurry.
2. Use any form you want. This isn’t hard, people — you just create a bad poem and post it in the “comments” section of this blog. How hard can that be? Any kind of poem is fine. Free verse, rhyming couplets, limericks — the key is that it needs to be BAD. (And by “bad” we don’t just mean “sort of stoopid.” We mean “falsely deep,” “annoyingly awful,” and “please-shoot-me-before-I-write-more treacle.”) We’re looking for bad imagery. Incorrect word choice. Irresponsible concepts. Awful metaphors. Smarmy tripe. We don’t just want dumb cutesyness — we want mind-numbingly BAD poetry!
So put on your stinking cap, and think up something rotten. It’s a tough job, but SOMEbody’s got to create bad poetry. You have been chosen. Feed your gift. The contest starts… NOW.
104 Comments
he was a buoy and i just a gull
Happy Birthday, Chip – this has been fun. Hope you get a chuckle out of this:
Bad Poetry
One man’s putrid pile of pontification
Is another man’s eloquent song of elation.
What touches the soul of a sad psalter
Misses the mark, makes another one falter.
Who is to say whether ‘tis nobler
To paint a vivid scene or just a messy blur?
Art, true art, lies not in the gaze of the viewer
But in the heart of the do-er.
Be it a painting, a poem, or a song,
You may call it bad, or evil, or wrong,
But I call it TRUTH, I call it BEAUTY,
Cuz I obviously don’t know poetry from dooty.
Whatever you do, please don’t pick me at the winner. I don’t want that awful book.
BAD PEOTRY, AN ACROSTITCH POEM
Burgeoning bellows of bloat blow
Alliteration like a bad similie
Depressingly descriptive down to the
Prosaic prose of the paranoid
Eruditripe of the homely mind, comfortable
Onomatopoeeeea dripping in the toilet as drops of golden rain
Trying to evoke feelings as subtly as needles in the eye
Rhetoric of the constipate soul
Your welcome
My constipate soul finds you to be the Exlax of Poetry, freeing me in a gush of brown waves…
The crinkly sheets wiggle in the waves of nothingness.
The cow of serendipity waltzes past the barn of conformity.
Moo.
Moo moo.
I said moo.
Bad cow. Terribly bad cow.
Terrible. Bad cow.
Kill the cow.
Wait, no, stop. Don’t kill the cow.
Just do it.
Bad cow.
Dead cow.
Cry. Tears of bloody bloodiness.
Terribly dead cow now.
Oh how?
Wow.
Bad, bad cow.
It was almost perfect. Third to last line should have been “Oh how brown cow?” Then it would truly have been a masterpiece.
Bad, bad poet! Loved this one, Deanna! You get the whole badness concept. How? Wow.
Here goes…I’m not a poet, and it shows. (That’s not the entry. Unless you think it’s the winner, and then yes, of course, it’s the entry. Otherwise, here’s the real one:)
The Imposter
I stand on the precipice of time
Watching life stretch out before me.
And I wonder of its promise.
Promise? What promise?
Life is an imposter.
Not a bad start at all, Vonda. Well, it IS a bad start, since it’s bad poetry. But not a bad bad start. Um, if you see what i mean. Unless you don’t. Thanks for participating!
This is fantasmigorical. Alrighty, here I go!
True Love’s Labour’s Long Lasted
When I was young and inncognizant
My golden locks did twinkle
A rudimentary boy child
Hidden in woods did tinkle
Despite his repugnant exploits
My palpitatious heart expanded
When first we held cotton-swab-soft hands
My destiny on my life was branded
My love left for dangerous war
I wrote him letters each Tuesday
When a report from the battle front arrived
I almost died from wooze-sway
At the blood painted hospital
Wails of hearts wrenched from bossoms
Echoed like tractor parts down a well
And my love’s face glowed as red as a rose blossom
I wrapped my alabaster arms around his head
And I swore I’d never let go
He coughed beneath my under arm
And he died painful and slow
I stripped him of his uniform
I wear it day and night
My little boy – my solider brave
My brass shining knite
Lovely! It makes me want to tinkle in the woods, caddy! (You can cover your eyes with your alabaster arm, if you need to.)
You said the pain would cease someday; the winter chill would pass.
The fire in your eyes could say the thoughts I never asked.
You spoke the words that stayed with me throughout the numbing cold.
Night by night I’m whispering; onto your voice I hold.
