The 2008 Bad Poetry Contest Starts Today

No doubt you've been waiting all year for me to host my annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at MacGregor Literary. Next week is my birthday (a big one -- I hit the big Five-Oh), and I always try to celebrate by inviting all the bad poetry my friends can muster. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comments," and post some lousy piece of doggerel as your way of joining in the celebration. That's right - You can be published! Right now! On my blog! Aren't you just wetting your pants in anticipation?

It can be a crappy couplet, a crummy bit of free verse, a lousy limerick (let's stay away from rhyming with the city of "Nantucket"), or any other ditty you create that shows what a sensitive and thoughtful artist you are, when you don't happen to be worrying about your lack of a book contract or whining about the bad job of marketing your publisher is doing for you.

Warning: This is not a "birthday blog." So don't feel you have to write a poem about birthdays. It's just your chance to share your true deepfulness and reflectiveosity. You're an artist -- go art.

For those not in the know, this contest grows from my belief that every poet has the same message, which can be subtly summed up this way: "LOOK AT ME! I AM SENSITIVE AND REFLECTIVE AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! SO I'LL SHOW THEM HOW DEEP I AM BY WRITING POETRY!" (Feel free to edit that statement if you're truly deep and meaningful.) I want you to know that I'm here for you poets -- in fact, I was once accused of being sensitive, and have occasionally been forced to reflect on something, until I could grow up and get over it. Therefore, I've set aside the next few days just for you. Write! Create! Sit and contemplate your navel! Do...um...whatever it is you poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living. (Drink heavily?) Then send me your bad poetry.

In case you're really a poet, and you've missed the point here, we're looking for BAD poetry. The more hideous, smarmy, self-righteous, sappy, or obtuse, the better. Don't expect me to represent it -- if you're too sensitive to notice, there's no money to be made in poetry, so my looking at your crud won't do you any good in the market. Sorry.

But there's a rich tradition among British novelists of creating really horrible poetry behind one another's backs. P.G. Wodehouse, a brilliant writer and one of my lifelong heroes, used to create truly awful stuff. He once included in a book's introduction the words, "With a hey nonny-nonny and hot cha-cha, And the sound of distant moors..." 

Um...really. And if Plum can do it, YOU can do it. So send! Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of rhyming words yearning to breathe free. This is your chance to share your true depth and meaningfulness with the world...or at least with the group of people in publishing who read this blog. Don't delay -- start constipating now! In fact, I'm going to give all those under the age of 25 a hint to get you started: There are only four words in the English language that rhyme with love: "Dove" and "Above" are the popular choices. "Shove" and "glove" don't really count. Use of the baby word "Wuv" can get you shot. (British citizens who enter are allowed to use the word "guv," as in "guv'nor," but don't push it. We Scots have been pushed around by you people long enough.)

And the best news of all...the winner, chosen by an experienced team of expert bad poets (me, and maybe my friend Mike Allison, if he agrees to buy the Guinness) will receive a special GRAND PRIZE: a copy of Does God Ever Speak Through Cats? -- a self-published book the author sent me in hopes of getting me to represent it. Truly a life-changer. 

What can I do to make one see,

I do so love bad po-e-try.

It is, to me, a sort of balm,

And writing it just makes me calm.

For each time that I sit and write,

I show my depth, reveal my plight.

I'm really a reflective sort,

Hiding in my writing fort,

Revealing sensitivity,

For rhyme and meter, brevity.

So come join my happy clan,

Write something - show me you're a man!

(Or a woman, if you aren't home

to the Y chromosome.)

We await your craft and work,

Know that we will go berserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

(The Most Reverend Chip MacGregor, Birthday Boy, Old Fart, President of the Bad Poetry Society)

No doubt you've been waiting all year for me to host my annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at MacGregor Literary. Next week is my birthday (a big one -- I hit the big Five-Oh), and I always try to celebrate by inviting all the bad poetry my friends can muster. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comments," and post some lousy piece of doggerel as your way of joining in the celebration. That's right - You can be published! Right now! On my blog! Aren't you just wetting your pants in anticipation?

It can be a crappy couplet, a crummy bit of free verse, a lousy limerick (let's stay away from rhyming with the city of "Nantucket"), or any other ditty you create that shows what a sensitive and thoughtful artist you are, when you don't happen to be worrying about your lack of a book contract or whining about the bad job of marketing your publisher is doing for you.

