The 2010 Bad Poetry Contest

Bad poetry lives!

That's right, the time has come once again to put away childish things and break out with verbal arm farts. Stop the wordsmithing madness and start constipating on wrong rhythms and awful word choice. The 2010 Bad Poetry Contest is here. 

For those not in the know, we deal with books and publishing 51 weeks out of the year, answering questions and offering insights to writers and those interested in the world of publishing. But one week out of the year (my birthday week), we set aside the topic of publishing in order to share something much deeper... much more meaningful... and very stupid. In the old British tradition of offering something falsely deep yet with a veneer of thoughtfulness, we hold a Bad Poetry Contest. Each year the readers send in truly horrible poetry, then a team of experts (me...and sometimes Mike, if he's sober and I can convince him to help) offers a thorough evaluation of each piece ("That sucks... but this sucks worse."). Eventually we come up with a winner, who is presented with a truly fabulous Grand Prize. One year it was a 45 record of Neil Diamond singing "I Am, I Said" (which contains these deep thoughts: "I am, i said, to no one there, and no one heard at all not even the chair." Wow. Sing to me, Neil.) Another year it was a very special book that had been sent to me in hopes of finding representation: Does God Speak Through Cats?  You see the theme here? We go for a mood of deepfulness and reflectivosity. And YOU need to participate. 

This year's Grand Prize? A copy of what has been called "the worst self-published book ever." How to Good-bye Depression is the product of that great writing mind Hiroyuki Nishigaki, who added to its fame by creating this winning subtitle: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Every Day. Malarky? or Effective Way? (No, I'm not making this up. That's the subtitle. Complete with punctuation errors.) Chapters of the book include Erase your bad stickiness and multiply various good feeling, Save sex energy and rotate vortex, and my favorite chapter, Stare, shoot out immaterial fiber, uceed in concentrating, behave with abandon-largess-humor, and beckon the spirit. (I checked to make sure I had that one exactly as published -- right down to the word "uceed.") Let me just point out that I'm not only a huge fan of this book, I've long been in favor of rotating your vortex. I'm not as big on shooting out immaterial fiber, unless you're out-of-doors and wearing the proper headgear. Anyway, this book can be ALL YOURS if you win the 2010 Bad Poetry Contest. So don't delay, brethren and sisteren. 

Some rules:

1. Don't send me a birthday poem, unless you want me to slug you. Yeah, this is my way of celebrating. But "Happy Birthday oh Chip o' mine, Hope this finds you well and fine" gets tired in a hurry. 

2. Um... I don't know if there ARE any other rules. I mean, you create a crappy poem and post it in the "comments" section of this blog. How hard can that be? Any kind of poem is fine. Free verse, rhyming couplets, limericks -- the key is that it needs to be BAD. (And by "bad" we don't just mean "sort of stoopid." We mean "falsely deep," "annoyingly awful," and "please-shoot-me-before-I-write-some-more treacle.") We're looking for bad imagery. Incorrect word choice. Irresponsible concepts. Awful metaphors. Smarmy tripe. We don't just want dumb cutesyness -- we want mind-numbingly BAD poetry! 

So put on your stinking cap, and think up something rotten. It's a tough job, but SOMEbody's got to create bad poetry. You have been chosen. Feed your gift. The contest starts... NOW.

Brother Chip MacGregor

MacGregor Literary and Poetry Society

Comments

[AimeeLS]

OUr love is like a rose
A really really big rose
Bigger than any rose anyone else has ever compared their love to before.
Seriously huge.
A rose as big as a a planet.
No the sun.
Our love is a rose as big as a planet and as bright as the sun.
So bright it would burn your eyeballs
Out of your head.
You’d walk around with these gaping holes where your eyeballs should be
If you looked at our love.
And this huge rose,
Bigger than a planet
And as bright as the sun
Doesn’t have any thorns.
Well, okay it does but the thorns don’t have points.
They’re just nubs.
Nubs that wouldn’t hurt a ginormous baby
If a baby was big enough to pick the planet-sized, sun-rose.
The only way the nubs would ever hurt anyone
Is if you stuffed them into the gaping eye-holes
Left behind when someone looked at the brightness of our love.
Cause it they would get infected with the nubs in there.
But even then they could just look at
The brightness of our love again
And the brightness would burn so bright
It would cauterize the nub-infection
And burn the nubs out too.
So your gaping eye-holes would heal.
They would be healed by the burning brightness of our
Massive, planet-sized, eye-searing, wound-cauterizing, love-rose
Even though your mother thinks I don’t deserve you.

(c) 2010 Aimee L. Salter

[michael snyder]

Aimee, that was horribly delicious! An amazingly awful job. And somehow I do mean that as a not-quite-planet-sized compliment!

[Chazley]

May is the common man's apocalypse
with rain that falls like many tiny
inside parts of fish. And tongue-heavy,
we wait for drops of ocean delight,
naked in the heaven of your truthiness.

[sally apokedak]

I'm laughing so hard I can't stand it.

I was still laughing over the anus constriction book when I scrolled down and noticed that Aimee is so proud of her poem that she has actually put a copyright notice on it. Just in case someone might be thinking of stealing it, I guess.

[Angiebee]

Apologies if I missed it...but what is the contest deadline? One week from today?

(That was not my poem entry, by the way.)

[Nicole O'Dell]

YAY! The madness has begun!

[Nancy B.]

I stand on the brink, tears dascading down cheeks, slpashing on my pink taffita dress. My pink mum is losing its peddles, equisite example of my tears. The prom is over.

[Mesmerix]

Ode to Black:

Woe be-est me!
Oh doth thou see?
I can talk like Shakespeare
Putting words here
And there.

But woe, WOE!
Black be the world,
black, black,
Like darkness,
Oh endless night!

Won't you break?
Daybreak?
Too hard to go on,
So I write in poem,
and song.

Rain pours,
Like cats and dogs
on my world,
dark, black, night world.

I seeth in sorrow,
like mud stuck on my boots
from the rain
that won't come off,
even in the sink.
Doth thou hear my woe?

Pain blackens all,
in crystal clear visions,
I know...
for certain...

I love only my eyeliner.

[Stephanie Reed]

Must the winner accept the book/prize? Or may the winner magnanimously roll Nishigaki over to next year's winner?

Anonymous

[Sharon A Lavy]

I wood par tis a pate, I reely wood. But no like the priZ.

[chip responds]

Aimee, that is a truly bad poem. Thanks for starting us off on the wrong foot.