Ann, you held my hand tonight but everything was blighted.
Even when the moon came out my room remained benighted.
Can you sit with me tonight and stare up at the sky?
Only when the stars are bright will e’r I see your eyes.
Only when the sky is blue will ever I see you.
And only when the sky is brown will I remember that I live in Newark. So long, Ann — off to Fort Lauderdale! (Nice job, by the way, Tennyson.)
the Pain of Love
Is like death
The Pain above
is like Death
Darkness surrounding
alcoholism Rebounding
A tear trickling Slowly down one cheek
like a river Of misery sliding Down my face
A waterfall Just East of my nostrils so bleak
Everyone Loses The Race
death, Death, death
It’s like when people Die
I Now Will Not Now Fly
No one Is Metaphysically free
No One appreciates me
I’m sad
I’m sad too, Lydia, know the world will never experience the true badness that you bring to poetry. Fly, girl! Fly! Into the sky! Into… whatever the whole death this is that you’re talking about! Love this!
last knave rings the bell
tromping high through hydrangeas.
the final huzzah.
Not quite the final huzzah, apparently…
I survived two seasons of kymys
Tequila of the east please cease
It tastes of ferment
Horse leather and tent
Nevermore dear stomach feel peace
I long for the lost days Bishkek
Discos, Zemfira and squish check
You don’t know that name?
Russian pop god dame
Adding deepfulness late… wish wreck
Kymys, for those not in the know, is fermented horse milk. (I’m serious.) And Zemfira is a GOD — sort of a Russian Nicky Minage, only with with more sequins. Lovely stuff here.
TRIPLE ENTENDRE
Aleve of absence
Truth ingest
Starvation Army
Dismisses Spell Czech.
Disguise the limit
ExpungeBobSquarePants
Overeaters Unanimous
Waist management.
Philantropics
Borne to be Wylde
Easy Writer
Mellow drama’s child.
Inferior Decorator
Fund-razor cliché
Writer’s bloc
Lettuce pray…
Wee were going two merry, but we cantaloupe. They won’t lettuce.
Oh, the joys of fresh produce. Your response belongs on my Cliche Grocery List: that’s small potatoes, one hot tamale, going cold turkey, grapes of wrath … complete with S&H Green Stamps.
I long to
goodbye depression
my sadness blacker than
Elvis on velvet velvet
goodbye depression
that clings
like a remora
with a Hoover and a roll of duct tape
goodbye depression
that lingers like the smell
of an old diaper full of Indian food and
burnt popcorn
goodbye depression
prickly as a dog in a cocklebur patch
that slices like a ginsu set
you are the broken water main that
drowns me
I long to
goodbye depression and live
to shine like the fridge light at midnight
once again.
Tracy, you made me laugh out loud. Let’s rotate our vortexes sometime and sing “goodbye depression” to the world!
“Rapid I Movement”
It’s me, Love — you know whom!
Your sweet purple grape
From the fruit of the loom.
Oh, how I love to gape
At you for hours at a time
Silently, like a silent mime.
Your eyes — the apples of mine
Drill deep into my bitter core
And make me feel so fine
Like waves crashing on the shore
Washing away my worst fear
Making most of the voices disappear.
That day – you bought frozen yogurt
And, from afar, I watched you lick the spoon
Hiding, I was on a mission covert
Hidden by a car like the earth hid the moon
Suddenly remembering with utter frustration
That you’re really only real in my imagination.
My favorite line: “Silently, like a silent mime.” Badness indeed.
Thanks, I was hoping for bad bonus points for the bad sextilla structure 🙂
Frank is awarded seven Bad Bonus Points. Happy now?
Yay! Thank you, Chip. Love this contest. I can’t wait until next year.
Oh ye publishers that think my work is pig slop–
It’s not.
Actually, my prose is quite hot!
Me glorious and soulful words
Would move even antelope herds
Because everyone needs to hear the story I have to say
When you do you will not be able to say nay
You got that okay?
Now my blessed genius must have it’s day
And now you should give me my pay
Amen! Preach it, Kate! Demand that antelope-herding prose of yours be sent some moolah! (We’ll just wait here quietly until it comes…)
A man in a kilt
Is always well-built
‘Til you peel back the plaid
And find you’ve been had.
Ouch. That hurts. Laura has been banned from the contest.
Ooh, I’ve never been banned before.