Warning: This is not a "birthday blog." So don't feel you have to write a poem about birthdays. It's just your chance to share your true deepfulness and reflectiveosity. You're an artist -- go art.

For those not in the know, this contest grows from my belief that every poet has the same message, which can be subtly summed up this way: "LOOK AT ME! I AM SENSITIVE AND REFLECTIVE AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! SO I'LL SHOW THEM HOW DEEP I AM BY WRITING POETRY!" (Feel free to edit that statement if you're truly deep and meaningful.) I want you to know that I'm here for you poets -- in fact, I was once accused of being sensitive, and have occasionally been forced to reflect on something, until I could grow up and get over it. Therefore, I've set aside the next few days just for you. Write! Create! Sit and contemplate your navel! Do...um...whatever it is you poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living. (Drink heavily?) Then send me your bad poetry.

In case you're really a poet, and you've missed the point here, we're looking for BAD poetry. The more hideous, smarmy, self-righteous, sappy, or obtuse, the better. Don't expect me to represent it -- if you're too sensitive to notice, there's no money to be made in poetry, so my looking at your crud won't do you any good in the market. Sorry.

But there's a rich tradition among British novelists of creating really horrible poetry behind one another's backs. P.G. Wodehouse, a brilliant writer and one of my lifelong heroes, used to create truly awful stuff. He once included in a book's introduction the words, "With a hey nonny-nonny and hot cha-cha, And the sound of distant moors..." 

Um...really. And if Plum can do it, YOU can do it. So send! Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of rhyming words yearning to breathe free. This is your chance to share your true depth and meaningfulness with the world...or at least with the group of people in publishing who read this blog. Don't delay -- start constipating now! In fact, I'm going to give all those under the age of 25 a hint to get you started: There are only four words in the English language that rhyme with love: "Dove" and "Above" are the popular choices. "Shove" and "glove" don't really count. Use of the baby word "Wuv" can get you shot. (British citizens who enter are allowed to use the word "guv," as in "guv'nor," but don't push it. We Scots have been pushed around by you people long enough.)

And the best news of all...the winner, chosen by an experienced team of expert bad poets (me, and maybe my friend Mike Allison, if he agrees to buy the Guinness) will receive a special GRAND PRIZE: a copy of Does God Ever Speak Through Cats? -- a self-published book the author sent me in hopes of getting me to represent it. Truly a life-changer. 

What can I do to make one see,

I do so love bad po-e-try.

It is, to me, a sort of balm,

And writing it just makes me calm.

For each time that I sit and write,

I show my depth, reveal my plight.

I'm really a reflective sort,

Hiding in my writing fort,

Revealing sensitivity,

For rhyme and meter, brevity.

So come join my happy clan,

Write something - show me you're a man!

(Or a woman, if you aren't home

to the Y chromosome.)

We await your craft and work,

Know that we will go berserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

(The Most Reverend Chip MacGregor, Birthday Boy, Old Fart, President of the Bad Poetry Society)

Comments

[Gina]

Thy Wicked Heart
by Gina Holmes

Thy wicked heart long I to smote

and tie ye to a motorboat

race thee around for hours and hours

laugh at ye as thou stomach grows sour

dice thee up, watch thou bleed

plant ye in the ground like an appleseed

plant ye in the ground like an appleseed

apple seed

apple seed

plant YE in the GROUND like AN apple seed!

[sally apokedak]

Well, inspired by Gina's lovely offering I came up with another cheery one:

I sat me down to write a rhyme
for on my hands was too much time.
Then chirped the bird, pray tell, pray tell,
you'll write your rhymes in fires of hell,
the burning brimstone you will smell, for all eternity.

I sat me down to pray with haste,
"Forgive me for my foolish waste.
You've told me to redeem my time,
and there's no prize for this stupid rhyme,
for Chip is much to tight to sign, the winner to a contract."

[Stevie Rey]

They once was a man from Yazoo
Who could'n git published if he had to
So he wrote Chip a poem
Just to kindly git to know 'im.
Cause ees prose stunk worse than chimp poop!

Boo YA! Happy Birthday Chip! LOL!

[sally apokedak]

Uh, you were kidding about the cat book, weren't you? (I tried hard with my offering--note the repeated use of "time" and "rhyme" as it would simply be too hard to come up with new rhyming words for each stanza.)

But if there really is a book on cats,
And how the Lord speaks through them,
And if I should win against the others,
And beat them down and subdue them,
Then donate my prize, please.
To a library where kids can check out books, and several times renew them.