The contest runs for one week. Then it's back to bidness. Don't wait until the last minute -- start constipating now!

[Rhonda Maller]

More thoughtfully bad prose - or is that badfully thoughtful?

Nowhere Winds the Road

I took a winding road
To nowhere;
It wove in and out, in curves
Like the thoughts of my soul!
It traveled in the dark woods
With a heavy blackness;
It ran through the green meadow
Beneath a golden sun(and sometimes red);
It dipped it’s edges . . .
Into the ocean’s froth,
And ploughed through(with sweaty diligence)
The sandy dunes.
It climbed rugged mountains
With pinnacles of joy;
Then meandered through
The fragrant, rain-drenched valley.
It came to it’s mindless end --
Nowhere

Rhonda Maller

[Susan Huetteman]

If fame is everywhere,
then obscurity isn't

[Ane Mulligan]

The writing life's the one I chose
Not knowing about rejection.
It's acidic as that lemon I squoze,
And to that, I raise objection.

Refuse to pander to rules, I say!
Submit my opus for critique.
When they tell me, "Do it this way!"
Believe me, my ire they pique.

[Ron Benson]

Trying for a double. A lava lamp is not enough.

My Loin’s Burn
(The Intrinsic Value of The Possessive Apostrophe and Other Critical Punctuation)

Late in the cooling evening,
Under the canopy of stars,
I stare and ponder
My loin’s burn.

There in the black long armory,
Heat like a hot, hot, heater.
Smoking still, I spy it:
My loin’s burn.

She asked for something beautiful,
A wonder in a marinade.
I sniff the painful memory;
My loin’s burn.

The fire – inconsistency.
Parts too cool, parts hot as . . .
Hell could not contain
My loin’s burn.

Taste the lovely wiggly
Rescued from obscurity.
Knife it, cut it, savor now:
My loin’s burn.

[www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=609862010]

Words are so right,
unless they are wrong.
To choose incorrectly?
Like wearing only a thong.

You hope no one will notice
as you perfect your craft.
But soon realize you are
feeling a draft.

Exposed by your words
as the world points and laughs.
You walk backwards until you can
put on your pants.

[Kristen Bissontz]

An Ode to Goodbye Depression (and how to relieve constipation at the same time...)*

There once was a writer so heinous
She spoke of constricting her anus
I recommend fiber
To remove what’s inside her
A method that is much more painless

*Limericks ROCK! Happy Birthday Chip!

[Angiebee]

LABOR OF LOVE
by Angie Brennan

I am in labor.
Inside me grows a little life.
Kicking. Squirming. Yearning to enter the world.

My novel.

I cry out....when will this trial be done?
My agent--my midwife--tells me the time is not yet come.
No!
But I must breathe slowly. Concentrate. Edit.

My writers' group--my epidural--helps to ease the pain.
But only for a moment.
The contractions come quickly.
'Tis an apostrophe of agony!

I grip my laptop and grit my teeth.
O, come forth, new life!
Now I must push.
Push!
Push print...

Suddenly, I relax.
In my arms I hold a part of me.

It is the fourth revision. It is beautiful.

[Andrea Heinecke]

i love you i hate you (breakup)

You left me twitching in the rain
Like a cucumber without its skin
Falling
Like a penguin towards its prey

There’s guile in your eyes, your voice
The allure of a siren
Crying for (my) blood
[my death]

You told me you loved me
But then you walked away
Like a praying mantis after the act
Who eats her mate

ET TU, BRUTE?

You battered my heart
As Donne once said
But you’re not God
You’re lame

[Stephanie Reed]

To Market

I.
To market, to market,
To buy a fat
Plat-
Form.
Phone again, phone again
Ring-etty-ring.

II.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled email addy’s
Yearning to breed free
-ly.
Gimme. Gimmie (?) Gimme.

III.
Now is the Website
Of my free content!!!

IV.
Tweetily, tweetily, tweet,
Tweetily, TWEETILY, tweet.

V.
Friend me! Roamin’ the country, man!
Lend me your ears!
(At a bookstore or a school near you)
Whether ’tis no-one
Or one hundred,
I will cheerfully personalize my books—
With my life’s blood, scarlet upon yon page—
4 U.

VI.
I will market so it sells-
Market so it sells, sells, sells:
I’ll go trolling till it sells,
Till it sells, sells, sells, sells-
Sells, sells, sells-
In the millions, nay the billions, may it sells.

VII
Agent is a girl’s best friend.

[Marie with a :-)]

Alas, Real Ladys Don't Fart

I followed Chip's blog
becuz of Sarah Freeze
in breathless wonder
hands clapping in glee,
skimming his advise
with eager eyes
Shirley, Shirley
my fame would arise.
'til I learnt a book
I'd never bee able two right
(my skin turnt clammy
my face ashin white)
this, this 'twas a dagger
to my hopeful heart
causing grievous indegeschun
then a noisy, smelly toot
(I know that doesn't rhyme
but real ladys don't fart.)

[Joanne Reese]

My mouth a thin line,
as far as east to west,
felt a rumbling from within.
Was that a chuckle?
Grey went away,
and blue skies burst in,
to shade a treeless mountain.
Seeds scattering breathlessly,
cover smooth grass,
making each straight line curvy once again.
The artist once alone,
but now found,
dips her brush in chalky paint,
and smiles.

[Gina Holmes]

Stagnant Change
by Gina Holmes

Nothing ever changes,
yet it remains the same.

Despite our commonalities,
differences remain.

Even when your boat soars high,
a bike sails across the sea.

A stone may be a boy at heart,
a pumpkin patch, or me.

[Judith Millar]

I wandered lonely as a cloud –
well not a real cloud
at least not a cumulus cloud
which really can’t be trusted
and may well morph into a cumulonimbus
and drip on people later in the day
and certainly not a cirrus fibratus
with its fibrous mane’s tale –
not really the wandering type
(they don’t, as a rule, drift
if you get my drift)
I wandered more as a
stratocumulus
following along, as they do,
after a cold front –
the cold front left in your wake
when you took your love
and just took off
like a cirrus duplicatus
full of mean looks
and icy crystals
after we hit that period
of severe turbulence
that left me lonely
and wandering like some
cast-off cloud
not a bit fluffy or Wordsworthian -
and not a daffodil in sight.

c2010 Judith Millar

[Sarah Joy]

Oh golly gee, I said!
When I new my bad poetry would be red.

