Announcing the 2009 Bad Poetry Contest

In the lobby of the Deadham Community Theater is a painting of a bald man, done all in greens and grays, with mushrooms floating in the air all around him. One look at it makes you think, "Wow... this is BAD." 

And that's exactly what it is, since the painting hangs in The Museum of Bad Art, located in a theater lobby in Deadham, Massachusetts. It's proven so popular the curator has opened a second venue, at the Somerville Theater, just outside Cambridge. There are bad portraits, wild colors, out-of-sync angles, and even a shockingly bad copy of the Mona Lisa, done in bright green and magenta, with what appears to be Frankenstein in a dress. (The title? Mana Lisa.) 

Interviewed recently in American Way Magazine, Louise Reilly Sacco, the Permanent Acting Interim Executive Director of the Museum of Bad Art, was quick to explain that not everything can be easily labeled "bad." For example, cutesy tourist art doesn't qualify, nor does simple paint-by-numbers stuff, children's art, or the prints you buy at K-Mart. And having no talent apparently disqualifies you from creating "truly bad," since anyone who has attended a karaoke bar knows there is a difference between lacking ability and true awfulness."From the works of talented artists that have gone awry to works of exuberant, although crude , execution by artists barely in control of the brush," noted Sacco in her interview, "what they all have in common is a special quality that sets them apart in one way or another from the merely incompetent." Badness, thy name is faux depth.

In other words, to create genuine Bad Art, one must have some sort of Bad Artistic Vision, and take it seriously, and study the craft... and THEN still produce a pile of poop. THAT is what we can call truly bad art. And it is in that spirit that I announce our annual Bad Poetry Contest of 2009! For those not in the know, we do this every May, as a way to celebrate my birthday. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit "comment," and post some lousy bit of doggerel. The goal is not to send me a stupid birthday poem ("Happy Birthday, o' Chip o' mine, Hope this finds you well and fine..."), but to get writers to use their creative talents to explore the depth of true awfulness. We want over-the-top emotion. Bad metaphors. Deepfulness. Reflectivosity. Show us that poetic bent!

This contest has grown out of my belief that inside every poet is the same message, which can subtly be summed up this way: Hey! Look at me! I'm sensitive and nobody understands me! So I'll show you how deep I am by writing some poetry! 

Well don't worry, my deep and meaningful friends -- Uncle Chippy is here for you. In fact, I was also once accused of being sensitive and artistic, until I grew up and stopped whining. Therefore, I've set aside this week just for you. Right now, YOU can be published! ON MY BLOG! Just think of it... You can sit down, create, contemplate your navel, and, um, do whatever it is poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living (take drugs? watch reruns of Law And Order?). Then send it in and you're entered in the contest. Everything counts -- your cutesy couplets, horrible haiku, retch-producing refrains. Write and send, my dear ones. 

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled metaphors yearning to breathe free. The hopeless haiku of your teeming shore, etc etc. Lift that lamp beside the golden door and write something. Don't delay! Start constipating now! We only do this for a week, once a year. And the best news of all: The winner, chosen each year by a team of experts (consisting of my best friend Mike and I, usually after drinking too much Guinness), will receive a GRAND PRIZE: A genuine Lava Lamp from Spencer Gifts! Something that sort of sums up the whole Bad Art experience! Try to contain your excitement. 

Last year's winner brought us a very hip "Jesus Rap," that included these immortal words:

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!

The winning author was only 23 years old (though I know you'll find that hard to believe). It's exactly those sorts of life-changing lyrics that makes me believe in the future of Bad Art. (sniff. honk!) Oh...please keep in mind that there are only a handful of words that rhyme with love. The short lists includes dove, glove, shove, above, and right-ho-guv. Note that anyone using the word "wuv" as child's version of "love" will be hunted down and forced to read the Complete Works of Dan Brown. 

So you're on the clock. There'll be no more questions about proposals. No reflecting on the Google settlement this week. No more posting about how wonderful our Hero President Bush was. We give that all a rest for a few days, as we enter Bad Poetry Week. Join us! Go to the "comments" section and send us your best (or your worst, depending).

Chip (who is about to hit 51)

 

PS: 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.

Comments

[chip responds]

In case you need an example, here's a lovely poem from last year's Bad Poetry contest, to put you in the mood...

Snot Bubbles and Tears…
Where are you?
My phone doesn’t ring
The doorbell doesn’t chime.
My lips can’t sing.
I’m a mime.
Just a mime.
But my heart cries out!
The snot bubbles ooze from the chambers.
They mix with my tears -
Enough to drown me.
But that’s probably what you want….
Right?
I thought we had something special.
But I guess I was wrong.
So wrong.
What will I do now?
I’ll sit in sorrow
Until tomorrow.
Then I’ll get up and move on
With my empty life.
If the snot bubbles and tears don’t drown me first.

[Ashley Weis]

Okay! Thanks for the ab workout. After 2 babies I needed that. I shall ponder a wonderful poem and post when I'm feeling a little more fluffy...

[Robbie Iobst]

Chip, Chip, You're the agent man,

If you can't do it,

Nobody can!!

Jesus, Jesus, You're the man,

If you can't do it,

...well, we're all going to hell.

[Alison Strobel Morrow]

In honor of you, Chip, I'm creating a whole new type of poetry--the double haiku. Instead of the mundane 5-7-5 syllable pattern, I'm going avant-garde with 5-7-5-7-5. Take that, Ikkyu!

I ache, the weight of
A single tear on my cheek
Too much to bear, for
I am beaten down by edits
that will never end.