[Vickie]

Happy birthday, Chip!!!

The big 5-0! It was relatively painless for me, so I hope it will be for you, too.

I'm not a poet and never will be, but I do love a good challenge:

No Poetry for Me
by Vickie McDonough

Poetry is something I despise,
I write fiction. I make up lies.
I love a story that makes me turn pages,
Not a rhyme that sends me in rages.
Heroes and heroines are my passion,
Not little diddies of a fashion.
Brave females dressed in calicoes,
Conflict, romance, and cowboys with lassoes.
Give me a book with plot and action
Not a poem with no satisfaction.

[Alison Strobel Morrow]

I.

Yes, I.

I and not you.

Or u.

Or ewe.

(Though maybe yew.)

True, I. And....

yet, not.

But, maybe...

Yes, maybe.

Maybe!

Maybe we.

Oh, we.

Yes, yes, we.

Or not.

[Alison Strobel Morrow]

Aw man, my formatting didn't work! Rats. You really don't get the full *feel* of the thing without the italics. Oh well. I hope you'll take my word for it that it was far more Meaningful and Deep with the italics. Though since we're going for bad here, I guess maybe it's good it didn't go through...

[Dana Mentink]

Here is a little ditty composed to aid writers everywhere with that nasty business of keeping a timeline straight. Pearls of wisdom, I'm giving you here. Pearls, I tell you!

Ode to the Eternal Tuesday
By Dana duPont Maria Conchita Ravioli Mentink

When writing a book, it’s important to note,
The day of the week on page one.

Otherwise in a jam, you’ll forget where you am,
And lose track of where you begun.

To help you dear writer, as you wrangle this out,
A tip that is really the rage,

For a stupendous novel, that really stands out,
Make it Tuesday on every page.

[lisa]

Okay, Chip . . . you asked for BAD.

One dollar heart
by lisa samson
I'VE COPYWRITED THIS SO NOBODY USE THIS
WITHOUT MY PERMISSION EVEN THOUGH I AM
AN UNPUBLISHED POET! COPYWRITE 2008 BY LISA SAMSON, LEXINGTON KY. (DON'T TEST ME ON THIS!)

When we were together
Rainbows fled the brightness
Of our freshly minted love
For each other.
You and me
Two hearts
Each. Other.
A couple.
But more like one.
Sort of like
A two dollar bill.
Or maybe if we were on a base 8
System and a quarter
Was worth twenty cents,
And we were each worth ten
Cents.
Cents! You left me and it makes
No cents!
Not even a single penny.
Or even two.
And now I sit alone, a dollar bill.
But only worth fifty cents instead of a hundred.

[Anita Higman]

Ode to Chocolate

Chocolate is my lover, sweet and true,
My little Belgian truffle full of goo.
It beckons me. It is my constant woo.
Then I overindulge as lovers often do,
Left satisfied, but fat enough to moo.

Anita Higman
[email protected]

[chip]

Yes! These are truly bad! And Alison, don't worry -- your true deepfulness shows in every line, italics or not. Lisa, that may be the first poem ever written on a base 8 (though Dave Brubeck wrote a great song on 5/4 time). Genuinely terrible. Way to go.

Anita, anyone who can find four rhymes for "goo" without resorting to "blue" and "you" may be too talented for this contest. We're leaving you in the running, but... we're watching your every move. Or, perhaps, moooooove.

[Sharon A. Lavy]

Unless you have been on the ACFW Loop in the last couple of days this will make no sense. But either way it's me at my worst.

Alas, alax, what lack I yet? (Opps that came so easy, someone probably already wrote it.)
I fear I have no cowboy hat.
No cowboy boots, no kilt, no ooose
Not even rhinestone spangled shoes.

I sit and write, I do not play
at my computer every day.
Writing very serious stuff
Except this little bit of fluff.

[Truth Box Girl]

A Blip for Chip,

I thought to myself, let’s be nifty.
So here’s what I did turning fifty.
I bought me a scooter.
To ride, such a hooter.
I warrant for me such a gifty.

Before you go spring for a Vespa
A couple of things I might tell ya
You’ll peg your cool meter
No ride will be sweeter
All the chicks will just swoon, I betcha!

[a forward]

From Sibella...

Ode to the Old

Where have all the vowels gone, long time passing?
Have they left us, moored and gasping?
Alone, relapsing?
Obama
Osama
Oprah
Yo Mama.

Oh, how we yearn for the day
When the language made hay
With new conversions
Of Soviet excursions,
Consonant wielding,
Never yielding --
Hail!