In ninth grade, you sea.
I entered a contest quite similar to thee.

"All baby's are ugly!" our kemistry teacher declared.
"Tape up your pictures to see who the ugliest is" he dared.

With a skip in my step and a bounce in my walk,
I found witch picture would make grown men balk.

Posting my pic with pride and with glee,
I couldn't wait for everyone to vote and to sea.

The week passed by slowly, and I was sure I had one.
My uglie demeanor would make mothers's drink rum!

Then the votes came in, the tallie was threw.
Was i uglier than camels in a zoo?

Well, no, not quite.
But I was quite the cite!

In fact, I had won third place.
In the uglie baby contest, I was quite a disgrace.

Still, I wanted to do better, be uglier than sin.
I wanted to WIN!

With that in mind, I entered the bad poetry contest.
In this, at least, I would be the best.

The New Yorker won't accept me, nor will Playboy.
But if I have my way, Chip will say, "This poetry sucks. Ahoy!"

[Sarah Joy]

Because submitting bad poetry often includes not reading the submission requirements, I am going to submit more than one poem.

Socks.

I am reading short stories and wearing a sock on my hand.
Striped.
Brown and white.
Like a prisoner.
Only, I have never been to jail.

[Sarah Joy]

Because submitting bad poetry often includes completely ignoring the submission requirements, I am going to submit more than one poem...

Socks

I am reading short stories and wearing a sock on my hand.
Striped.
Brown and white.
Like a prisoner.
Only, I have never been to jail.

[Sarah Joy]

Although, I didn't mean to submit that one twice. Ah well. :)

California Cupboard

“When Fancy clattered in the pantry, she answered,”
says Christine Gardiner.
A poet.
I am a woman.
Though, I am sometimes a poet
with carrots.
but, not the kind you eat.
The carrots used for noses of
snowmen.
and women.
the women who will inherit the earth.
Says the Word of God
or does it?

I am afraid
of a plane
that will fall
out of the burning sky.
but I am not in the plane
I am not in the
cupboard
and
I don’t want to move to
California
to witness the death
of Jim Jones

[Sarah Joy]

And now for one that is rated PG13.

Best Damn Thing Ever

She said it was our first night in Nashville, but I actually don’t believe that. Really, I think it was our third night, only it wasn’t night, and it wasn’t Nashville. In fact, it wasn’t even ours—it was theirs, and by theirs I mean his, his not being mine, either. Or, he was mine, but not any more, not after Kelly had her way with him. He, of course, didn’t stop her. I didn’t either.
Yes, I was there when they had sex on the floor of our daughter’s nursery, watching him like a mother, tenderly caring for him, and for her, wanting his first time in Nashville (her parents had been hippies—she had changed her name to Kelly) to be the best damn thing ever.

[Becky Mushko]

OK, here goes some doggerel (with apologies to Poe):

Hannibal Lee

Twas many and many a year ago
In a kennel owned by me,
There lived a poodle whom you may know
By the name of Hannibal Lee.
And this poodle lived with no other thought
Than to breed for a hefty stud fee.

He wasn’t a child but he was half wild;
In back alleys breed did he!
He bred with a joy that was more than a joy
My poodle Hannibal Lee.
An action that caused the cops to chase
Hannibal Lee and me.

And this was the reason that late one night
Near our kennel owned by me,
A man jumped out of a car that night, grabbing
My poodle Hannibal Lee
And took him off to an unscrupulous vet’s
Where they neutered Hannibal Lee.
And hauled me into court and made me pay a hefty fee.

Rival breeders, not half so proud of their dogs
Had envied him and me!
Yes! That was the reason as all must know,
That they neutered Hannibal Lee.

But his lust is stronger by far than the lust
Of dogs more intact than he,
Of dogs with a good pedigree.
And neither dog-catchers nor unscrupulous vets
Can ever dissever my desire to acquire
A clone of Hannibal Lee.

For a dog never howls without elicting growls
From the wobegon Hannibal Lee.
From tearful eyes I see hackles rise
On the un-manned Hannibal Lee.

And so nowadays I cry and he bays
For his lost manhood ways.
My poodle, my doggie, my life and my pride
Who’ll know no more a doggie bride.
In that kennel owned by me;
In that empty kennel owned by me.

[Stephen]

Oh Editor, Oh Editor, Your Red Pen Stabs My Heart Until It Bleeds the Same Color As Your Pen (a poem)

“I wrote,” “I writ”
who gives a whit?
The writing rules
are just for fools.
Besides it’s I who holds this pen
Not Stephen King, or Thoreau, Hen.
I’ll verbify or nounify,
and fie on you if that makes you cry.
I’ll screw with tense
and point of view,
spare no expense
with adverb stew,
i’ll lower case with upper class,
and if you don’t like it you can kiss my *.
My book is mine, my book is me,
like Sandra Dee is Sandra Dee
and Diet Dr. Pepper is sugar free.
Just leave me be,
just leave me be.
Now I must go, as deadlines loom
I need to choose my nom de plume.

[Darcie]

Owed to Soap of a Rope (which oddly rhymes with pope - although I'm not Catholic)
by Darcie Gudger

Soap on a rope. Oh, soap on a rope.
I pull 'till I lean, towards its cleansing and clean.

Like a dope. Like a dope. I love my soap on a rope.

All slippery and wet, I'll bet you can bet I won't lose it when I squeeze it in my hands.

Afar it won't fling, that slippery soapy thing that's attached to my nozzle by a string.

Like a dope (volume increase here). Like a dope. I love my soap on a rope (which rhymes with pope although I'm not catholic.)

And oh! Oh the truama! Did you know you could buy soap on a rope carved like Obama? I didn't either but it's true.

Like a dope. Like a dope. I love my soap on a rope. And each time I repeat my chorus, my love bubbles more true.

Don't be afraid, of a moldy braid, if soap on a rope loves you too.

Okay. That's REALLY weird.

[V Money]

Uh, uh, look out. Uh, uh. Go!
V-Money stands tall,
Not since the Apostle Paul,
Have rhymes raised this much Cain,
People be scared cause I’m namin’ names.

Happy Birthday, Chip,
Your Uncle Charlie’s gonna flip,
Cause my verses, yo, they're legit.

At V Money’s words people prostrate fall,
These writers could learn from me, so call.

Kingsbury and Samson, they write like girls,
Another Quaker prom and I’m gonna hurl.
Randy Alcorn?
He writes estessential porn.
Convenience store Ravi should worry,
But I’ll teach him over some rice and curry.
Oops, I’m so Sari.