[M.L. Eqatin]

Mister Chip!
(Buffalo, potato, chocolat)
What a trip!
(stumbling, fumbling, fall go flat)
happy b-day,
(natal day, early May, newborn brat)
many returns
(rejections, defections, and all that).

[Ashley Weis]

Shwiiing, to the mirth-mobile I went,
Skating, oh skating, on thin, thin air.
“Make way for the Dark Helmet!” I exclaimed.
But then I saw her, coming toward me, on the thin, thin air.

She looked me dead in the eyes and with a kiss,
She said, “Just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber,
you go and do something like this…
and totally redeem yourself.”

Oh, dear lady, she was the lady I didn’t know.
And she was choppin’, she was choppin’,
She was choppin’ broccolay…
So much that I had nothing else to say.

And then she disappeared in thin, thin air,
And ah-ha! I saw him, rising from the swamp.
King of Swamp Castle, coming to my rescue.
In peril I was, in peril I’d be, until he came to rescue me.

I thought he had come to save me,
But no, he rose from the muddy waters and only said,
“If I'm not back in five minutes... wait longer!”
Oh, but I waited, and waited, and I waited longer.

King of Swamp Castle never returned,
In peril I’d be, or so I thought I’d be.
But alas, through the blaring speaker I heard him,
He yelled, he smiled, “Goooood morning, Vietnam!”

Oh, boy! I jumped, I cried, I squeezed my neck.
Maybe the peril would flee,
Maybe the lady’d come back to me.
Or maybe none of the above.

I sat in silence. No more Veitnam guy.
No more anything guy.
Only the silence that became me.
Oh, how it became me.

Until I looked up and there I saw her,
She was sure that all that glitters is gold.
And I saw her buying a stairway to heaven.
Oh, on the thin, thin air, right up to heaven.

With a word she could’ve gotten what she came for,
But no words were needed… oh, no words were needed.
Because she was choppin’ broccoli, she was choppin’ brocciloh,
And nothing mattered because she glittered so gold.

[Danica]

Uncle Chippy? Are you SERIOUS?
Please don't make us sit on your lap.
Or pinch our cheeks.
Or pat us on the head and say, "my, how big you've gotten." Really. Please.
EW.
I'm grossed out now.

[Tanja Cilia]

Apples of My Eye;
A Stupid Sestet!

Filippa, Gala, Ariane, Falstaff, Gavin - Apples,
One of which you ought to take each day
To send the doctor on his way, and fast
And make sure he keeps on going,
Because you’re not sick, you’re well
Apart from hay-fever caused by orchard flowers,
Holstein, Orkney, Dawn, and Empire flowers
Scented blooms of mellifluous names of Apples
Drinking nectar and ambrosia from the bottomless well
Blessing the earth with their beauty, day after day
Whichever way the market for them is going.
And farmers hoping their crops will sell fast
Better than cereals to break the fast,
Perfect for pot-pourri, the dried flowers
Containers of apples, to the markets going
First in the list, A-is-for-Apples
Give me an Esopus Spitzenberg, any day.
And maybe a Lord Lambourne and a Rajka as well.
Lore says eating apples will keep you well,
Or if you’ll sick, they’ll cure you fast.
I’d attest to that theory, any day
Despite my allergy to apple flowers,
There are hundreds of varieties of Apples,
Which ones you choose, depends upon where you’re going.
Eating raw, pureeing, or stewing, was what I meant by “going”
By the way... you can bob for apples, at festivals, as well...
But, for your teeth’s sake, steer clear of toffee Apples
Because gone the doctor, come the dentist, and fast!
You can make a tisane from the flowers
To soothe you ate the end of a tiring day.
So you see, this fruit is useful, night and day,
It would be good to keep the tradition going,
Whether for the fruit or for the flowers,
Or for the shade the trees give, as well....
It’s good to get the word around, and fast
For mind, body and soul, the best fruits are Apples.

[Daniel Gereige]

Hi,

My name is Daniel and I live in Sydney, Australia.
I have written my first book called The Awakening based upon spiritual and inspirational poetry which depict life's difficulties and brings to light the most important aspect of life which is found through faith in God and Jesus Christ.

My book was published by AEG Publishing - Eloquent Books, New York. I am promoting my book world wide and I hope you able to read it and enjoy the deeply enlightened poetry.

Regards,

Daniel Gereige

Editor's Note: Please tell me you're kidding, Daniel. You didn't just pop onto my Bad Poetry Contest and try to pitch me your book of "deeply enlightened" poetry... did you? Come on... NOBODY is that stoo-pid. Right? This is a gag, right? RIGHT?

[Robbie Iobst]

Coffee, brown elixir, hot,
Hot.
Milk, white snow, cold,
Cold.
Water, clear relief, sometimes warm or cold depending on the amount of ice.
Sometimes warm or cold depending on the amount of ice.
Liquid, Liquid,
Pithy.
Pithy.

Thank you.

[Jennifer King]

A shot at enhancing bad poetry with bad physics:

Ode to a Spring

Verdant and green
An aroma of Preen
The measure of energy
Coiled up in a ring.
Posies abloom
Bunnies bounce soon
An acceleration of life,
Restoring force and ka-boom.

[tomeyko elliott]

mothers day

i fell out the bed
but i didnt bump my head

my children dont call
but im not off the wall

my husband is in jail
but o well

my flowers are dead
but i got fake ones instead

my heart is so lonely
but im not a foney

my mom cant stand me
but thats a good thing you see

mothers day is not the same
but who cares mothers day is lame

[Julie Scudder Dearyan]

Mystery Aroma (or is it mysterious after all?)

