The 2009 Bad Poetry Contest Continues

This is the place for bad poetry. In case you're wondering what it is we're doing, we take one week out of each year (the week of my birthday) and try something different. Normally authors are sending in questions about writing and publishing, and I try to bring some wisdom to bear on the issue at hand. But the first week of May we set aside to share one of my stupid passions -- bad poetry. I don't mean poetry that is simply juvenile or moronic, but the kind that offers faux depth, atrocious metaphors, and really stupid self-awareness. 

Some poems will be well designed, like this example from novelist Ginger Garrett:

Ode To A Fallen Friend

O, gentle green frog
Now spreading red
Five miles per hour was fast
Enough

Others will focus on deepfulness and reflectivosity, such as this nice bit of barfiness from Kay Day: 

my heart is heavy
weighed down like it has a big boulder from Rocky Mountain National Park on it
It pulls me down into a pit of sorrow and sadness
like a well full of tears and sadness
The sun is shining like a super bright star
but in my heart
it is black
like darkness without the sun

Someday I will once again
walk in the brightness 
of happiness
I will walk like a girl who is happy
like a girl with ballet slippers on her feet
and I will think only of love and joy
rainbows and kittens

Someday when my precious boy stops puking. 

Wonderfully bad! The longing, the desire, the pondering vomit. A fabulously bad bit of poetry. Or consider this piece of existential BS from the aptly-named Fred Gippler:

Blue
The color of rainbows. 
The color of her soft lips as she drove us to Taco Bell.
That
Last
Time
Never forgotten, the moment, frozen in the infinite void of space, as she chewed the chalupa: 
"Jim, I don't love you."
My name was Tony.
Couldn't.
Finish.
My Seven Layer Burrito.
The statement couldn't be taken back--it stood there between us, as real and solid as a unicorn.
Bean dip dripped from her malformed chin onto my uncle's GameBoy.
My
Finnish
Uncle
Travis was his name.
My name was Tony.

This sort of truly bad art doesn't come along every week (thank God).  A close look at submissions this year will turn up such great titles as "The Ballad of Ned the Hamster" and "The Don Juan of Motor City" (which offer the vomitous line, "I'm spicy like taco meat"). Past wieners of the contest have included "Blind Puppy on the Freeway" and "Doctor Jesus." And today you can join this illustrious company. 

So... it's your turn. Go to the "comments" section and type some tripe. Feel free to check the last post for all the truly awful bits of doggerel that have come before you. Don't feel you have to write about writing. And don't write me a birthday poem. Just sit down, take some drugs, and start constipating. You'll be entering the great brotherhood of Bad Poets. And, as announced today on national TV, this year's winner will receive a genuine Spencer Gifts Lava Lamp. As Bob Eubanks likes to say, "a grand prize selected ESPECIALLY for you." Don't just sit there -- begin thy bad poetics! 

(Oh, and a note... if you get to the end of the "comments" section, you'll see a faint arrow. Clicking on that will take you to the next page of bad poems. Several people have written to say they can't find the arrow, so they can only read the first few submissions. Those people have clearly been drinking heavily. Slow down. This isn't a race, it's a meandering walk through the warped minds of creative nutjobs. Enjoy yourself.)

Chip 

Comments

[Danica]

I hate to bring up such an obvious point,
but my dear Chip,
for anyone to write such hideous sludge
They must either:
Be drinking heavily
OR
Need to drink more!!

(but thanks for pointing out the arrow!)

[David Wickiser]

Oh, but in the beauty of her face
Lie all others in disgrace.
Oh, but her chiseled features at a glance
Prove to be much more than happenstance.
Oh, but the love for her I feel
Needs not a layer of heart to peel.
I love her as Newton loved the apple,
As gravity's mysteries he grappled.
I love her as lions love gazelle,
As in emotions vastness I have fell.
I love her as bees to blossoms,
Tattered rags to robes sewed awesome.
Oh, but my love is not returned,
Nor her glances have I earned.
Oh, but she knows not what I feel,
Nor have we ever shared a meal.
Oh, but this unrequited love burns bright,
A hope for kiss by candlelight.
Oh, but my hope burns brighter every day,
Than past years of loving, these words I say.