Before agents come after me with tar and feathers, let me emphasize this is all in fun:
As I gazed upon the stack
Of letters deeming me a hack,
Saying that my writing wasn’t suited to be published by their house,
I decided that I’d had it,
If my writing was so bad it
Generated letters saying in so many words I was a louse-
Y author, I would just write bodice-
Rippers, full of unzipped zippers,
Pandering to the taste of those who liked that sort of dreck.
But, alas, although my stories
Were full of sex, and often gory,
Still no editor responded to present me with a check.
Then I thought of one last chance,
A way to join the writing dance,
An opportunity to be a member of the chosen few.
Thus I joined myself to Chip,
Learned to shoot right from the hip,
And, as an agent, judged submissions, like this one that came from you.
“Sorry, this doesn’t meet our needs at this time.”
Sorry, this isn’t bad enough to win any awards at this time.
Don’t you mean “This poem doesn’t meet the needs of your agency at this time?”
That comment doesn’t meet the needs of our blog at this time.
Whether on the shore or rolling out at sea,
The stars in the evening sky tend to follow me.
The Westward ones move towards East,
And some don’t mind me in the least,
While one stays right where I think that it should.
It’s that one that I suspect is not up to any good.
I think that it is leading me towards the Arctic pole,
Which is not a place I would like to sail, walk, or roll.
I would rather move lateral, or stay sedentary
Than find myself in a chillier climate with these woes I already carry.
So gather ’round me children, and listen to me recall
The story of my life and how I didn’t go anywhere at all.
But you were able to do it all,
By hearing the clarion call,
of the Bad Poetry moll.
We get it. Bad poetry rules, bay-bee!
I write a pleasing word
But the blur on the page
Resembles more of a turd.
Which I crumple between my fingers
Before I pick up my cup of brown liquid
And guzzle the bitter brew
I sit and stew
My mind calculating the next move
I want to rhyme
My words like deep rivers
That will torment your soul
But the rhyme is like rocks in my mouth
I cannot chew.
The thought eludes me.
So I escape to Facebook.
And there you are
To torment me.
So proud of you, Alycia!
Um… okay, setting aside the fact that you have yourself crumpling your own turds between your fingers, Alycia, I just want to make sure you’re not then DRINKING them. Because that would be badness on a whole new level.
Chip, one more try–and it’s all in fun…remember that!
As I gazed upon the stack
Of letters deeming me a hack,
Saying that my writing wasn’t
suited to be published by their house,
I decided that I’d had it,
If my writing was so bad it
Generated letters saying
in so many words I was a louse-
y author, I would just write bodice-
Rippers, full of unzipped zippers,
Pandering to the taste of those who
liked that sort of dreck.
But, alas, although my stories
Were full of sex, yet slightly gory,
Still no editor responded to
present me with a check.
Then I thought of one last chance,
A way to join the writing dance,
An opportunity to be a member of
the chosen few.
Thus I joined myself to Chip,
Learned to shoot right from the hip,
And, as an agent, judged
submissions, like this one that came from you.
“Sorry, this doesn’t meet our needs
at this time.”
I woke this morning to the most dreadful and silent noise,
My heart had shattered into a thousand toys, oh wait, boys. No, that’s not it either. My heart just shattered.
It was broken, that heart of mine.
I searched the corridors of my mind,
only to find memories of yesterdays. But it was he that I wanted to find.
There were no new memories to be seen, nothing new in which to be felt
He had vanished as all vapors do. I had no choice but to melt,
In panic I searched again, adding different crevices this time.
My heart pounded, my breathing intensified…he had gone.
He left me just as he had before,
What a fool I had been to believe in that open door.
I hoped it could be real,
But I knew in my soul I was just his next meal.
Maybe I had imagined him. Could it be?
No. I remember feeling him, with me.
For it was the first time I had felt in a long while.
I will miss your funny voice and your kind words tomorrow,
even more than I do today.
I dread tomorrow’s…I think I will remain in yesterdays.
Reading this, my eyes broke into a thousand toys, Tami. Very nicely Bad. Thanks!
Buckshot
Ring the sound of buckshot
Won’t this Zombie Die?
Need a bigger caliber
Make its head fly
When the zombie was dead
Everyone began to cheer
Wasn’t that a pain in the ass
Pour me a beer
The zombie came from the outhouse
Out the smelly hole
How the hell did it get there
Some kind of Zombie mole?