Yo, V-Money’s from the hood,
And knows Rob Bell aint no good.
I do likes Lucado, his lines are obscene,
He layin’ it down like Fahrenheit 3:16.

People in my hood wanna take your life,
That’s why V Money writes with his pen knife.
He ain't ever had no rhymes that didn't rock,
That's why Donald Miller couldn't hold my jock.

God bless, yo. Peace out.

V Money
Def Will C Records

[Eva Marie Everson]

Ode to a Dirty Giraffe
By Eva Marie Everson
Award-winning Novelist (LOLOLOL)

(Ahem.)

When I was just a little girl
Living in another world
My funny friend Jan said in class
Something I can’t forget, alas.

We had an assignment due with dread
A poem made up in our own head
I worked so hard to make mine good
To sound just like it really should.

But Jan just threw words on paper
A rhyme so quick, I almost hate her.
I spent hours working on mine
To make sure that it perfectly rhymed.

Jan stood.

“I have to laugh
To see a giraffe
Walk down a path
To take a bath.”

The classroom clapped
And I clapped too.
But now what was I supposed to do?
Would they clap for my poem too?

They did.

And so began my little quest
To always try to be my best
When at my desk I sit to write
I try and try with all my might.

But then…

Every time I see a giraffe on little glass shelves
I stop for a moment to remind myself…

…today Jan is happy and, you know, I am too.
Jan works behind a desk from nine to five
While I work till my fanny turns blue.

[Eva Marie Everson]

I honestly cannot believe I just did that.

[JCWert]

God's Burrito

I couldn't be late for the Bible study
Or I wouldn't get my favorite seat
Sitting next to a goddess named Nancy
Who liked to pick corns on her feet

Work ran so long I could not go home
There were too many cars in the street
So I had no choice but to purchase a meal
And pray my FCA shirt would stay neat

McDonald's line appeared as long as a snake
Burger King's line made me retreat-o
It left me with only one basic choice
A Taco Bell beef or cheese burrito?

They were both on the menu for just 99
So I ate one of each they were yummy.
But like Revelation it was deelish to my mouth
Yet sat like a rock in my tummy.

I made Bible Study with minutes to spare
And Nancy's hair was so crisp and neat
But as I leaned in to smell her perfume
I realized they'd undercooked my meat

I ran from the room and dashed down the hall
Toward the bathrooms at the second floor landing
I ripped off my belt and tossed it aside
For a quick disrobe was in the planning

I reached the bathroom and threw open the door
While my slacks began their downward motion
I praised the Lord that I was going to make it
And that this bathroom had scented hand lotion

For I realized this feeling was God's special plan
And something that should zap my pleasure
For lusting a girl over a good healthy dinner
Is not what a young man should treasure

To my surprise a man met my eyes
In front of me was Pastor White
We bumped, he spun off, my back hit the wall
And my muscles no longer held tight

It was then my sin hit me
And the wall, and the floor
Pastor White's shoes
And the wood bathroom door

The whole youth group heard it and ran to my aid
Pastor White stumbled out gagging and retching
My pain did not come from all their laughs
But that Nancy no longer found me fetching.

So now, my son, as you hit age thirteen
And you find Christian girls to be neato
Remember what happened when dad put God last
So you won't go and eat God's burrito.

[Ben Whiting]

"Nuggets"

Love is like a horny toad
That has been squished
Upon the road.

Truth is like a keg of beer--
The more you have,
The less you fear.

Wisdom's like a piece of gold:
Shiny.

Pain is like when it hurts real bad.
Or something.
And you're mad.

Hope is like a bird who sings
After I have clipped its wings.

Peace is like a river deep,
And you're so bored
You have to weep.

Death is like a poet's rot:
He thinks it's good--
But it is mind-numbingly awful.

[AimeeLS]

*snrfl* ...thongs... *choke* ...clouds... *Grndh!* ...horny dogs...and bad rap... *kfgh* GOD'S burrito????!!!!

Best. Poetry. Competition. Ever.

Chip, what does it say about you that you attract writers with such dearth of taste and boundaries?

I want to live here...

[AimeeLS]

PS - The copyright was ironic.

[Ana Lewis]

The Stain

The once was a stain on the bed

Mysterious, untrustworthy and dead

We poked and we prodded

We questioned and plotted

Our findings, they filled us with dread

We turned on the light

Examined our plight

Oh damn, we wished it was red

[Ron Benson]

Horrid stuff, all of it. Competition is grueling this year.

[Carol L Daubenmire]

I quit my church job.
I found a new calling.
It involves walking
and shampoo.

I walk near and far.
Search high and low.
For hairballs.

I find them.
Tucked in grass clumps.
Along the highways in sewer grates.

They are everywhere.
If you know where to look.

They collect in my Whole Foods Green Bag.
Awaiting my full attention.
Which is coming soon.

Shampoo time.
Mass globs of grease and product lifting off the hair
And swirling down the drain.
Ready … almost ready.

BP, our flight is booked.
Extra baggage paid for.
Ready to deliver.
Clean, un-coiffed, snippets.
Ready to serve.

[Gina Holmes]

BTW...lol Aimee and the burning love sun rose.

[JohnUpChurch]

Anguish.
Pain.
Hurt.

You see those periods? That's how
Serious I am (and even on separate
Lines). My thoughts are so deep
That whole sentences
Cannot contain them--not even
Complex compound sentences
With and after and, but
After but.

[Thingsthatamazeme.blogspot.com]

Ode to the Cleaning Lady:

Repetition, repetition
All day long.
Repetition, repetition
Going strong.

Repetition, repetition
Fold those sheets.
Repetition, repetition
Again next week.

Repetition, repetition
Dust that room.
Repetition, repetition
Where's my broom?

Repetition, repetition
Missed a spot.
Repetition, repetition
Thanks a lot!

Repetition, repetition
Scrub the shower.
Repetition, repetition
Don't make squat per hour.

Repetition, repetition
Room by room.
Repetition, repetition
French costume.

Repetition, repetition
Wet the mop.
Repetition, repetition
You high school flop.

Repetition, repetition
Same thing each week.
Repetition, repetition
To bad you aren't a Gleek!

Repetition, repetition
Sing a little louder.
Repetition, repetition
Gotta pass those hours.

Repetition, repetition
Stupid cat!
Repetition, repetition
Chase it with the vac!