[Annie Tuttamore]

So, I wish I had known this was coming up, Chip. I would have had my parents bring my old journals from junior high the last time they came up. I wrote some pretty awful stuff during my years of pre-teen angst. I shiver at the thought of it...

Annie

[Stephen]

(Here's my poem. I received it verbatim in a dream. I'm just not quite sure who sent it.)

The Road to Christ Runs Through A Town Called Ache (a poem for the Advent season)

Endless, endless are the tears that drip like sweet and sour sauce from an overfilled plate on the long walk between the buffet line and a corner table where I sit alone.

I will wipe each one with my shirt sleeve and leave the stains until Christ returns.

Nonexistent, nonexistent are the words you should have said to me to ease the ache that wrenched those tears from my eyes like needle nose pliers pulling at hangnails.

I will form them with Scrabble tiles and hot-glue each word to your cubicle wall.

Fading, fading is the hope I held for you like a potlucked jello mold surrounded by mocking fried chicken under an angry, noonday sun.

I will catch each sticky green drop with an open hand and pray for cooler weather.

Renewing, renewing is my heart as you glance my way and play the notes of a silent banjo love song with the quivering of your lips.

I will answer with air guitar…what? You’re not looking at me?

Sighing, sighing, sighing, sighing, sighing, and then finally remembering to inhale to keep from fainting like a first-time author on Oprah’s couch.

Noticing, noticing the woman behind you who stands tall and straight like a brass coat tree with arms wrapped in Cashmere.

I will throw sadness out the window of my speeding car of hope and race to my new dreamgirl like a tween to Twilight.
And I will love her forever and always until…

I discover she actually IS a brass coat tree.
At least I still have that stained shirt sleeve.
Come quickly, Lord.

[Brian T. Carroll]

this post-modern poem is self-referential
bad as i hope it will be

it won’t rhyme
any time
except by accident

forward or
drawkcab
d
o
w
n

or

p
u

it phlaunts its phreedom to dephy conventions
boldly going where no poem has ever gone

read it and weep

[AW Chancery]

I'm like a book without a page, like a play without a stage.
Like a bird without a feather, like the sun without the weather.
I don't know what to do, I don't know what to say.
Faster and faster my life fades away.

What do you see, when you look into my eyes?
A handful of cries, someone who tries...
Who tries to remember, how to explain
How they could cause, all of this pain?

So sit back and think, before you complain...
Complain about your life, and all that you need.
At least you had the chance, the chance to succeed.
So don't be afraid of what you lost.

'Cause what I lost, my life it cost.
Before I go, I want you know.
Life is a treasure, cherish it forever.
Enjoy each day, before you fade away.

[Gretchen Cranmer]

My Caffeine Addiction

Coffee, oh coffee
Steams in the pot
Coffee, my coffee
Why are you hot?
A java lava
Burns my mouth, my throat
Yet you taste so damn good!
Coffee, oh coffee
I love you so
Why must thou hate me?

[Vayshti]

Dirt

There is dirt in his eyes.
I expect him to close them, blink it out.
But then I remember he cannot.
My cat is dead.
No pillowcase. No garbage bag.
Just me, my dad and a shovel.
And a dead pet.
I can't close his eyes for him.
I can touch him, cold, stiff,
but this is why they will not close.
And so the fine sift of dirt falls
On to open eyes.
It is dirt, not soil -
Soil is moist, but the ground here
In my backyard is dry.
It has not rained in 3 months.
The dirt blows in my eye.
But the rain there can wash it clean.

[Alisha Michael]

Southern Hostility: Ode to a Cracked Belle

Dad gummit, woman!
You got me all hogtied up inside
With the way you blink them big ole, dirt brown eyes
Just like that sweet
Hunk’a deer meat
In the freezer
(‘Fore I aimed my double barrel beauty and brought that sucker down!
Just like you done to me
When I first clamped eyes on you at the Tastee Freeze
And I asked if you
Was on the menu
And you told me I could shove that menu where the sun don’t shine
And I knew then you was ‘sposed to be mine.)
Makes me wanna call ya
Vixen.