Pop. Pop. Furious pop.
Reading a book while listening,
unable to do two things at once
As evidenced by what happens next.
(Oooh! Cool foreshadowing here!)
Popcorn burns
Badly.
Unique stinky smell that stinks house up for days.
No mystery anymore.

Julie Scudder Dearyan

[Carrie Stuart Parks]

Ode to Chip on Birthday Fifty-One

Chip, ole boy, you’re fifty-one.
Reaching for the stars with your grubby thumb.
With your razor wit and clever tongue
Not to mention your attitude so gung-.
Ho, So I raise my Guiness and fill my lung
And give you the gift of song unsung
And buy you a salad of wonderful dung-
geness crab. And buy you a book by Carl Jung.
And carve you a poem so my phone you’ll rung.

-Carrie Stuart Parks

[Renee Gray-Wilburn]

Letters to Chip

Dear Chip,
How do I do it?
I just gotta know.
Help me get published
'til I'm rolling in dough.

Dear Chip,
What is a platform,
and do I really need one?
I missed your last thousand responses
that told how it's done.

Dear Chip,
Read my manuscript. Pretty please?
If you don't, I'll have to sneeze--
all over the next one I send to you.
Then you, too, will have swine flu!

[Tricia]

Horace, Benny, Eurkel, Kent.
Reading my novel was time well spent.

Mabel, Ethel, Fran, and Adolf, all are dead now they laughted their head off.

Sleazing my book, stores and shows, when I sells one nobody knows.

[Candace Pope]

Proposal? PROPOSAL??
Who gives a flip?
I’d rather write poetry
And send it to Chip!

‘Cause, shoot, it’s so hard
And I don’t have time
My novel ‘s so good
(you might say, Sublime),

An agent should jump
To get it in hand!
There’s simply no doubt
A contract I’ll land!

So don’t talk to ME
About queries and stuff!
My talent alone
Should be MORE than enough!

Because, after all,
God TOLD me to write,
And if you don’t like it,
Well, just take a bite!

My attitude’s Godly,
My books can’t be beat.
An agent should bow down
And wash both my feet!

I’m going to be famous!
My big day is near!
After all, I’ve been writing
For one whole year!

[K. Melissa Burton]

Long time reader. First time post-er. Not sure if this is the venue for this little diatribe, but it's how I feel!

Mint! Oh, mint!
Yuck! Snort! Gag!
You're a wart on my nose,
an herbaceous hag!

Others expound on your aromatic virtues,
but I'd rather put my nose to a pair of gym shoes.

Not fresh! Not clean!
You're hideous and vile.
One whiff and I taste my stomach bile.

Mint! Oh, mint!
You're my olfactory nightmare...

so I'll stay over here...

and you stay over there.

Melissa

[Jill Baughan]

I wrote the following haiku in grad school while I was trying to lose weight:

Terrified but glad
Trapped in a giant Twinkie
Eating my way out.

[Ryan]

I thought I once was a poet,
and all I needed was to show it,
But I prayed to God,
and he said I was odd,
and then he told me I'd blow it.

[Susan Meissner]

New shoes
You beguiled and wooed
Teased me with your promises of soleful fidelity
I fell for your charms, your cheeky chumminess
Your flirty fish bait
Your hypnotizing hocus pocus
Your withering, slithering, come hithering
Shiny buckles, masquerading manacles
Toes, boa constrictored
Frictured
Fractured
Blistered
Twistered
You knew all along
Evil twins
You knew all along
What you love more than me
Wicked Jezebels
You
Love
To
Pinch

Happy birthday, Chipotle
Sooz

[Ginger Garrett]

Ode To A Fallen Friend

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

[Ginger Garrett]

The Life You Save May Be Your Own

There are poems
And then there are bleeping poems
(not yours)
Phrasing I resent
Words I want to beat soundless
Strangle that friendly hiaku
Leave a couplet a bloody stump

Then I think,
Sigh.
My mother will do better next time.

Happy Birthday Chip! You are truly an amazing agent and it's wonderful to see your agency kicking literary booty. GG

[Ben]

~I Owed You an Odd Ode~

See a note
'Bout a boat
That can float
In a moat.
'Twil be smote
No longer float
If a goat
Punctures it.

[Angie Farnworth]

Horro-scope

Monkey, Rat
Capricorn
Dad’s on ice
All forlorn
Skip, hop, jump
Madame Lola
Sees this place
Horse in red
Wins big race
Skip, hop, jump
Pick up the phone
Don’t delay
Lucky number’s
On it’s way
Skip, hop, jump

[to see more, hit that little arrow down there \/ ]

[Megan]

Ha! I was at Chatsworth House yesterday and I saw a BAD piece of pottery. I mean ... it was okay, with a nice flower design, except the handle to the lid was the shape of a leak and a piece of cauliflower. I think I saw a bad painting too but I can't remember ... :o I don't think I could bring a lava lamp in my suitcase but I want to win it for sticky ... erm my little sister.

Erm ... this wasn't a poem.
I shall return with my super amazing BAD poem later.

[Kit]

Twitter, twatter
Can't wait to tell
About my trip to the store
And that foot cream for sale

Lunch with my dad
Had some blackened sea bass
Blew my nose many times
Took a Tums for my gas

After that
I went to the school
in my Michael Khors blouse
I looked very cool

My daughter made As
Ah, jolly good show
What's next on my list?
Aren't you dying to know?