Repetition, repetition
What a life.
Repetition, repetition
Wishing money was rife.

Repetition, repetition
Gotta pay the bills.
Repetition, repetition
This job makes me ill.

Repetition, repetition
All my days.
Repetition, repetition
Windex haze.

Repetition, repetition
Family maid.
Repetition, repetition
I smell like Glade.

Repetition, repetition
For the cleaning lady.
Repetition, repetition
Probably do this til I'm eighty!

[Ruth Hansen]

This sandwich does not fill me,
In fact, it makes me yearn,
For a meal more satisfying,
Than soil to a fern.

With wheat bread and nonfat cheese food,
The mustard is not cut,
Limp lettuce just reminds me,
There's a jiggle to my butt.

Sustenance, I beg you!
Slap some lasagna on my plate,
Pass the bread and butter,
Dessert me in a twist of weight.

[Ruth Hansen]

Happy Birthday, Chip! Thanks for sharing the fun.

[Ana Lewis]

Hot Headed

Once upon a soup is our tale

The way to a man's heart without fail

Chicken, tomatillos, lime and rice

Roasted hot peppers and plenty of spice

The resulting concoction was a brew on the senses

Our desire, it mounted, knocking down all our fences

The domain of the bedroom was entered with force

Urgency on display - the aim? Intercourse

I went down on my knees to worship the rod

And said to myself, "Oh yes, there's a God."

The burning sensation I thought was desire

My mouth was aflame

And his loins burned from fire

My hands were the culprit

Flaunting thick skin with vain

But we now know jalapenos and love equal pain.

[Heather]

Burnt
The wax drips
Running slowly down the candle
I am mesmerized
Hypnotized
By the fluid solidity
I breathe lightly over the flame
With a puff of smoke
The fire is out
And I am alone

[Kay Day]

Deep ache
throbbing
pulsating
annoying

needles--needless?

Pain
Pain Pain
or...

Lockjaw
Lockjaw Lockjaw

[Ruth Hansen]

Die It

This sandwich does not fill me,
In fact, it makes me yearn,
For a meal more satisfying,
Than soil to a fern.

With wheat bread and nonfat cheese food,
The mustard is not cut,
Limp lettuce doth remind me,
Of the jiggle to my butt.

Sustenance, I beg you!
Slap some lasagna on my plate,
Pass the bread and butter,
Dessert me, oh twist of weight.

Thanks, Chip! Happy Birthday!!

[Kay Day]

Since there are no rules, I am also submitting a poem I wrote at another time. It goes to show that I can write bad poetry any time of year.

Ode

A muffler, mittens,
hat, and ear muffins, too
Three pair of socks,
snow-boots,
a coat zipped up to my chin.

But my oh my, these jeans
are feeling mighty thin.

Marvelous, amazing,
spectacular feat:
the invention of
the heated car seat.

Call it a pizza warmer if you wish.
I think that's kinda dumb.
I love the way my magical seat
defrosts my frozen bum.

[Mike]

Your eyes shimmer like
The oil of many toppled rigs
And your lips are smooth like
a carp’s.
Lips.

Your breaths are like two gigantic
gusts of pepperminty
heat from a candy oven in Texas.
I scarce can escape their
Fury…
ous…ness.

I hold your hands and
My knees tremble under the magnitude
Of the girth
of your love.
Hold me tightly
In your boa-constrictor
arms.

Not too tight.

Your feet are pointy.
Like an arrow to my heart.
Cupid, draw back your toes.

[Lynette Eason]

This book I'm reading is boring.
Truly truly boring.
It hurts my head, turns my brain to lead.
It's boring. I hate it.
This book I'm reading is boring.
Really really boring.
Who wroted it?
I don't know.
But it's boring.
So there.
I burnt it.
The End.

[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!

[Becky Mushko]

I thought I posted this doggerel earlier today, but now I can't find it in the comments, so here goes again (My apologies to Poe):

Hannibal Lee

Twas many and many a year ago
In a kennel owned by me,
There lived a poodle whom you may know
By the name of Hannibal Lee.
And this poodle lived with no other thought
Than to breed for a hefty stud fee.

He wasn’t a child but he was half wild;
In back alleys breed did he!
He bred with a joy that was more than a joy
My poodle Hannibal Lee.
An action that caused the cops to chase
Hannibal Lee and me.

And this was the reason that late one night
Near our kennel owned by me,
A man jumped out of a car that night, grabbing
My poodle Hannibal Lee
And took him off to an unscrupulous vet’s
Where they neutered Hannibal Lee.
And hauled me into court and made me pay a hefty fee.

Rival breeders, not half so proud of their dogs
Had envied him and me!
Yes! That was the reason as all must know,
That they neutered Hannibal Lee.

But his lust is stronger by far than the lust
Of dogs more intact than he,
Of dogs with a good pedigree.
And neither dog-catchers nor unscrupulous vets
Can ever dissever my desire to acquire
A clone of Hannibal Lee.

For a dog never howls without elicting growls
From the wobegon Hannibal Lee.
From tearful eyes I see hackles rise
On the un-manned Hannibal Lee.

And so nowadays I cry and he bays
For his lost manhood ways.
My poodle, my doggie, my life and my pride
Who’ll know no more a doggie bride.
In that kennel owned by me;
In that empty kennel owned by me

[Jan Rider Newman]

Aimee's poem is so bad, it's -- er -- good. And "squoze." I love that word!

[Peggy Tidwell]

Ode to a Grecian Burn

Athena hates the game of bunko.
Women drinking and eating junko.
She looses a lot.
Sits in one spot.
Till hemroids wrap the chair like cornrows.

[Julie Arduini]

Ode to a Teenage Girl's Angst

Angst, such angst.
I SCREAM!

Peace, such peace,
I dream.

Look at me. Care.
I matter!

Look away. Stop!
I’m fatter.

I want to talk, listen.
I’m talking!

Don’t talk to me, go!
I’m walking!

Simple, sweet and simple,
That’s me.

Complicated teenaged girl:
OMG!