Kyrgyzstan
Kazakhstan
Tajikistan
Oh, bellicose Belarus

'Tis true:
We never loved ye.
Please, forgive we.

[Janet Lee Barton]

What can I say?
It was an ordinary day and. . .
I was thinking of making a cheese dip
When the call came out from Chip
to hurry and join his contest.
He wanted us all to do our very best
to write the worst poetry we could.
For a second I wondered if I would...
I was pretty sure I should.
I ‘m not going to tell a lie.
I decided to give it a try.
Because I just couldn’t miss the chance to say
I hope you have a fantastically Happy Birthday!

[Laura Domino]

Happy Birthday to Chip!

Send me a diamond. Send me a sable.
But don't send me a really bad, sad little fable.

Send me a card. Or flowers if you grow 'em.
But don't send me a horrible non-rhyming poem.

Some people eat loads of pudding and cheese.
Some people write icky poetry with ease.

But don't send me oodles of really bad verse.
Save it and stuff it all into a hearse.

Ice cream brings genuine joy to this girl.
But horrible, very bad lines make me hurl.

Chip, if bad poetry brings merriment so true,
Then Happy Birthday, sir! Happy Birthday to You!

[Kathleen Gunovick]

As I sat down at my computer
I pondered things to write
How to type something
that didn't sound trite?

Whatever to Chip could I say
that didn't sound like a horrible cliche?

Prose is best when it's simple--tis true
So I'll just say Happy Birthday to you.

I could add a lot of other stuff,
But I feel this poem is already bad enough.

[Anita]

My Theory on World Peace

In an age of war

We always want more

Happiness, joy

Love, and compassion

We’re always looking

For a distraction

From pain and strife

We want a perfect life

So what is my theory?

How can we all be cheery?

The first step to mediate,

Odors we must eliminate.

Don’t forget to take a bath.

You can avoid all kinds of wrath.

Let peace begin with you.

Keep the peace

By Anita O. Reaves

Happy Birthday and see you at Blue Ridge at the end of the month. I'm good at writing bad.

[Derek Flood]

The Twither Post

Suzy McTemple perched up on a post
Began to survey the world down below
Though with some exception
all if not most
Seem to twither as they walked to and fro

Thrilled with the sight
She exclaimed with delight
In a manner that was ever so cheery
"I have half a mind to get off my behind,
And join this twithering in praxis not theory"

[janet]

Seduced

Temptress
Seductive
Little
witch
Beckoning
With twinkling eye,
Flushed cheeks,
Curling golden locks.
I am hypnotized,
Helpless beneath her
Enticing gaze.
I reach out
Breathless
With anticipation
quivering and
Unable to deny
My lust
For Little Debbie.

[kyle watson]

A Poets Critic

I'm grand master poet
Read this and know it
This is how I lay it down
When I roll through your town
There will be no frowns
For I'm no political clown
I never wear a gown
So hear me now

There once was a critic
And he was idiotic
Never understanding my poetics
For I had buried him in my attic
No more fear or panic
Police at front door I'm frantic
Got to go for now my fanatics

[Elizabeth Wehman]

Frustrated by a lack of freelance writing money,
I decided to enter the MacGregor poem funny.
How can I enter a contest considered just for rhyme,
when I rarely make a single solatary dime?
No entry fee,
that's cannot be.
I thought Chip would require one,
for all of this fun.
But alas, it won't cost me a single penny,
which is good, cause I'm not made of plenty.
If only, by winning this contest,
I could be considered to be one of his best.
Maybe he'd forget me sitting at his table,
At the ACFW conference and causing a foible.
Then one day he'd stand up and say,
"It's okay that she's poor, cause I'll do all to pay.
I want to take her novel manscript,
And make it encrypt.
Send it out to all who will pay her,
Next time I see her, she'll be in fur."
Dreams come just once in a freelance life,
And although it may cause Chip great strife.
I wish he'd pick me to win his worst poem,
Maybe then I can eat real popcorn, instead of syrofoam.

Thanks Chip for this wonderful opportunity. I hope you have an awesome birthday.

[Brian T. Carroll]

Love
is
like a lot
of
p’lov
in a pot—
rice and mutton
(nice for gluttons).
It warms your innards,
even for beginners.

Love
yells
“Mazel Tov!”
A reset button
When I’ve hit bottom.
It turns plain sinners
into winners.