Dad gummit, woman!
You got me so I can’t hardly even talk
With the way them Jordache’s stay stuck to your rear when you walk
Just like that super sparkly gown
You couldn’t barely get zipped in that pageant for our town
Last Fourth of July
(When you told Tammy Tessa Atkinson you was gonna get that crown!
Just like you told her last year
When y’all went up against each other for Miss John Deere
And she won and you was hot as a pig in a pot
And you stomped her tail and stole her tiara afterwards in the parking lot.)
Makes me wanna call ya
Miss Fiery Jalapeno Festival Queen.

Dad gummit, woman!
You got me wantin’ to get hitched
With the way you work a back ho out of a ditch
Just like that night
We got in that big ole fight
Outside the Grab’N’Go.
(When you squealed off like Earnhardt and I chased you cross town!
Just like at a Monster Truck Rally show
I could see you cussin’ me out through your window
And then you spun around and your tire got flat
And you fixed it yourself and I kissed you and that was that.)
Makes me wanna call ya
Mrs. Bubba Eugene Flooter.

[Agnes]

Tuesday a day for shopping
sad pantry running bare
An anniversary to remember
such a lovely little affair

Jim and I are now together
for years and years at last
After waiting months to see him
his business overseas is mowing grass

But now retired and happy
a dinner I decide to make
And what would be more fitting?
Than a grass-seed chocolate cake!

Oh so delicious I know it
oozing layers of decadant brown
One plate won't be enough
seconds and thirds will be going down

So to a feed store I hurried
secret recipe stored away
As any good wife I protected
the recipe for grass-seed cake

I bought six pounds of the best
for Jim is the kind of guy
Who deserves all natural ingredients
and determined I was to try

I made a mound of decadence
put candles on my prize
Oh Jim would be so excited
it's amazing what a devoted wife tries

That night just after dinner
candlelight dinner settling well
Would he like my cake? I wondered
It was just the time to tell

I cut big lumps of chocolate
with grass seed such a sin
Watching my husband's face light up
As a big bite was shoved right in

Not two seconds later
Jim writhered on the floor
Amazed I watched him loving
the bite he must adore

But the medics told me other
reasons were to blame
For we quickly discovered
He was allergic when they came

Poor Jim is in a gurney
I fear now for his health
But I'll sit here and eat it
juicy cake all to myself!

[Melissa Kerkhoff]

Who Knows me but the Sun?

I’m deeper then the stain
Embedded deep in the carpet
Calmer then the storm
Raging from the preacher’s pulpit

I desire more then the simple
Mundane housewife life
But less then the Trumping king
Whose riches bring others strife

I love more passionately
Then a gambler lusting luck
And yet so easily
Like a contently swimming duck

I breathe like the wind
I eat like a fierce hurricane
Unbound where others find binds
Human yet inhuman

I’m not bound by simple rules
Like poetry having consistent rhythm and rhyme
Cuz mine can change and make change
Like two nickels from a dime.

So many people confine themselves
And follow the rules exactly.
Those slaves to the system,
Those mindless drones
Who don’t even deserve
A new metaphor.

Freedom calls to me in nature
Hope finds me in the trees
Flowers blossom their message
All this to simply please
Me.

[Nicole]

The Bad Dump

So bad.
You know the kind.
Tumbling out of the gargantuan steel bucket of filth.
Onto the garbage pile of life’s bad dumps.

You could’ve spared me the fake tears.
I could smell the stench of your breath as you
Delivered the crushing death blow to our weekend love affair.

Now I lie on the heap with the refuse of other broken hearts.
Shredded plastic bags and full diapers.
Dumped like me.

What you did is so unfair.
Like taking a shirt you just wore once and instead of
Giving it to the bargain stores,
You throw it in the garbage can,
Just like you did to me.