[Taryn]

Ode to Squid

Health, strength and motivation bring you to me.
Your health, my strength and motivation.
Go forth, o fishing line, and multiply!
Down, down to the depths of my bay, blue like the stripes on the cardboard box my stereo amplifier was delivered in.
Sink, o lure that fakest like a prawn, and deceive the bird of the seas.
I can see you already in my head, but not.
Your juicy black eyes.
Your body shining like a crushed hologram.
Juicy legs no straight-thinking supermodel would want.
Yes, go down to the bottom, o lure!
All four metres of it!
But don’t even kiss that bottom with your spikey thorniness or you shall not find the beast of slime.
I jig.
I jig.
I jig.
I wait.
I pray.
I jig.
I’m on!
And I reel him in, flying through the calm waters like a skier on a Harley Davidson with a shotgun full of ink to fire upon me.
Such blacky inkness!
But you miss, o mucous master, you squishy dinner.
I let you empty your arsenal of stains and snot, and place you in my cooler, watching your colours change like a feisty chameleon with ten legs.
How angry you are, eyeballing me with your evil eyeballs of wrath.
Quiveringnessly I shut the lid.
I have won.
You sag.
I will eat you, little beast, with aioli and chips.
I thank God I have caught you.
I will use your face for bait.
Aren’t you glad you caught my prawn?

[Kathleen L. Maher]

Ode to spring yard cleanup, a smelly haiku

Newfoundlands are big
they eat their dinners and mine
dog poop fills my yard

[AimeeLS]

*Giggle*

Kathleen said 'Poop'.

[:Donna Marie]

“Wandering through my Brain Universe looking for answers and happiness”

By Donna Marie (on May 7th,2010 very irly in the morning, but really it was late at nite on May 6th)

Whenever things in life go wrong,
I know it’s all because
I have negative, very bad thoughts that I get shamed for.
That’s when I know I need some mentle air conditioning
That’s why I take a mentle walk,
Where? Through the universe in my brain
It’s the only place i go when I really need two talk
To peoples bigger and mitier and much outer spacier than me.

When I need to tape into
the energies and focuses and wisedumb
That’s only located in my universe of my inner outer space mind
That’s so powerful it makes my whole
body glows with aroaras.
It’s where the complective sauces of energetics meets from
all over the whole world
out there outside my enormous, infinity brain galaxy
They all come here because
I have such negative thoughts that need help
that pull them into my brain
Which is why all the positive thoughts of
all the happy peoples in the world
They awtomaticly know to come to my wide open brain
They come like invisible nuclear warheads to make it
the giantest universe place of explosion energy that’s positive.

Like a gasoline pipe from a star wars space ship,
It reaches into my brain, flowing in they fill my gas tank
to where the needle says it’s a full tank with tons of gallons
of all the positive gas power of the universe
And it’s so amazing how the magnets force is so amazing too
Like Superman flying so speedy fast around
over the spinning world that he made the time go backwards
and all the bad things never even happened!

This is something everyone should know cause
it’s The Secret of how miracles happen through
the Mitey Magic of all the positive energy people
that made the biggest mushroom clowd in my brain
because their nuclear warheads thoughts blew up
the negative thoughts that I think all the time
And that’s how you make right, good things happen
In your wrong life when things go wronger

May the force be with you too
And I know that it wil be
Because I’m sending my new, positive thoughts to you
But you can only feel it if you open youre mind too
And make it a big universe.
This is the way people can win millions of bucks
And it can happen in only two days!
You can trust me on this won.
I’m positive!

[Amy Lindberg]

My life: In Precious MomentsTM

Clearly, the figurine creators have failed
In the many instances I’ve hailed
To accurately convey
My life: In Precious MomentsTM

Although you can acquire
“Your love warms my heart”
“Our love is the bridge to happiness”
And “Office Professional”
Those are not, nor ever shall be
My life’s most Precious MomentsTM

Where art thou, O figurine
Of longing eyes, on the latrine
To commemorate the moment
Imodium’s effects can first be felt
I yearn for you, O. Precious. Moment.TM

Furthermore, I’ve yet to see
A figurine proclaiming
The problem I’m sustaining
“Your fly is down (XYZ)”
Truly. Precious. Moment.TM

“First house” can be found
On eBay, if nowhere else
However to complete my shelf I need
“First house’s basement floods every spring with the snowmelt”
O. Precious. Moment.TM

Instead they’ve chosen to immortalize
“All for the love of you on a bicycle built for two”
If only the tandem cyclists wore
Matching spandex while huffing galore
On their bicycle built for two
(model #920025, $135.00)
Truly. Precious. Moment.TM

[:Donna Marie]

I just finished reading all the other entries and I'm crying from laughing hysterically. Thank you ALL for your amazing humor and talent. This poetry is the best BAD Poetry I've ever read!

Chip, I don't know how you're going to pick a winner! And, btw, I hope your birthday week is a good one, or should I say a good BAD one? ;)

[Jennifer King]

Can Computers Grow Flowers?

Happily writing one moment,
Beloved computer works fine,
Counting ten more,
It's DEAD, on a line.

What can a broke writer do,
But blow a gasket?
A writer must pound keys ...
To fill her wastebasket.

Typewriters look
More lovely each day.
Inky ribbons and correcting fluid make
Reliable story on a page.

This last blue screen,
Errors gone too far.
The computer takes flight
Out the window to the yard.

A new writing experiment:
Can computers grow flowers?

Thanks again for the wild poetry rumpus, Chip! Cheers, to another great year. -Jennifer (Yes, my computer died yesterday.)

[Stephanie Reed]

Entry 2.

But first, LOVE:

Hannibal Lee
Oh Editor, Oh Editor
V Money Rap ('Oops, I'm so Sari' and more)
God's Burrito (Tell me it's a true story)

Time to throw down the gauntlet with an *actual poem written by a teen (moi) on November 26, 1977*. That's right--I meant every word of this poem, so much so that I recorded in my blank book, BEGINNINGS: A BOOK OF CHANGES Poems & Stories, Lovewords & Hopethoughts, Drawings & Dreams, Insights to Grow On & Reflections on the Wonder of the World (Write Your Own Book, Deluxe Edition, Abbey Press/St. Meinrad, Indiana)

Perfection Pondered

Mother.
"I heard a star singing
A wondrous song;
Now, hush, child--I'll teach you,
And we'll sing along."

Star.
"I shimmer, I shiver,
I sparkle, I shine;
I'm silver, I'm shadow--
I'm something divine.

"I twitter, I twinkle--
I'm tempting, I'm told;
I'm twitching, I'm tranquil--
I'm terribly cold.

"I'm mystic, I'm magic!
O marvelous me!
I'm mute, yet I murmur
A message to thee.

"I long for a lady
More lovely than I--
A luminous lover
To lilt lullabies.

"But after forever
Is finished, adieu,
I fear that my fancy
Will not have come true."