Happy Birthday, Chip

[janet]

With mustache thick
and kilt of plaid
the Scotsman pleads
for poetry bad

but for horrid poems
he need not be a begger
we’re simply inspired by
the man named MacGregor.

the wine of birthday
gaity we freely sip
happy happy
birthday, chip.

*do I lose points for entering twice?

[chip responds]

Kudos to Derek for using the word "praxis" -- no doubt the first time that words has appeared on this blog. His poem is suitably execrable. Bravo!

And to Janet for making me lust after some Little Debbie Snack Cakes. She's hot. She rocks. She makes me look fat.

Hey -- you don't have to rhapsodize on birthdays, people! It's just the time of year I do this.

I appreciate the limericks -- gets me away from all the terrible rhyming couplets.

[Julie Scudder]

Oh, what am I when my life is for,
oh, what am I?
What am I?
Oh, what am I when my life is for,
What will I be when I grow up?
Or, will I ever?
Maybe never.

[Karla Akins]

There once was an agent named Chip
Whose mind was beginning to slip
He pitched a bad book
Without a good hook
There are lots of words that rhyme with Chip:
kip
dip
gyp
hip
lip
nip
rip
sip
tip
whip
yip
so
you
pick
the
last
word--
and
I'll
finish
the
blurb.

Happy Birthday!

[Stephanie Reed]

THE poet comes
on little iambic pentameter feet.

She sits looking
over couplet and ditty
on silent spondees
and then moves on.

[Katy McKenna]

I shan't resort to mentioning your wife,
Since the only halfway appropriate rhyming word is "life."
It seems wrong somehow to bring up potential strife,
Though full of it your life may well be rife.

And yes, you're right about the problematic word love,
And it's sappy rhyming complement, the dove.
But what about all good things from above?
Where birthday wishes accumulate in a treasure trove?

(Blessings on your 50th, Chip!! And many happy returns of the truly awful poems.)

[Joshua]

A Romantic I've been called,
A description more disturbing once realized.
Doomed to see lines on a page melt at the edges and fall into waves,
each sweeping the last out of sight beneath itself.

Forced by your own heart not to kiss her
'till the Lord showers you with His blessing from the clouds above,
And then laughing at how all the best kisses are wet.

We all learned that lesson first in love,
as we kissed our family members on the cheek goodnight,
to see them smile and wipe their faces.

So here I sit like some child with a crayon;
wishing these lines would soften at the edges,
rise and fall with a splash!
then reach with all their might,
streaching as they may
to lay their foaming fingers on the binding.

[Tim Patrick]

I wrote this poem myself; nobody helped me!

Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday Dear Chip.
Happy.

[Carla Stewart]

MY FAVORITE BREW HAIKU

Less is not more, small black bean
Your caffeine I crave
Morning cup.

Happy Birthday, Chip! May all your brews come true.

[John Robinson]

Hmph. Rank amateurs, the lot of you. I managed to combine both an ecological message, and a treatise on the hopelessness of effective animal husbandry in a poem of bone-breaking wretchedness. Behold...

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.
Cities close and hard.
Earth's played her last card.
Monk what have we
Done now?
Fifteen feet to walk.
People point and gawk.
Watch them 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.

Chilling, ain't it? Made your end stand on hair, didn't it? Thought so.

[Tiffany Colter]

Since Chip is a West Coast guy, currently living in the Midwest, I thought I'd write him a poem that draws on one of his fondest Midwestern experiences.

So I've titled my poem,

FRIENDSHIP

Can
Anyone imagine
Something
Simpler or more
Exhilarating than
Riding with the
One you
Love
Eating

Casserole?

[And since this is a BAD poetry contest I hope you notice this poem was done as an Acrostic]

[M.L. Eqatin]

Rhyme and meter are
so passe in these days of enlight
enment that anybody with an understanding of
the finer points of modern poetry
should
properly break
up a thought into as many meaningless
lines and paragraphs so that the reader
is totally confused.
No poem is worth
writing unless
most of the people who read it
cannot for the life of them figure out why
anybody would write it.
After all, if you expected to get paid
for your incredible art,
you would lower yourself to the muck
of writing
lyrics and commercial jingles
which actually stick with the unworthy
public
because those lacking poetic minds
can understand them.