'Not really' you say
That's how I feel too
I don't get the point
And neither do you

Twitter, Twatter
Just shouldn't share
Such mundane things
For which no one cares

[Jim Rubart]

The night, the night, the night,

It beckons to me,

Entreating me on to become what I am not,

To reach further, beyond what I’ve been,

I can be rebuilt, made better than I was before,

Better, stronger, faster,

So I plunge on into the inky blackness of the dark, dark, dark, dark, night,

Knowing your love, glove, dove, and wuv will shove me into bliss from above.

Happy B-day, Chip!

[Jodi Whisenhunt]

I must post a disclaimer before I enter this: I was 19 when I wrote it (I'm 37 now) & I wanted to be a country songwriter! As you read, hum a country tune in your head.

"There's a Tear in my Eye"

There's a tear in my eye
That I just can't seem to cry
And a lump in my throat that won't go down

Oh I've tried and I've tried
To get you off of my mind
But it seems you just keep hangin' on for life

Chorus:
Oh when I left I said, "Please don't shed a tear
Now that you've got her, You've got nothing to fear"
With no frets and no regrets I'm out of here
So when she leaves you don't come crawling back to me

Well there once was a time
When I would say, "Hey, he's mine"
But it's been so long now it's hard to recall

All your cheatin' and your sneakin'
Took the love out of me
Now I've gotta get the Heck outa here

*Um, this in no way represents the level of writing I currently produce ;)

[Angie Breidenbach]

Oh dark cloud
Go away
Little Angie
wants to play
Sun, Sun, Sun
please come back
or I'll have
a heart attack
sigh, sigh, sigh
For Pete's sake,
I'm too COLD
in this state.
Spring, spring, spring
Just another
month wait-ing
for the sun
s-i-g-h.

Bad enough?
Angie in Montana

[K. L. Kraemer]

Odeiousity to Obama

If I could fly, my arms and legs would be light as an ethereal cob web,
Complete with red wheels and imaginary spider button worthy of the tide's ebb
And technologically as sound as your wife named Michelle, not Deb.
I swoon to be at your side, guarding you night and day without sleep.
Protecting you from extremists, warning them that bags are not to wave but to steep.
If the teleprompter dares again to make you sound foolish and not know what you are saying,
I'd threaten with punishment, perhaps a baby. And higher taxes he'd be paying!
Obama! With Unions and ACORN, of thee we sing
Against those who with their religion and guns do cling.

How is it possible that a country like America, full of racists with white skin,
Would ever vote for a man without white skin?
Thomas, Star Parker, Harry R. Jackson, William Owens, Larry Elder, Alveda King, Steele, Sowell, Watts, Rice, Eric M. Wallace, --darlings of the right
May have skin like yours but they are really white, pale as black licorice.

You are a star, a prince among gents.
Saudi kings watch you bow and take no offense.
Never would you waterboard, not even to help our defense.
You are the Babe Ruth of presidents.
You are as timeless as a lava lamp or food bought without a stamp.
See how reporters ask you questions of fluff?
Even they, of you cannot get enough--You are the cream in their writer's puff.

You are the fun in leroy brown's pocket--the electrocution of a wet socket,
that energizes you in basketball to run run run, and that's no pun.
You are FDR, Lincoln, and Michael Jordan rolled into one.
You are like pornography cornered into a refrigerator,
A guilty pleasure that one savors in secrecy and in public,
Gaining weight by the mere thought of your ability to prounounce words..
What a change, the change our appetites had been craving all this time.

Let the immigrants shout your praises in a foreign langauge; it's the thought that counts.
Let us watch and see how high that basketball can bounce.
Let the bald no longer cry because they have no hair, and
Let terrorists and tax cheats become your battery buddies with energy to spare.

But I cannot fly. I can only watch you on TV without dread.
Hurry up and fix America and its problems rained down upon my head.

K.L.Kraemer

[David Todd]

A cinquain for you, Chip.

Confused

Last year
I watched, and thought
you hated poetry.
But now it seems you really hate
poets.

[Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech]

Greetings and many salutes, Chip sir.

I once more have returned (again) to put best limb forward in esteemed poetry contest. Below is selection from latest epic poem titled "Hero Hajid and the Golden Harp of Gimladi", which is available as book or CD musical recording from website www.HajidKirduzMesechnohech.com (only $19.99, or 1 goat, plus tax). Scene is set in lair of great serpent Bildar, which Hajid encounters on way to find great golden harp of Gimladi.

Then did Hero Hajid tremble
(this is now poem part, not introductory chitchat)
like thorny bush in sandstorm wind.
"O Bildar," he said. "Do not eat
or strangle me, or strike with sharp
fangs of vile and venomsome doom."

The foul serpent laughed. "Ha ha ha!"
said he. "Why should I spare Hajid?"

Then did Hajid lace up sneakers,
take swig of fermented goatsmilk,
and straighten best red-tasseled hat.
He took wooden harp from pack and
began to sing song of salt and
barbed cockroach of Aldu-Haziz.

Soon Bildar was weeping like small
castrated goatling. "Please stay and
sing songs all my days," he outcried.

"Nay," spake Hajid. "But you can buy
book or CD from my website."
Then handed business card to snake.

All thanks, Mr. Chip for advice on website. Have been working last year on platform, but recently ran out of wood scraps.

Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech
www.HajidKirduzMesechnohech.com

[Sidney/SydrycalWorks]

NAKED CUCUMBER
Softly, gently, she washes and wipes me.
For the first time I am clean, comely.
Her hands are sure.
Unlike all the rough, dirty, hurried
hands before.
Pleasingly, cautiously, she removes my
coat of green and comforts me so.
I lie-in my new home, her serving; proper.
In the night I awake to the sourly smell
of vinegar, acetic fermentation all around me.
My feelings are diced, the knife, her worn
and brine stained pickling tool; surely, quickly, blade me to pieces.
Thoughts of sun-filled days, of cool
California nights ooze from my naked drown.
Here with her.
Far from my native California roots.
Here, in her garden. Her New York pardon.
I came. I so trusted. I lost.
My cucumis.
My life.

[Fred Gippler]

Hey Hajid...check this out, may be helpful:

http://www.amazon.com/English-Grammar-Dummies-Geraldine-Woods/dp/0764553224/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1241556249&sr=8-1

[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.

[Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech]

Fred, "may be helpful" back to yourself:

http://www.dummies.com/how-to/content/writing-poetry.html

Hajid

[Anita Higman]

Straining to Pass a Poem

I’m straining to find my poem-writing zone,
which is much like passing a kidney stone…
sweating out the words,
stinking them up with grime,
anything to excrete a rhyme!

Crude, you say?
Please change the metaphor?
So you can dream of dainty sonnets
like a petit four?
Nay, I say.
To win I must make them eat liverwurst,
to keep that sow’s ear
from becoming a silk purst.
Yes, any literaryistic, comestibilic ploy
to come in first.

Anita Higman

[Anita Higman]

Straining to Pass a Poem

I’m straining to find my poem-writing zone,
which is much like passing a kidney stone…
sweating out the words,
stinking them up with grime,
anything to excrete a rhyme!

Crude, you say? Please change the metaphor?
So you can dream of dainty sonnets
like a petit four?
Nay, I say.
To win I must make them eat liverwurst,
to keep that sow’s ear
from becoming a silk purst.
Yes, any literaryistic,
comestibilic ploy to come in first.

Anita Higman

[John Robinson]

To Megan Sue, the girl I had such a crush on in eighth grade until she did something so crass and unladylike that I turned away, my cheeks ablaze with loss and unspoken shame.

Here I sit, all broken-hearted,
Tried to rhyme but only started
Down a road that seemed to me
To lead to sweet tranquility
Of a sort to make men wise
While gazing on those cherry pies
You baked for me, but then you farted.
Now I sit, all broken-hearted.

[Walt Mussell]

Hope this is up to the quality I see above. It's definitely a tough competition.

It was Friday on the first of May,
When I heard my dear wife say,
“The fridge in the garage is spouting goo.”
I went outside myself to see.
Armed with the knowledge of two degrees.
“It’s broke,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”

So we searched the Net and called a shop.
“We’ll send someone over in a pop.”
And the repairman soon showed up in his van.
He checked the fridge with great glee.
“Two things are broken, maybe three.”
And shoved a $400 estimate in my hand

“To find out for sure I’ll take it apart.
That’s also a diagnostic fee to start.”
By now I felt as if I would choke.
“Oh and one more thing,” the repairman said,
“One more week, your compressor ‘ll be dead.
That’s another $500 on my quote.”

I stared long at the piece of my paper
Convinced that I would have the vapors.
I found my wife and gave her the news.
“For that much, we’ll buy it new.”
And she hit the shops to check out a few.
Hope ya’ll enjoyed the “Broke Fridge Blues.”

[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.

[Kristin]

Ode to Adderall

Imagination soars to new heights
My little blue friend helps win the fight
Of daily butt in chair
Deadlines and edits
Hopes that the end will soon be there.

[Rob Sargeant]

Swine Flu Love

I don't care about the Swine Flu.
I'll risk getting it because love you.

I'm leaving on the next plane to Mexico.
Friends say I'm crazy, but I have to go.

You might not recognize me in my mask.
I'll remove it if you ask.

I'll be okay if I wash my hands.
I'm not letting Swine Flu ruin our plans.

[Rob Sargeant]

Swine Flu Love

I don't care about the Swine Flu.
I'll risk getting it because love you.

I'm leaving on the next plane to Mexico.
Friends say I'm crazy, but I have to go.

You might not recognize me in my mask.
I'll remove it if you ask.

I'll be okay if I wash my hands.
I'm not letting Swine Flu ruin our plans.

[Cathy West]

Happy Birthday, Chip.
Here's a little ditty I like to call The Tired Agent.

Sitting on a pile of dung
I hang my head, my hands I wrung
Tell me the point
Just get to the point!!
Omit this, delete that
This really is a load of crap
My eyes have burnt to black holes
My brain shriveled to the size of a pea
Why oh why oh why
For the love of all things pure and holy
Why
Did you send this to me?
I don't understand your query
Quite frankly you makin' me weary
Your sentence run-ons, backstory foray
When I get to the end I want to shout
Hooray.
And I do.
Loudly.
Dear writer, as you like to think you are
I shall tell you kindly from afar
You suck. You're awful, terrible.
And you stink too.
Go back to your day job
You don't have a prayer
You'll never make it out there
And I really don't care.

THE END.

[Kay Day]

The most magical thing I ere did see
sat upon grandma's console TV
Mesmerized I'd watch with stars in my eyes
as the lava collided and shattered
and sighed
A symbol of life illumined before me
of love, and peace,
friendship and harmony
as globules of stuff to each other would cling
and soar through the universe upon fiery wing
Then conflict would come and the globs
they would part, each seeking it's own
with despondent heart.
But peace would call forth
and each gooey clump
would reach for another
and another and anon
until love reigned in lava land
and still I looked on
longing with all that was in my wee heart
to one day own such a lavish piece of art.