Sorry, I know zombies are stale, but I couldn’t resist. +Eric
Zombies, like bad poetry, just keep coming back, Eric. You can’t keep a good Bad Poet down.
You Don’t Wanna Publish MY Poem…Do You?
Hey mister…
You don’t wanna publish
My poem!
Do you?
After all you’re way
up there as far as
Published writers go…
And I’m feeling mighty
low down here these days…
thinking…
Oh no… you don’t wanna
publish MY poem!
Do you?
And here I am
heading for my
twilight years
with my pipe dreams
floating around
each cloud
I’m under…
thinking…
Why would you wanna
publish My poem!
Would you?
Glenda Mills
glendamills@frontier.com http://www.glendamills.com
So proud of you, Glenda!
Thanks Vonda!
Notice that she put her email at the end, so that you can order her “Compleat Book o’ Bad Poetry,” available from CreateSpace. Only $19.99. Order before midnight tonight, and we’ll include a free cap snaffler.
An Oculance of Love
I was first struck by your flashing eyes.
(That was incredibly weird.)
Could this be love? The beginnings, anyway?
I smiled shyly.
I could feel your eyes on me, slowly moving up and down my body.,
Sliding over every curve,
Resting briefly, appreciatively, on my bosom,
then easing greasily downward.
Viscous.
Unblinking.
A sensation like no other.
Remember when they only roved over tedious riddles solved years ago?
Now they only rove my own confused territory.
I hurt you badly once, batting your eyes.
“Look! Look!” you cried, as I swung for a homer.
How I regret missing your meaning,
not knowing which orbit you meant.
You had a global view there for a while.
You forgave, your eyes brimming with forgiveness,
love,
juicy stuff-
You chuckle: vitreous humor.
Now you roll your eyes at me.
Not like last time though. Remember how hairy they got?
My cat is dead now.
Your eyes are safe in my heart.
In the poetic sense, I mean. Of course.
(with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Okay, this is over the top, but can you edit my submission? I have an
‘only’ that is redundant in the third stanza, in the Thomas Hardy line.
Or leave it: it makes the poem that much badder.
Not a perfectionist……
well…..
Wait… you want us to EDIT your bad poem?
Well heck yeah! Aren’t you an editor? And hey, I want to design the cover all by myself.
Love this, Nice Lady with a Gun! You are one awesomely bad poet!
I’m with Vonda, Gun-Lady. Awesomely bad. Thanks.
Bad might be the only poetry I can write. Too fun not to try :
SOCIAL
Just Twitter.
You know u want to
Random thoughts abound
for free.
Friend me.
YOLO, IMHO
Endless selfies streamed
Looky me!!
Pretty book.
Look what I sell U
140 limit. buy
me book.
Yes! Sign this girl up! A sure Bad Poetry finalist!
Uhhh, I’m sitting down.
Yeah, right now actually
Ok, I need more coffee with 5 ice round
Then, words will flowd
Tell, someone something finely
You, understand what I’m saying, yo?
What, happened to all the birds
Right, it was winter cold
Now, and then I’m late for work too, damn toes
The words flowd nicerly, Neal.
Here’s the first poem I ever wrote, with my sister, which proves collaborative writing is, well, hard. I’ll title it:
Manasota Key
How many people do you see
Fishing off a pier,
Looking for a deer with a radish in his ear?
You don’t see many ‘cuz there really isn’t any
People fishing off a pier, looking for a deer
With a radish in his ear.
Note to readers: Since penning this, Nancy has gotten into rehab, and rarely sees deer in her visions. (She and her sister, however, were just signed to pen the script for “Transformers VII.”)