[MED]

I'm sorry. I just can't do it. Not this time. Everyone else is soooooooo much better than me at writing horribly poetry that I can't even stomach trying to enter. Allow me a cruel chuckle ... these are PATHETIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :)

I have ALWAYS wanted to tell people blatantly how rotten their poetry is. Thanks for the chance. :)

PS Will you look at my pirate book when I'm done writing it? In 30 years? ;)

[Meg Moseley]

We all know an agent named Chip,
So smart and so cool and so hip
That he calls for bad poims,
Which kinda confoims
That for poets he don't give a rip.

Happy half-a-century, Chip!

Meg

[Ashley Weis]

Sweep, sweep, sweep the stairs,
The saltine crumbs, the husband’s gum,
And all the little hairs.
Brown, brown, brown I say,
But no one knows, no one shows,
Any mark of brown today.
Who, who, who could it be?
Oh, speak into my ear, what’s that I hear?
The owl, the owl, Mr. Rowel.
That’s who I see!

This is so profound that I’m not even sure what it’s about. But I’m sure tons of high school English teachers could lead a discussion and evaluate every line until some deep meaning is discovered.

Loved all of these poems! Lot’s of laughs.

And oh happy day, Chiparelli! Have a great birthday!

[Kimberli]

I love to see the moo moos as they graze upon the land

I love to see the crabbies crawl across the sand

I love to see the mighty trees blowing in the breeze

I love to hear the birdies and the humming of the bees

I love to see the hills gently roll upon the ground

How does the sky touch the earth, I think it's so profound

I look upon these wonders as I travel in my car

As from the backseat children shout, "Is it very far?"

[Rob Sargeant]

This poem was found in the newspaper obituaries, three days after Chip's untimely death.

Chip was the love of my life.
For twenty-five years I was his wife.
He was so young, to go like this.
I'll miss his hug, I'll miss his kiss.

I tried to tell him to slow down,
when he'd speed 10 clicks above the limit going through town.

Oh well, now he's in a better place.
But I sure will miss seeing his face.

Reception Saturday, at the country club, starts at ten sharp. Out by the 9th hole, under a white tarp.
A-K brings the sandwhiches, the desserts from L-Z. Don't bring any flowers, send a donation to CCCC.

[Robbie Iobst]

Long time listener, first time caller.
I am compelled to join in on this literary romp.

The Heartfelt Poem

A rainbow,
A unicorn,
Chip.

The rain,
the snow,
Chip.

My heart,
My colon,
Chip.

Creativity, smooth jazz, nature's wonders.
Chip.

A Heartfelt Poem

(Did you get it? Huh? Did you?)

[Fenwick C. Huzzlebaum]

Nightsong
An Ode

Sorrow poures from my
soul
like ice cream
dropped--
yea, melted--
on a cobblestone street.

I weep.

Ode is me.

[colin macgregor]

Amidst deep sleep, sound as a rock,
My nose awoke me with a shock
What’s that I smell? What could it be?
This foul odor haunting me?

Mine hazel eyes scrut’nized the room,
What origin, this scent of doom?
Alas, no luck; the room was dim,
My vision can’t perceive therein!

Oh woe is me, that I should bear
this violent reek in my nose-hair!
I curse the day -- *after a whiff* --
My nostrils did begin to sniff

So stumbled I out of the bed,
And stubbed my toe. “Goddamn!” I said.
And then I stagger ‘midst half-sleep,
While still the stench assaults my beak

The bedroom door -- I've reached my goal
And with a gallant, mighty pull
It opens! But to my surprise
The object of my snout's demise
Lies in the middle of the floor,
Spawning aromas I abhor.
For in the hall, what do I find?
A mess the cat has left behind!

I step around the feline poo
And in the distance hear a mew.
"I've had enough!" I yell, "That's that!"
"I'm gonna get that stupid cat!"

[Rhonda]

There once was a boy from the bayou
Who said to a northern girl, "Hi, you!"
She said, "What a dish!"
"I want more of this."
Then they found she was allergic to fish.

This limerick is deeper than it smells. What on the surface looks like the meeting of allergen-crossed or geographically challenged lovers, is in actuality what Dr. No Nobel of Air Mail University's Alternative History Department feels is the root cause of the Civil War. Thus proving that what is truly bad poetry can also be truly bad history.

[Dee Stewart]

A Poem On Your Birthday Chip

Chirp, Chip
I made a slip
It's 12:30 in the morn
I'm too tired to rhyme with morn.
A can of corn
A busted bike horn
Oh, I guess I can rhyme with morn.
Thank God, I'm not lovelorn
Or torn...
Happy Birthday, Chip

[Susy]

An Inconvenient Tooth

Oh children of Mother Earth,
Don’t you carrot all?
Cabbage we all just get along?
Lettuce join hands,
Broccoli down barriers,
Squash our differences,
Turnip the music,
Radish the moment,
And wish for world peas.