[Tina Pinson]

Oh, Chip, Chip, Chippy... Oh Poo
my emotions are frizzled
I'm battered and blue
rapping my head on the desk as I try with all my heart to compose a sonnet for you.

Oh, Chip, Chip, Chipster... Oh Wah
I'm lugubrious, despondant, distracted and sad (Just a tad, but not too bad)
You see Chippy lad, I just lost the words
I was certain I had

Oh, Chip, Chip, Chipman... Oh Dang
How does one understand this poetry thang?
Are there snippets bout proses, or fragments of haikus? What is the rhyme for
the lyrical quatraing?
Rumination on said verbage makes my head xplode with a bang.

But Chip, Chipster, Chipperoo... Oh Me
You must admit my composition is more than mere blank verse.
It's rhythmical in expression, yet concise and terse.
Filled with all the things bout poetry and such, you love to hate the worst

[Tiffany Colter]

Ha-ha!! I posted my bad poem on the wrong posting!! So I win the "Bad Comment Contest!!" I'll copy and paste it to this blog posting and you can delete it from the other one!! That is hysterical.

Tiff

[lisa]

The world
A boulder
On my shoulder -
A heap of
Crying bleeding
Kittens.
And crying
Clowns
In a long sad line
To their tiny car.
Like my heart,
They mummer,
"And you too will never understand my genius."
Woe,
Upon
Woe,
Upon wretched woe

[to see more, hit that little arrow down there \/ ]

[Tiffany Colter]

Okay, Chip. I have dug deep to the wells of inner joy and turmoil to produce two Haikus in Celebration of your 51 years of life. The first is of joy, the second sadness. Like all great bad poetry the second must be read out loud to be fully understood.

Rooster crows at dog
looks for a place to peck seeds
Cat looks on and laughs.

Water, drips from my
knows none of the boundaries like
Eye do in my life.

Enjoy! Tiff Colter

[chip (posting for a friend)]

Today, my birthday,
Alone,
Nobody to fight me for the blue flower on my cake,
the cake I bought myself
out of the measly money I make as a writer.
Candles, too many,
tears, too,
mixed with blue frosting,
huffing, puffing,
a bit of laughter when I'm
unable to blow out the trick candles.
Oh, to see your face again
through the candle flames,
laughing with me,
using forks as swords,
jabbing for the blue flower
till the challenge in your eyes scares me.
Morning comes quickly.
The bathroom mirror reflects
another year without you,
my purple lips,
a combination of blue food coloring and cheap red wine,
turned downward in a frown,
a frown I can't erase.
I find the remnants of the cake on the table,
a spider has already begun it's dirty work,
weaving a complicated web,
shades of Miss Haversham.
Nancy Toback

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Chip! Today's my birthday, for real. I hope my poem isn't prophetic. - Nancy Toback

[chip responds (for a friend)]

OK, Chip. Last year, I took home the "Worst Image Award" (which was a huge honor, by the way). So I'm giving it another go. This is something every writer can relate to. :-)


Oh, the Blockage

Tick tock...
Tick tock...
Writer's block,
Writer's block.

Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm.

I think I may go darn a sock,
kick a rock,
take out stock,
give my neighbor's door a knock.

Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap.

Anything to pass the time
while trying to unlock my mind
(yes, I know that didn't rhyme).

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

The crative wheels just aren't turning
so the pages aren't churning.
Oh, how my frustration is burning..

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Maybe I'll give up today
and use this time to sit and pray
that tomorrow I will find
the key to unlock my mind.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

Lynda Schab

[Ned]

The Ballad of Ned the Hamster

I am just a hamster
running in a wheel.
I spin my wheel faster all the time.
But the spaceship I am powering
with my little hamster wheel
never seems to reach warp 8 or 9.

The aliens, they took me
from a pet store in Des Moines.
They feed me pellets hourly as I run.
But when I go to sleep at night
in my tight cocoon,
I dream of breaking free on Alpha-1.

(Chorus)
Oh Alpha-1, Oh Alpha-1!
Where a hamster can roam free under the sun.
Oh Alpha-1, Oh Alpha-1!
I hope I live to see you, Alpha-1.

I tried to escape
when we landed on the Moon.
I tried again on Io, just for fun.
But barren, airless wastelands
are no place for hamsterkind.
I'm holding out for you, Alpha-1.

(Chorus)

The aliens have NASA wrapped
around their seventh toe.
SETI is no better, so I hear.
So if you get this message
back on earth someday,
tell my story, shout it far and near.

[Pam Halter]

Okay, Chip - nine straight days of rain here in South Jersey have mildewed my brain. I can't be held accountable for this lousy piece of poetry or the contents therein.

Ode to a Lava Lamp

Swirling, oozing blobs
In water or some kind of liquid
I watch them, mezmerized
Like watching the toilet flush
Only slower
Glowing green or red or blue
Sometimes even clear
What are you trying to tell me?
Mysteries of the universe
Dwell within the ionic depths
And can be yours
For only $49.99 at Spencer's

Happy Birthday!
pam

[serena miller]

PEOPLE

Hairdresser is wannabe writer
Recounts mind-numbing plots
while snipping hair
Cousin thinks life story would make good movie
Munches cookies. Demands I write her memoir
Immediately
Sister says quit fiction/write how-to book
Get on Oprah
Make money
Man at church hears
I write romance
Looks at me
Bursts out laughing
Pitching to editor face-to-face
Can’t stop
Talking
Editor’s eyes glaze over
Go to hotel room
Pound head against wall
Throw up
Do all over again next day
Hairdresser decides to write EROTICA!
Recounts embarrassing plots
While snipping hair
Sister says forget fiction/write how-to books
Get on Oprah
Make money
Aunt says write her memoirs
Do something useful
For a change

HAIRDRESSER SIGNS MULTIPLE CONTRACTS/QUITS JOB

AAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Looking for new hairdresser….