You know I liked what we had.
What was it? Two days of drunken bliss?
Such closeness. I miss it.

But now I don’t miss you.
How can I?
I’ve just tumbled out of the steel bucket of filth
Onto the garbage pile of life’s bad dumps.
Like so much refuse.

[Camille]

OH! To Elmo

OH!

Giggly red friend, now pink and matted
Silent
yet still wide of smile and googly of eye
Tickled and loved by sticky fingers
sticky
from grape jelly and Spaghettios®

OH!

I feel your pain
Feel feel
Feeeeel.
Pain pain pain.
PAIN!
So much pain.
My soul, like you is all twisted, wrung out
My heart, like you, is empty, flat
My stuffing, trapped in that wire mesh
Thingy
in the dryer
all tangled up with yours

OH!

How my tears flow like the hot soapy water
that turned pink
and took you from me
along with the 8 minute spin cycle

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

OH!

To hear you say, “Tickle me!” once more

Just once

If only

If only

OH!

If only I’d read the
flippin label.

OH!

[Marie Prys]

Tabby's Tale

mangled feline from next door,
three legs traversing, one dragging,
crippled ambling, fences roaming,
always traipsing, slowly moving,
until you STOP.

back arching, body twisting,
raised tail, rejected offering,
verdant lawn, flowers blooming,
fertile, seeded garden bed,
all the neighborhood your stage.

[Candace Pope]

I know I don't get to vote, but OMIGOSH! Fred Gippler's poem is now hanging on my office wall. Such depth of feeling! Such passionate suffering! I plan to memorize it along with War and Peace this summer.

[A friend who does remember]

To Memories

Thunder clapped
like the hundreds of little children
who used to come
to Chip's birthday

That is
back when birthdays
meant pony rides
and midget clowns
by special request

But little Chip grew
like children often do
and along with no more ponies
and clowns three feet high

Chip is only left
with mounds and mounds
of bad poetry!

[Twila Belk]

He dropped his jaw,
She rolled her eyes,
And the curmudgeon called Cec said,
“That’s not wise.”

“The venturing forth of a hand,
The manicured lawn,
Nonsense and clichés
I want them all gone.”

“Don’t dangle participles.
Prefer the active voice.
Avoid progressive tense,
If given a choice.”

“Redundance, redundance--
It shouldn’t be there.
Cut flab in your sentences.
Act like you care.”

“Write with simple words.
Don’t try to impress.
Watch for run-on sentences--
Remember, best is less.”

As he told her that
And told her this,
The wannabe writer
Started to hiss.

Feeling overwhelmed
And ready to expire,
She made the decision
To end the Cec fire.

“I just want to write
And bless the world with my story.
I don’t want to work!
I want only the glory.”

“If I can’t write my story
And publish it today,
I might as well work at McDonalds the rest of my life. At least there I can make a difference.”

The End

[CD]

I take you to your rest
Feeling hollow
Hollow like a dead elm
Eaten from the inside by ants

You are passed away away and gone
Gone like a kite
In the wind
Ripped out of the hands of a little boy
With grape jelly on his fingers

I pine you now and evermore
Pining pining
Though I am like the oak standing still
Standing in the cemetery
Surrounded by the dead flowers
Alone, pining, but an oak

I will remember you, Maurice
I will stand like the sycamore in your stead
Preserving your memory evermore
To give hope to those alone
Alone like me . . . now

You were more than a fish to me

[Leroy Yoder]

Sands of Time
A Pseudo-Political Allegory

Scrooge MacDuck in Drakespeare castle
Cap'n Crunch, all clad in blue
Monkees sing a dirge for Yogi
Gumby takes a bow or two.

Dance around the roasting carcass.
Swig down dandelion wine.
All the lions in the desert
can't hold back the sands of time.

Cupcakes on the lawn in Dallas
Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck
Prison bars for squirrel Rocky
Bullwinkle can't hit the puck.

Kill the coiled beast with scissors.
Free the people (stand in line).
All the warriors in the temple
can't hold back the sands of time.