[Pam Halter]

Like two peas in a pod
That I can see
Are we together
Just you and me.

The sun makes us warm
The rain quenches our thirst
We grow and we grow
Until our pods burst.

We fall on the ground
Where a bird picks us up
And flies to her nest
Where she smooshes us and shoves us down her baby's throats
And they eat us for sup.

[erin]

While I am in no way the brilliant artsy poet in the corner, I do have a soft spot in my heart for good poetry. I think GOOD poets ;) have some excellent observations on beauty in the world and they seem to find it in really random ordinary places. I like that. Poets of the world: I appreciate your pretentious moodiness ;) I think I can empathize with you though. I have an odd pet peeve when it comes to words too. I don't like it when people who aren't European spell words as though they are. Like: favourite. Or colour. I don't know why it irks me, but it does. Anyway! :)

I don't have a bad poem to add to this incredibly bad list, but I thought it would be fun to share a personal experience with ... unique .. "poetry" instead. I was a senior in high school, in a truck with a really sweet guy I'd just gone to the movie with. We were about to leave the theater when he looked at me and smiled. He took a deep breath and I knew he was about to say something that would rock my world. I could feel the tension in the air. He reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear. I thought I might stop breathing. Then he looked at me, very sweetly and seriously and said, "Your eyes look like big blue bowling balls." I was smitten. I don't know how it didn't last :)

Happy Birthday to you.

[Linda M Au]

There’s an agent we call Chip MacGregor
Who’s made none of his clients a beggar
His humor’s a stretch
(It makes me kvetch)
But what the heck! Throw him a kegger!

[Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech]

Greetings and saltations uncle Chip,

I am poet of traditional tale tellers from the region of Arguz in the hills of Mizzri. Right now I imagine myself with the rocks and hill-goats, strumming Oblistani harp in tribute of named birthdays. But sadly I am seated on uncomfortable stool in elder cousin's basement. Now for poem.

Rejection is like the salt from lake Mizzri
(imagine here strumming and goatsounds)
rubbed on a wounded and festersome foot,
which was stung by barbed cockroach of Aldu-Haziz.
The roach snuck into your sandal the day
when you planned to set out for new lunar feast
wearing your favored red-tasseled hat.

While loading your cargo of rugs onto camel,
the vile insect struck with vicious intent.
Like high star of Obli, the precious rugs fell
and splashed into camel trough, along with hat.
Then fiercly fled your dearest of camels
into dry desert, nevermore seen.
Eaten it was by fearsome fanged sparrows
which perch on the cliffs of Aldu-Haziz.

(Inspired in part by Duck Tales episode #43, which is beamed from American satellites.)

Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech

[IronMike]

Inch Worm's Adventure: A children's Poem

The inchworm climbs the chair!
To reach up to the pear!
If he had any hair it would stand on end
Oh no!
He falls!

down, down, down

But since he had a seemingly gelatinous body
It didn't hurt him.

The inch worm reclimbs the chair!
To reach up to the pear!
If he had any hair it would stand on end
Oh no!
He falls!

flip, flop, flack

This time he lands on a tack.

[IronMike]

Inch Worm's Adventure: A Children's Poem

The inch worm climbs the chair!
To reach up to the pear!
If he had any hair
it would stand on end...
Oh no!
He falls!

down, down, down

But since he has a seemingly gelatinous body
it didn't hurt him.

The inch worm reclimbs the chair!
To reach up to the pear!
If he had any hair
it would stand on end...
Oh no!
He falls!

flip, flop, flack

This time he lands on a tack.

[Fred Gippler]

NO!! IT IS NOT MY BAGEL
she sang lustily.
Why. Dreams. Memories. Fred Savage, star of Television's "The Wonder Years". A blue snow cone from May, 1977. Dreams again. Dinosaurs. Dreams one more time. Again; dreams.
Wow.
I hate your grandma--and. AND? AAAANNNDDDD!?!?!?!

And it is not my bagel, she sang, falling backwards into a future of stale tacos and unclosable milk jugs.

[holly macgregor]

umm chip? I think since I am your only daughter-in-law...its only right that you give me "does god speak through cats?" Tell the author also, if he's interested...I could give him a few insights into the minds of my own hyper-intelligent-god-speaking-to-cats.