[Sandi]

The Blues

The other day
I went to the store
I ate some ice-cream
then I ate some more
I scarfed a taco
then some apple pies
I kept on eating
'till it stretched my thighs

I've got the blues
The blues

I burped and belched
all the way home
I made it to the yard
before I let it roam
Colored pieces and chunks
came through the nose
It filled the flowerbed
and sprayed the hose

I've got the blues
The blues
The blues

Compliments of the ladies at Inspiration for Writers. No. We don't do poetry.

[Amanda]

BUZZed

Bang! You're dead.
POW! You're captive.
Zap! You're freshly steamed.

Tweet! Your status.
Pop! Your father.
Clash! Your wardrobe screamed...

*Beep!* You didn't!
Gasp! You did!

Splash! I'm sober and clean!

Chip, though I'd posted this earlier but then didn't see it. Enjoy! (and please delete if it's already been posted)

[Alisha Michael]

You're fifty-one years old today
And feeling so much older
If fifty was a milestone
Then fifty-one's a boulder

Webster says a boulder is a
"big rock worn by water and weather"
Chip, I think you'd better consider
Trading the kilt for a mini in leather

I know you said you didn't want
a stupid, rhyming birthday ode
But this one's really not that stupid
And now it doesn't rhyme anymore

[Demian Farnworth]

The Don Juan of Motor City

Leopard skin eyes stalk my prey.
I do this all day.
Until night falls
and my insatiable hunger calls.

I'm spicy like taco meat.
When I'm in a room I create some heat.
Like an oven.
Or a dozen
Lava lamps bubbling in ecstasy.

I am Don Juan of Motor City.
Don Juan, the hungry kitty.

**Lunging for the toilet now...;-)**

[Mike]

Chip: You know that I'm far too bad a writer to ever be considered good at being bad, but I think a criterion for the contest should be whether any of these sound like lyrics to an "America" song. Several do, and should be rewarded as such.

[Darcie]

Here goes. I hope Sandra doesn't regret representing me. :)

Ahem. (Gasp.) (Wheeze.) (Loogie).

Echoing.
Echoing sounds come in my head like flies to a carcass.
As I stare over the bubbling torrent of rain-induced river water.
She/he/it comes to me. Hovering.
Hoovering.
Like a vacuum.
My legs rise beneath me. "Behold!"
I hold.
An idea.
So vast.
So fast.
"Wrong! So wrong!" I cry.
Gesticulating toward the burning sun.
Two roads diverge in a yellow wood.
Walking.
Tripping in the undergrowth.

Free the monkeys! Free the monkeys!

It was all about a dude in the woods who forgot his GPS.
I die.
From poetry poisoning.

[Amy]

There's a polar bear on my head,
A penguin in my heart,
But what to do, oh what to do
About the iceberg in my soul?

Happy Birthday!

[violet]

The occasion definitely calls for a clerihew:

Chip MacGregor
is now using Twitter
to advertise this infamous, bad-poetry biz
in celebration of how terribly old he is.

***********

"Someone who writes clerihews is called a clerihewer, an appropriate term for a person who hacks such lines out of the living language." - Michael Quinion

[MEC]

sigh ... must i win again? i'm ashamed to say it, but my bad poetry is much better bad poetry ... :p

and without further ado:

II.
by mec

Did I wake, or did I dream?
An out of body experience,
it would seem,
occurred for me last night.

The muses or the fairies,
call them what you will,
did orchestrate such seemingly strange sights as did cause terror and perhaps a little humor as I lay sleeping (lay dying? lay dreaming or waking?)
It all occurred for me last night.

I was me, so was she,
that dead body in the car.
I could not understand
why they left her alone
so long they forgot her
and she died right there
and only a few rings on her toes
to identify who she was.
I liked the heart one best.

And then there was a wedding,
as if it weren't enough,
to signify that love conquers all,
even death, as it would seem,
orchestrated by the evil demons
who prey upon your mind
while you're sleeping,
or waking up early in the morning
and you can't tell the difference
because you're still feeling foggy
and groggy,
and are those froggies I hear
outside my window?
How pleasant to hear them singing,
still, in spite of everything.
In spite of everything.

[Richard Mabry]

With apologies to Joyce Kilmer:

I thought that I would never see
A verse as lousy as the ones I've seen here, and I’m glad they’re on a computer, because printing them would be a waste of a tree.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But some of these things are just stupid, and others are silly, and I don’t understand the rest, so I think I’m going to go and get a good book and sit under a tree.