Shave a Japanese gorilla.
Give a fireworks display.
Legislate away MacGuyver --
made a bomb with Frito-Lays.

Alligators wearing sweaters,
quills of porcupines run dry.
All the kings in all the castles
can't hold back the sands of time.

[Sarah E. Olson]

The Unwelcome Visitor, or Stay Away from my Gherkins!

Gloriously floating
In a sea of pickles
The cucumbers are imparting upon you their gift of preservation.

Wings spread wide
You gaze at the heavens of your clear glass tomb
And contemplate nothing
For you are dead.

Oh harmless fly
Why did you have to die
Before I could relish the taste of your delicious captors?

[Kay Day]

I am so pleased that you hated my poetry enough to consider it an example of putredness.

Also, my son is feeling much better. All is right with the world again. Except, what's that rumbling in my belly?

And I can't read Gippler's poem without sounding like Captain Kirk.

[Carol]

The Cat House

I once had a cat named Piccolo
Who acted like he was a gigolo
The girl cats all loved him
He couldn’t choose from them
Now there are kittens high and low

[Nikalas K]

Internal combustion machines

By Nikalas K

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Exquisital, pivotal, steely and rivetal
Internal combustion machines

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Roundabout, sound-about, get-around-town-about
Internal combustion machines

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Thundering, blundering, rarely a-sauntering
Internal combustion machines

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Dazzling, snazzling, glimmering glassily
Internal combustion machines

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Create smog and fog with their wheels and their cogs
Internal combustion machines

Internal combustion machines
Internal combustion machines
Matted or chrome, convertible or dome
Internal combustion machines

[Gerhi Janse van Vuuren]

Sinestrous Tirade

The left, the left
oh damnation you've gone past
drown you in verbosity
your directionless pomposity
have lost us circumferically
turning infernalerity
the left again!

Alas
you ass
your other left
have you no ocularity?
I suffer in dark directionality
so stop, turn back!

The left, the left
it is on the other side of whatever rodent turns your wheel
perdition don't you feel
it slanting of a deal
to left.

[Cindy MacGregor-Thunell]

After reading Vayshti, my life felt fulfilled, but then I got to Southern Hostility by Alisha Michael (dirt 1 and dirt 2) and realized there is minimal chance of me winning MY BROTHER'S contest this year. But nay, I cannot let him down. Beautiful brother. Most lovely brother of my heart. I always liked you best. And here is my poem:
(I call it)
ODE to FRANK ZAPPA

You’re gone.
You left me.
You ran out on me.
I’m alone.
Bereft.
Lonely.
How could you desert me like this?
I miss you.
Lots.
Life is empty without you.
I cry.
I curse myself, “It’s all my fault!”
I ought to have foreseen this situation.
I could have planned better.
I should have read the signs.
But no.
I thought our time together would last.
But no.
Not.
I grieve for you.
I mourn for your presence.
My heart cries out for you.
All is nothing without you.
My life is filled with nothingness.
Now.
Without you.
Emptiness and sorrow.
Deserted.
Desert-like.
Dry, dull and destitute.
Barren.
Without hope.
No, wait.
Possibly hope.
Hope for another day.
A day when I can buy a new thing of dental floss.

[Brian T. Carroll]

(I already submitted once, but my son Lucien gave me a rhyme I couldn't hold on to for next year. If this entry wins, he can have the lava lamp.)

Love, or Not-Love

Love or not-love,
how does one distinguish?
To nurture one,
the other to extinguish.

If some folks seek Nirvana, not love,
should government protect us?
And bail us out as if we’d swooned
to falsified perspectus?

Oh, the newly married, running home,
with cries of, “Mamma, not-love!”
Should seek relief by filing forms at
bailoutobama.gov

[Jon Captain]

In praise of mold
Behold!
Thing once reviled
beguiled
bright Sir Fleming,
hemming,
hawing, he saw
this law:
where grew that rot
grew not
the dreaded Staph.
Oh laugh
not, this dank thing
did bring
lucky windfall
to all!
Oh, let's revere
the year
Nineteen-two-eight,
how great!
Penicillin:
villain?
Not now, instead
hale med!