In honor of your birthday Chip, I thought I’d share a day in my life….I call it lovingly…
JUSTICE TAKES A VACATION
Clippety clop, clippety clap
He opened his mouth and out popped a load of crap
He had sat in the chair, raised his right hand
Spoke the words to honor the stand
Clippety clop, clippety clap
He talked so much the judge took a nap
He spoke once, twice, many times over
Never once speaking the truth about his whacky lover
Clippety clop, clippety clap
He muttered and ticked and looked like a big ‘ol sap
He lost track of time while spewing the lies
He talked and talked while ignoring the agitated sighs
Clippety clop, clippety clap
He droned on incessantly until the crazy, mish mash of half
truths and bald face lies was finally a wrap
You know, I’m on jury duty all month, Kim, so this is amazingly close to a poetic memoir…
I initially started out with: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don’t like poetry, how about you? But it seems you’re looking for something more in depth so here goes…
Ode to a man named Chip
There once was a man named Chip
Who spent his life searching for words to make him flip
But soon he discovered both near and far
That everyone fell much too short of the bar
Instead he decided to change his taste
Asking for something created in haste
And requested a few lines of verse from the masses
With low expectations across all classes
When low and be hold, despite all the fuss
A beautiful thing appeared, like being hit by a bus
The masses created and wielded their words
Though to the high heavens they stank like cheese curds
Yet Chip with his eye of discernment and taste
Took a morsel of truth from the words penned in haste
Seeing the love and care that came from all around
He cried tears of joy at the beauty he found
“Here it is”, he said, with manly tears streaming,
“I have found life in these words and their meaning”
So he gave up his search and never ending reading
To move to Berlin and pursue cattle breeding
But soon he realized that he had no other talent
Than finding good writing and acting gallant
So he retraced his steps and started again
Seizing the day with a jig and a grin
Happy Birthday to you sir! May the cheese curds stink and the writing soar!
Emilie
My manly tears are streaming, Emilie.
I had a feeling they would.
Eats and Sheets
Alone I lie, on these lumpy sheets
Depressed, crying, reading Yeats
Succumbed, I fear, to the pull of eats,
Ice cream, pizza, dairy treats
The foul felling
Of lactose is telling
Nay! It is not alike to the rose
Take time to stop…
To hold the nose
What is done
Cannot be undone
What my lover shuns
Alone in my bed
I ate the eats
Now…I have only the sheets
As a resident of Tillamook County (home of the legendary Tillamook Cheese Factory), I speak for all my neighbors when I say, “Yeah, verily, jenny.”
Frogs cry out in the night, chiruping for the freedom to croak, chiruping to sound big and bold, chiruping to make their necks swell up like a water balloon, the kind that hit your brother square in the back and exploded, making him cry out in the night… like a frog.
Deep. Ponder the call-back, people.
You mean the RE deep? 😀
The skies, ah yes Look!, on teh up-and up,
And yea HR clouds burgeoneth puff and t’other stuff.
How we stand hither, self and us wondering, ‘neath and near root,
by That tree, o’ Spready vine!, that acorn God put.
But why when croon we, cometh June, hmm?
Mayhap the Tendril soliloqueue of moon Beam.
And peace like Stairs have decent down ‘pon folk,
to Bestilleth are cyclone and whirl-Thoughts soaked.
Yon poetry of Master Petonic hath tinkling sound of putridity. Ye thanketh the Spready vine of creativity.
I returneth thanks to thee, from the fourth Chamber bottometh o’ mine rhythmy pump-Organ, good sir!
I wrote this as a freshman in college, when angst against the Man runs deep and weekends are for beer and bullshine. Put those two concepts together and you come up with … well, this. Ladies and gents, I give you MONKEY IN A CAGE.
Monkey in a cage
Screaming out with rage
at your situation.
Doesn’t it seem sad,
you harried, hairy lad,
Mindless with frustration?
No more climbing trees,
Chatting with the breeze;
Monk, your freedom’s gone now.
Fifteen feet to walk,
People point and gawk.
Monk, what have we done now?
Well, it’s time to go
(Don’t let sorrow show;
People stare so, laughing).
Monkey, they don’t care
That we know and share
Facts of souls in passing.
Watch us scheme and plot.
Watch us scream with with rage.
Look at all the smart
Monkeys in a cage.
John has been yanked from the competition for (1) entering this poem once before, (2) working to actually create a rhyme scheme, and (3) deflating other poems just before they were to be put into use. You’re also losing a draft pick, my friend. You have been warned.
Nerts to you, agent o’mine. I’d hoped its very badness would have caused it to wipe itself from your neural paths. Guess not!
The decision of the judges is final. If you wish to file a complaint, please send your message to Bad Poetry Conflict Solutions (or “Bupkis” for short).
This is a poem I wrote called, “how much pizza?” (Meant to be read in a breathy tone with annoying peaks and valleys of dynamics. Heck, yell it if you want)
A breath,
A spirit,
A chicken.
Children play,
Children laugh,
Children walk on the moon.
Why?
Why will we never see Jonathan?
Why does grandma eat cake for breakfast?
Piano keys can unlock the mysteries of our hearts.
How much pizza?