[Windica]

I am Kindness.
I am a Prophecy.
I am Now and I am the Future.
Will you see me while I am here?
Will I be seen at all?
Do your eyes open or close for me?
Will you welcome or destroy me?
Can I live or shall I die from lack of hope?
Can my pain bring you life?
Can my past bring you future?
I see now, I know now, I am now.
I live in a shell-but peek out in hope.
You have hope, therefore I have hope.
A cobblestone pathway – where shall it lead me?
What is the hue of hope?
I'd like to think it a soft yellow – after my father.
You do know him.
He brings all good things.
He is known as The Sun.
He is known as God.
He is bright and bold.
He is softened by her.
She is gentle and graceful.
She is loving.
She is saddened, for me.
She is my mother.
She is my moon.
They give me to you.
They send the gift of Kindness to you.
Will you sacrifice or embrace their gift?
Will you listen to the words I speak, or toss them away?
Have they sacrificed their child for the greater good, or for nothing?
Will she fulfill her destiny, the prophecy?
They feel she can, and will. She isn't sure.
Her hope dwindles, but the soft light still shines on her.
Alas, they say – all good things must come to an end.
She asks, "Why?"

--------

I liked Tricia's best!
Happy birthday! Hope it's a memorable and excellent day :)

[Trish Perry]

How long, cry I. How came it to this?
Toil, sweat, tears.
Epic sweat.
I would give my left brain for that bag of Cheetos.
Does the suffering know no end? No. It knows not an end. I bend.
I reach, bend again. Yea, verily, again. I walk ad nauseum, yet
I go nowhere. I am still
Here. In my rec room of death.
I am a detainee, trapped in a squishy middle-aged prison of my own wretched making.

Yet here. Oh, yea, here. Now, on the page.
My verse busteth free as water too-long-held
While in line at the post office.
I omit a period here out of sheer rebellion
Some lines long like the ninth one down, and some
Short.
No rhyme.
Nothing rhymes with visceral belly fat.

[Jimmy Jacobson]

I hate the undead
The rotting flesh on their heads
Dirty, damn undead

[Dana Mentink]

Well golly! How could I compete with these works of sheer madness or is it genius? I'll settle for wishing you a happy birthday, Chip. My husband turns 50 this month so you to can commisterate. Now back to your regularly scheduled bad poetry.

Dana

[Sidney]

Tell Me Where To Go

Yes is not no and yes I know that no
is not so if yes I go but would you
please take this maybe if it won't make
you crazy or be lazy and tell me where to go.

[Paula Brown]

I pant
I moan
I cry
I groan.

No more cake.
Bad, bad snake.

You ate
You stuffed
You chewed
Enough.

Where's my piece
Selfish beast?

Plate licked?
Got sick?
Good.
Good.

Happy me
Plumpy you.

[Sidney/SydrycalWorks]

.COM COLOSTOMY
How many times have I sat and wandered
that which I might be doing had I not
been joined at the rear of my thinking.
Joined by the notion that the substance
of my future must be tied to the suttee
of my wish to look forward and my
reluctance to never be seen as looking
back.
I need to be nourished and so I put a
dot after me a com after it. I become
an address for someone to dump their
writing waste that I will eventually
have to feed upon to get from my front
porch where I begin and my back step
where I sometimes end.
I need a new end to my new begin and
I trust the operation will be quick and
painless that at some point I may return
to this replenish this wander, this
life.
I need to operate with more than just
the time of this world.
The exurb of the state of my own time,
my own being. Yes, I will feed upon that.
My dot com, my SydrycalWorks.Com

[Sidney/SydrycalWorks]

POETASTER

Ending each piece, before signing his work;
Writer.
With solemn chagrin, holding his pen tighter.
Amainly, he penciled the term of their laughter.
Solemnly he cried.
Poetaster.
Disparaging epithets he endured in his forge.
Your poetry is po-faced, meaningless, they gorged.
Poetic aesthetics, you have no appreciation
of.
Your poiesis of poetry, lack aspect;
love.
He continued to write his arrayance of words.
His aim in verse, never meant for the
herd.
The order he sought, he sentamentalized.
One audience, one pair of sovereign eyes.
At the end of each passage.
To the Great Poet he would cry.
To the Eternal Substratum. That is all I am
after.
To his death they would call him the great Poetaster

[Sidney/SydrycalWorks]

A Curious Ride To Church

Just a ways to a church not far from a house. Miles it would seem to a boy and
his doubt. Where is God on a sunday school
scorn?
Is he in the church basement a drear, damp,
worse, a filling of chatter, a condemnation
blame, co-erce?
Is he in a sunday school teacher's warning
"child look under your bed the devil is
upon you, surely he's dancing in your head"?
Is he sitting by a wooded pond where peace
and quiet forgive?
Is he watching from the water, where the
fowl and fish live?
Is he where a soul may find he is closer to
the spirit?
Is he where a man says "come, I'll show
you when and where to feel it"?

One place he is not, he is not at the house.
Of this you may be eternally sure.
For there's way too much hell for a seeker to say "I'll stick around, I'll just try to endure it."

[Sina'i Enantia]

I forget, can we submit more than one?

Puppies.
Rainbows.
Golden poop.

Happy birthday, Chip! (Not part of my wonderful, transcendent poem. Unless, of course it makes it worse.)

[Sidney/SydrycalWorks]

WORDSWORTH

What of a word absent unheard from the truths of minds and pens tis silence
dear friend the foster of no end dreams
lost deturred were it not for the hiss
of a brainwaved kiss to the soul of
visions that dare none could suppose
one place beauty grows nor fathom ideas
for share then godspeed thy phrases
flee onward and free to there-on a
listeners mend what outward may grow
the hope one may know from language
whence found within.

[Shirley Smothers]

A Child's Smile

A child's smile
is so sweet.
From their head
to their feet.

A child's smile
has appeal.
Your heart it
will fill.

A child's smile
is so fresh.
Because a
Child's smile
is a YES!

Shirley Smothers