[Mike B.]

-Héler un Taxi-

In Paris, my Paris, I claimed her,
With my two eyes wide open.

Move quickly, I must.
With Speed.
Time is of the essence,
La essence.

Power.
Can you feel my Power?
Like a train á grande vitesse,
I rush to her, heart and Hope pumping.

Fils de pute!
An aged couple dares to block
My path.
Americans . . .
Fate?
It sickens
m
e.

A prayer of incense to the god of determination, and I push the unfaithful away.

Bien fait, I whisper in my holy glee.
They cry out in their sickly weakness,
Ugly Mouths wide open.
But like an earless mime,
I am deaf to their scorn.

Summoning all that is within,
I dash forth,
Speaking
Truth
to
POWER!!

Ugly black tires stop rolling.
Time herself stops as
Hope claws her way
From the deep grave of death.

A door opens.
I enter effortlessly.
She is mine, and mine alone.
“L’aéroport, s’il vous plait.”

Somewhere, in the barren desert of time,
Phidippides rises from his grave
To pay homage to my strength.

Fin.

[Ane Mulligan]

Here's mine:

Ode to Rules
Or
Rules Schmules
By Ane Mulligan

There once was a rule called passive
That I knew would give me gas if
I was made to admit
My violations of it
For sure were bordering massive.

The next on my list was head-hopping
Without the bother of stopping.
Can't I ever write bouts
Of a heroine's doubts
Without the POV lopping?

Oy, they say my WIP has no tension
To give it strength and dimension.
Should I just toss it out?
Or throw in a lout
And pray for reader retention?

Now dialogue has its own set
Of rules taught by authors who get
Paid when they break them
While I slave in mayhem
Of killing off words that are pet.

The adverb's in need of affection
Not writers' disdain or defection.
Lavishly embrace them
Don't angrily erase them
And wait for CP's objections.

Rejections will come via email
Or brought to your inbox by snail
Though they twang your last nerve
And rob you of joie de verve
You type on your laptop and wail.

So wordsmith, you're advised to take heed
Are these rules important? Indeed!
If first you will learn them
Then known, you finesse them
The line to a book deal you'll lead.

[Robert Treskillard]

Chip!

Here are six haikus, the first two from me, the second two from my son Leighton (14), and the last two from my daughter Ynessa (8):

Rain, Rain, Fall Again
==================================
Mud puddles outside
Plink goes my mandolin thumb
I don't have to mow

Dove, I Name Thee
==================================
Sweet dove, come land here
But keep your white blops yourself
Then I'll say, 'Hi, Coo'

Young Geek
==================================
Newness and hunger
No electronics section
Pacifier drool

Dark Loneliness
==================================
Flying bugs, lantern
Bathes me softly with its light
Bat guano falls down

Mushy
==================================
Comment on my blog
I can't find a green hairbrush
I have a blue blog

Sticky
==================================
Spider on my nose
Hot sauce on a piece of bread
I can't get them off

[Stevie Rey]

Al Qaeda Love Poem
By Huze Yedaddi

Your eyes are like de Saudi crude
I hope you don't thinka me rude
Or, how you say, a jerka
But I really lika de shape of your burka!

Your teeth they are like those of camel
Good for opening cans of beans
No chip enamel!

Your toenails like those of mountain goat
Long and tough and hard as gourd
Good for sharpening blade of sword!

Meet me in last cave on left
Just past Bin Ladens bones
Hurry quick, watch out for drones!

Now won't you marry me
I just can't wait
It matters not you're only eight!

[Molly MacGregor and team Majorsgatan]

Valdis the Icelander

He didn't come home last night.
He didn't call this morning.
It's as quiet as a dormant volcano,
Calm as a drunken geyser
I feel so alone.
Naked as an Icelandic pony.
My companion is gone,
disappearing as quickly as financial stability.
Vulnerable as a poor fishing village tempting the onslaught of Danish invaders.
My companion is gone
The world is as univiting as my cousin Gudmundur's smile.
I will have to pick up a new cellphone tomorrow.
By Odin's eight-legged horse, this loss will not be forgotten.
The future is as bright as a midwinter's noon.