Excellent. You really do feed the badness, Chris.
Slicing up the brain
as meat
is such a delicious
gourmet treat.
Hearts and livers
round out the meal,
Thom Harris writes
with cynical zeal.
Uh huh. Marjorie, have they let you start playing with sharp things again?
Not yet!
Hey Chip! …In honor of Bruce Jenner…and you know I always do lymericks in hillbilly on account of my mind is just that warped! Happy Birthday, Old Friend!
They onced was a feller from the West
At gittin’ purdy gals he was best
He donned a green skirt
And danged if it did’n work
So now, I’m in the market fer a new dress!
Bruce sends his regards.
The gleam off the sheen of grease
sprawled across the top of the pot,
water and last night’s side dish of rice,
once separate,
now comingled in unholy brackish stew.
Bits of herbs—parsley, sage, rosemary—
time has cast each into the pit of decay.
Sitting in the pot
in the sink
in the kitchen
in the house of my mother
who never ceased criticizing me for my messy room.
Now I stand at the sink,
at the swamp of her infirmity,
to dip my ungloved hands into cold water laced with slicks
of oil
only to discover
she’s out of dish soap…
and hope.
Yes! Brilliantly bad, Erin. Faux depth — love it. Thanks very much for this.
HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
When I think of my love for you
It lifts me up from feeling blue.
You lift me up from off the ground
And make me laugh just like a clown.
I run around.
When I look into your eyes
I want to eat pies
Because they are round
But not like a clown.
When I touch your hair
It’s like touching a bear
Because it is so brown.
I love to touch your skin
It’s like petting a kitten.
Plus you know how to listen.
Not like my mother
She doesn’t bother
She acts like she cares
But she isn’t really there.
I’d rather live with you
To you I’ll always be true.
Let’s live together
Forever and ever.
When I read your poem so new, it makes be stew, through and through, like the character in Pooh named Roo, though my meter sometimes is not exactly true blue, or something.
Quest for an Elusive Muse
Plunging the depths
Of the swirling refuse,
I search.
Like a dime-sized object
In a small child’s diaper
It is buried. . . hidden.
My senses heightened,
I hone in on its stench,
Digging,
Delving,
Until all is revealed.
Captured, it is harnessed,
My muse:
Reduced,
Reused,
Recycled.
I depress the sterling lever.
It is finished.
Yes. The muse — flushed away. Excellent, Carolyn.
Ode to my Pinkie Toe
When darkness creeps
Like a creepy lengthening shadow
That covers everything,
And I creep
Toward the kitchen
For a late-night snack
Probably peanuts
You find the chair leg.
Ouch.
That. Really. Hurts.
Back to my bed
I drag myself
And like fingernails on a chalkboard
Only toe nails on the floor
You make that scratchy sound—
So annoying!
I clamber back into bed
And clutch you to ease the pain
The double pain
As your small shape reminds me of
The peanuts I did not eat.
Reading this also makes me say, “ouch,” Rachelle. Thanks for taking part.
Spring is here,
The flowers are all in bloom
The trees are all so beautiful,
My dad wears Fruit of the Loom.
Ah… rhyming couplets.
This isn’t a poem because I don’t think I have enough skill to even write a bad poem. But I had to say that after my 110% horrible day this post made me laugh until I nearly choked. Many thanks. Looking forward to the literary brilliance.
Always happy to make your day, Natalie.
It was a dark and stormy night–
Then again, if it was night it would be dark, wouldn’t it?
So it was stormy.
But Elmore Leonard says never to start a story with weather.
It was…Oh, forget it.
Whatever it was, something interesting happened.
Hey, free verse isn’t hard.
Deep. You moved me, Richard. Thanks for playing.
Ha ha! How fun is this. OK, here goes. I present to you…
SQUELCHED LIKE A SLUG ROLLED IN SALT
When darkness creeps on past your toes
Slides up your spine to seize your nose
When friends and acquaintances berate
Until your soul has grown irate
When every movie that you see
Has all the subtlety of a flea
Chomping, chomping through your skin
Until your heart folds in, folds in
That is the moment to seize the day
Carpe Diem and hooray
Grab a spoon and a gallon box
70% Cocoa will flummox
Your spirit will find peace and restoration
In a sugary, cream-filled, chocolate vacation
By Kristen Joy Wilks
This is a sugary, cream-filled bit o’ badness, Kristen. Thanks!