Mother.
"A prayer is pointless
Where pride's on display,
And precious the price that
The perfect must pay.

Child.
"O, Mother, I'm happy
I'm not like the star!"

Mother.
"My child, you can't know just
How lucky you are."

My new brand: Bad Poems, Good Books

[C. Howard]

Shakespere In Love With Edna Turnblad

Thy love art blinding to me
O fairest fawn of rising hope within my tousled main
Run into me, and embrace me with thy thund'rous unction
Lest by some compunction, my loins doth lose all function
That I may with thee strane
In Aphrodite’s gammon glee

Thou step to me aside
And release thy smothering, sumptuous, raven locks
Then let fall thy muumuu like an Everest of fabric
In a pile loose and tragic, that upon me works it's magic
A site that would some to shock
At my dumbstruckness towards my bride

And launching thou upon me fair
Enrapt in a tapestry of sweat, thy sprawling bosom run amuk
Consumed in this sacred, gelatinous bond, I am silently elated
Though my cries may be belated, for breathing is overrated
(Is that not a cheeky bit of pluck?)
Till I can come up for air

Then yea to lie breathless, lifeless
Upon completion of nuptial bliss travailing
Next to thee, like a possum run over by a tractor
Immune to all distracters, compasses and protractors
My cardiovascular greatly failing
Grateful for to be not wifeless

Then turning my head toward thee
To see thy rare and glory-gleaming smile
Like a strand of pearls scattered in a taco
They make me go so loco, mi chica mui gordo
Your lips part to speak, I listen so beguiled
As you announce that you gotta’ pee

[Mesmerix]

@C.Howard's Shakespeare in Love...

Just made pop come out of my nose. Muumuu like an Everest of fabric... great stuff.

[C. Howard]

@JCWest's God's Burrito-

OMG!!!!! That is one of the funniest things I have ever read - and that's saying something. Please tell me that's a true story. I mean, I'd kind of hate for you to have experienced that, but if I'm going to repeat it to others, I need to know...

[Heidi Bylsma]

This was never intended to be "bad," but looking at it lately, it is clear...it sure isn't good. LOL!
=======
My Pony Rap
© Heidi Bylsma

As a little girl I dreamed of having a horse,
From the time I was born, the dream set my course.
I imagined a bay steed that I'd ride
Sashay across fields, Through rivers we'd glide!

The dream took wings when I was forty two
All that waitin' had made me blue!
Breezy was the first, to take my heart
From that moment on, my wallet fell apart!

CHORUS:
Oh no! The Ponies!
They make me BROKE!
On no! The Ponies!
That's no joke!

Well horses don't cost just a little bit o' money
It's like they eat the stuff, it sure ain't funny
And did I stop when I got my one?
I sure didn't! Pony buyin' wasn't done!

Dodger was horse number two
But only two ponies would never do.
Horse number three was my Doc
Lame as could be from hock to hock

CHORUS:
Oh no! The Ponies!
They make me BROKE!
On no! The Ponies!
That's no joke!

Then finally, came the love of my life
But ahead of us was a ton of strife!
Into the sunset I thought we'd ride
But one buck off--I had a sore backside!

Riding Harley
with my sore bum
Isn't the way
to have any fun

CHORUS:
Oh no! The Ponies!
They make me BROKE!
On no! The Ponies!
That's no joke!

But now I got me a whole pasture full
My dream come true? Nah that's just bull!
Cuz from dawn to dusk I scoop manure
and even so my world smells just like a sewer!

Things that I just never knew
Are now things that I gotta do
Taking care to trim their feets
And who woulda thought I'd be cleaning four sheaths!

But I wouldn't trade 'em
for any treasure
Believe it or not
I love them beyond measure!

CHORUS:
Oh no! The Ponies!
They make me BROKE!
On no! The Ponies!
That's no joke!
======

Ok...if nothing else this is pathetic because it is all true. Every word. That has to win something for "badness." Yes?

Thanks for this opportunity, Chip. And happy birthday? Can I give you a horse or two? :-)

[Lisa Nelson]

Bad Haiku 4 U

The dawn emerges
The deer and antelope play
Now it is nightime

[C. Howard]

Haiku Fun

here are some I wrote
a year and a half ago
I hope you enjoy:

Haiku News Network
All the new's that's fit to print
In only three lines

if you can't say it
in seventeen syllables
maybe you shouldn't

flies on my window
millimeters from freedom
moments from their death

Jonathan Edwards
when Enquired of his stray seed
woke from V.P. dreams

George W. Bush
an earnest head of nation
but somewhat lacking

My sister's wedding
quite sudden and surprising
as was my nephew

[Jenness]

Cactus Man

An arm, twisted toward the sun
That is baking down, hot and well, really hot
Against the desert sand.
I am cactus man.

A tall, looming, spiky, water-saving (does that make me green?) being,
Providing shade and sustenance
For lost travelers on this forsaken plain.
I am cactus ma(i)n.

My princely head, green against blue
(Referring to the sky) should wear a sombrero.
Arriba, arriba!
Alas, I cannot roll my r's,
So my head remains barren
Like this land.
I am cactus man.

Here I stand till I'm shriveled.
Maybe in heaven I'll wear a sombrero,
Or maybe an eye patch.
Or maybe there's no heaven for me.
Because I sometimes envision a frying pan
(Maybe a mirage?)
With slivers of me sizzling like green beans.
Nearby is a man in the sombrero
(Who probably can roll his r's,
But it's too late for me to learn), as I sizzle in forlorn loss of spikiness
The murderess above me, humming a Spanish lullaby
As she stirs me with her hand.
I am no longer cactus man.

I am dinner.

[Jenness]

Chip, may you live forever, so you can continue this tradition. :-) Lovin' it!!

[Daniel Smith]

nOT lIKE cARDBOARD

Ever ate possum?
It's good eatin.
Not like cardboard.
If I had money
I'd eat cornish hens in a Velouté sauce
With haricots verts and roasted root vegetables.
And ketchup.
Gotta have my ketchup
To keep food tasting good.
Not like cardboard.
But I don't so I'm quick.
I go before the birds come
And look both ways
So a Mack truck don't splat me
Flat like cardboard.
No, not like cardboard
Like a pulpy lump
Of yellow red black and white.
They are precious in His sight.
Not like cardboard.
Which is man-made
And doesn't taste very good
Unless it's possum
Which is good eatin.
Not like cardboard.