[janet]

Chip, you should pick a top ten and then let people vote on best just like American Idol. There are some wonderfully awful poems here!

[Lisa DeLay]

prelude-

In silence my tears were fears
That no one would see what is the true me
That God would not have glory and be the story
That no one would find what I could not leave behind
What He had graciously given me- alas! Precious POETRY!
For all the world to read.
And then would my heart be true?
If I could not make from it a penny or two? (or a decent living) ?
No. No. A thousand times no.
To this place, I could never go.
My gifts would have to wait in vain,
And stand aside for writing more plain.
Still, my heart could bear without too much fear,
For Chip's contest, once a year.
Now the whole world can know and trust
Poetry (for God,) (from me,) is a must!

Cheesy God poem # 1

God is like glue
If our heart are true
He meets me and you
It's all we must do
To trust him anew

---------

That was exhausting.
Sometimes gifting is like that though. However, it's a burden I am willing bear, for the Kingdom.

(Happy, Happy birthday, Chip!)
: )

[Andy]

Flower
Power

Cave
Brave

Canyon
Bunion

Geography
Gee, I'm a Tree

Bored

[Darcie Gudger]

To all the poet laureates out there making billions of dollars writing better nonsense than this little ODE (not to be confused with ODOR)

Bad poetry.
Like, really, really bad.
Airplanes buzz around my cranium -
....with tootsie roll thoughts.

Poet laureates.
Say lor-ee-ates in the containium.
I mean continuum.

Free the monkeys!
Now!
I mean it!

And methinks poetry rots
with all those itty-bitty knots

(empty space)
(nothingness)
(Eckhart Tolle and Oprah)
(vast void)

of garlic bread

Will Someone Get This Litterbox Off My Head?

Poetry so bad - YOU all/ y'all want me...
...dead.

by Darcie Gudger
Who probably makes more sense than that dude in New Jersey.

Yeah.

[Amy and Bethany]

Monkeys
By Amy Nickerson and Bethany DuVal

We are in our room
Writing a poom
About all the toils of life.

For it’s often we feel
With excellent zeal
We’d rather be stabbed with a knife.

We have lots of tests
And though we try our bests
Sometimes we feel we are failing.

We dither about
Try to cast away doubt
But only succeed in flailing.

Can we find success
With our planners a mess?
We’d like to be covered in vinyl.

Thank our lucky star
Summer isn’t too far
And Dr. Chip will not give us a final.

Happy Birthday!

[Cheri Williams]

They Shall Know Me by My Love

Sloth? Sluggard?
Stuck in sin?
Look to me,
I’ll help you win.

I want so much
for you to know
Love, Grace, and Truth,
so you can grow.

You’ve got issues
we all can see.
I have answers—
listen to me.

Knowledge and Wisdom
I have to impart,
so you can clean
your blackened heart.

I’ve got it together,
I’m in the know.
Why won’t you listen?
You refuse to grow.

You never change.
My advice hasn’t took.
But I know I can help,
so I’ll write a book.

[Rachel Kulp]

Have a " " One, Chip

When they say "have a good one,"
Does it mean
To survive 'til day is done?

Or does it mean
Have some kind of fun
So bad that
You can tell no one?

Rachelck

[holly macgregor]

Okay...I don't like sharing my secret poems, but since I can't get the Cat-book without posting something:

Dr. Jesus
I'm feeling ill
How about you give me
A salvation pill?

He said to me
that very day
with me in your life
you'll be A-OKAY!

I need a Christ Transfusion
Pump his blood into my veins
Take out the old
And make me new again
Give him my life
So he can take the reins!

Dr. Jesus
I feeling well
That pill you gave me
Sure is Swell!

(I co-wrote this in 10th grade bible class, its more of a hip-hop style rap than a poem, but deserved of the book all the same)

[Cheri Williams]

Here's my very worst poem to wish you the very best birthday!

Happy Birthday, Chip...

They Shall Know Me by My Love

Sloth? Sluggard?
Stuck in sin?
Look to me,
I’ll help you win.

I want so much
for you to know
Love, Grace, and Truth,
so you can grow.

You’ve got issues
we all can see.
I have answers—
listen to me.

Knowledge and Wisdom
I have to impart,
so you can clean
your blackened heart.

I’ve got it together,
I’m in the know.
Why won’t you listen?
You refuse to grow.

You never change.
My advice hasn’t took.
But I know I can help,
so I’ll write a book.