PS- Cellphones have male pronouns in Icelandic. As if that would help you understand the drivel above.

[Ron Benson]

I can only write what is on my heart:

The Fish I Didn’t Catch

Walleye eludes me.

Slimy catfish, full of industrial toxins, jump at my lures.
Sucker carp, all bulging doleful eyes and slate brick scales, raise their fins to beg,
“Catch me! Catch me!”
A bluegill also volunteers itself. Surrenders to my will.
But my heart is not satisfied.

Walleye eludes me.

Why, oh why did I pay ten dollars
to register for the Freeland Walleye Festival Fishing Tournament?
Why, oh why did it rain all day that Friday?
Why, oh why did my nightcrawlers overheat in the car window,
congealing into a mass of gray flesh,
taunting me with their lifeless forms,
laughing from the Purgatory of worms?

Walleye eludes me.

My wife says, “Curse the walleye and die!”
But I’ve spent too much already.
The license
The rod and reel
The tackle and the box to hold it
The really, really big boat
I must fight on. I must endure. I must be victorious. I must.

Others pass by on the right and on the left.
They hoist their larder high, rubbing it in my face.
“They’re biting tonight!” they shout.
“You can catch ‘em in your hands!” they scream.
“My two-year-old caught a ten pounder!” one particularly large round specimen brags.
I fantasize about big hooks and big poles
Big stinky fishermen being landed with big nets,
De-scaled, gutted, coated with corm meal and fried delicately.

Walleye eludes me.

[Sandra Bishop]

I know I'm not in the running for the lava lamp, but thought I'd post nonetheless ...

A Liquid Ode to Love Lost

Without you just pain
and endless rain

No silver linings or rainbows behind the clouds
oh the clouds
helping to wash my dreams
down the drain

In Love I bloomed
In heartbreak I'm doomed

to swoon

and dream of sailing away
in the puddles of tears
left behind from drowning my sorrows
in too many beers

[Janet Chester Bly]

Rod’s Tripe Named Poopy
by Janet Chester Bly

Twelve pallid stomaques
dealt rubbish against fate.
No value
to Middle English
or Old French.
An eye on an eye
too rubbery
for cattle
and other ruminants
but lined with
food for thought.
Deep.
Metaphoric.
Wondering.
A stupiferous passion
about ferocious fertile frogs
and lavalampous wieners
eaten by humpsters
in the name of
Poopy the tripe.

[Zainab]

SOULMATE

I met him and I skipped a step,
Bumped my head into his chin.
I met him and knew I wanted to live in his armpit.
He would smell like a spaceship and taste like mangoes.
The red dots of his hands were like an unfinished game,
Which I would connect,
Drawing a line from his arm to my nipple.
I met him and I made a fool of myself.
Fumbling about the pull at my navel,
The technicolor in my brain,
And the pleasing habitat of his armpit.
He walked away cursing,
Holding his chin as if I was a lamppost.

[Shauna]

Kermit is dead
and so is
my childhood

[Janet Chester Bly]

Hey, Chip: Happy Birthday anyway!

[Bucket Trucks]

It is great that people are thinking about the environment and working to make the world a safer place. Not only the materials that you are using on your home are safe for the environment but dump trucks have come a long way since the earlier models. We are learning and expanding and coming up with a wide range of safer more effective vehicles for the work force. I think it is great that many auto manufacturers are turning to hybrid vehicles to protect the environment and now they are even using hybrid dump trucks.

[Don Kimrey]

I don't know if I've ever read such a hilarious collection of absolutely absurd nonsense! I followed Michael Hyatt's sign to your site and thoroughly enjoyed the visit. Incidentally, I'm looking for an agent. Do you know a good one? Do you know a good one who answers letters? Do you know a really good one, kind and sensitive, noble and caring who would reach out to an as yet unknown, unpublished idealist by the name of donkimrey@gmail.com?