(c) 2010 Daniel B Smith

[Daniel Smith]

O.o

W.O.W. I have to agree completely with Ron. These are truly awful. Aimee's sun rose - Hannibal Lee - God's Burrito - Teen Angst - Precious Moments (can't forget the little TM) - and even Shakespeare!? Chip, God be with you in choosing a winner.

(P.S. I'm trying to work that muumuu line into my comment for humorous effect and I just can't. It's priceless!)

I enjoyed reading them, all!

(Oh, and I added the copyright after Aimee but before reading that she included it for irony. Still, I'm proud of my submission.)

[MissV]

I should be flogged for this...

ODE TO THE POP TART

Behold the rectangular wonder
This breakfast food knocks others asunder
Frosted flatness, sprinkles galore
I really hate them mashed on my floor

Chocolate, cookie dough, sundae, or cherry
The kids will eat them at the library
Toasted or frozen, single or double
Leave em on my couch and you’re in trouble

They come in a box--In a little foil pouch
Don’t microwave em like that
Or you you’ll be saying ouch.

I love Pop Tarts, I really do
But now I gotta bid you adieu

(commence groaning)

[Sally Hanan]

SPECIAL

This poetry contest does be great
and while i wait
to see if i can a winner be
i can be a poem as lovely as a tree

the tree it blows
in the way vacuums suck
and fat men eat
like turkeys that gobble
in their special way

speaking of special
like the half-off coupons in the Sunday paper and you can rip them out with your sharp nail with the pointy bits of
skin
that stick out the side that you can't never seem to get your teeth onto the edges of

THE END

[Meg Moseley]

Alas, alack, I
can’t even compose a sem-
i decent haiku.

[AimeeLS]

@C.Howard - I hope those haiku's weren't all non-fiction...or else that that's not your real name. I foresee sisterly vengeance.

I have tears in my eyes with bad poetry joy.

Who ever said God doesn't have a a sense of humor? He had to, to have made all of us :)

[Joe Stinson]

A thousand words
That’s all I need today
More coffee
And 1k
Got the beginning
Nailed the end
Its all that stuff in the middle
That’s just not coming together and fitting correctly no matter how many times I seem to move it around and what I seem to do with it
A thousand a day
For just another month or so
Then I can submit
it

[Ally]

Im going to write a poem
A horrible poem twill be
But first,
I have to pee

[Jan Rider Newman]

These are 2 related poems, related because . . . I said so:

Untitled I

Dark and stormy,
you sent me out gentle
into that good night
to see if cats
really are all gray.

Turns out they are.

The ones that are cats.

Untitled II

It was the best of poems
It was the worst of poems
No one envied the choice

It was the best of prizes
It was the worst of prizes
It was a prize of which he said,

“Tis a far far better thing I do
Than I have ever done --
To give this stupid book
To you than keep it for myshelf.”

[Joe Stinson]

The writer hung up from his agent
Who had insisted again he change it
The storyline was strong
And not overly long
But he needed to rework the ending

[Ally]

Inching
the turtle
crawled
crawled foward into the void
the void of my heart that was left gaping
gaping I tell you
he crawled deeper into my gaping void of a heart
and found
all the other turtles
for the turtles are part of me
I could not live without the turtles
they are embedded within me
embedded more deeply in me
than a bee stinger once was
the turtles rest on the mashed potatoes
that are also in my voided heart

the turtles crawl toward my brain
well at least where it should have been
they race as only turtles can race
to the gravy that I so deeply love

[Joe Stinson]

Please, oh please, Chip can't we write bad 51 weeks and only be serious for one? This is too much fun!

[Walt Mussell]

Tale of the Tall Grass

“Can you get off your disgusting crack and finally mow the lawn at back?”
My wife sprayed her words as if she was blowing chunks.
“The grass out there is knee-high. Next week it will be mid-thigh.
And all the dog poop back there gives the yard a funk.”

I got up and hit the head and then went out back and hit the shed.
Where the mower gleamed like dentures in the light.
I pulled the cord at least ten times, uttering epithets that didn’t rhyme.
The mower roared and we attacked the backyard blight.

Soon, I’d cut one-fourth the yard, when the blade struck something hard.
“%&$%” I said. The mower’s already not well.
I pulled the machine slowly back, took one look and began to gack.
At the sight of a dismembered turtle and half a shell.

I turned the Toro off and pulled my hair. Why oh why was that little guy there?
I shed a tear at my merciless deed.
I pondered as to what to do as I stared at the unmoving goo.
Where are those carnivorous birds when a man’s in need?

I went to the garden and dug a hole. Each shovel strike tearing my soul.
I dumped the body in the hole with a squish.
Then I opened the grasscatcher bag and tried my best not to gag.
I consoled myself thinking, Native Americans made fertilizer from fish.

I covered up the little guy as another tear fell from my eye.
I said a prayer for the life now dead.
An hour later I finished the yard. By then I was really tard.
Then it hit me. Where was the little guy’s head?

[C. Howard]

@AimeeLS, I'm afraid you're onto me. I am indeed writing under a nom de plume, as my sister-in-law is one of Chip's clients. That said, the knocked up sister haiku is purely fictitional. I have no actual sisters.

Greatly enjoyed your opening volley, btw. You really *rose* to the occasion :-)

[Gina Conroy]

Chip, it' your fault I'm writing bad poetry instead or writing bad novels. See, this is why I can't write romances!

Secret Admirer

My love for you is full and overflowing
Like my bladder after I can no longer hold it
Like I want to hold you…But you are not here
And I don’t blame you, well, yes I do.
I blame you for everything.
My depression, the medications, my therapist’s bill.

My Prozatic double vision wouldn’t be so bad if I saw two of you.
And the nightmares from hell might be bearable
if I woke up next to you.
And the drool on my pillow, shouldn’t be there.
It should be you, on my pillow, but you’re not.
You're safe in your warm bed, snuggled next to your...dog
who's on your pillow...drooling.

And you don't care! You lie there like I don't even exist.
Like I'm not knocking on the window of your heart.
I feel my soul emptying of life,
like my bladder right now on your lawn,
and that’s your fault too!

[Betty Castleberry]

Life Wind

The wind blows life my way
And deposits stuff in my hair
Like molded sprinkly things on doughnuts

But not just in my hair
It leaves trash in my soul
In the deepest, most private part of my soul
Where nothing, not even the wind, should ever go.

But now it is there
Like some kind of armed intruder
With a big, evil weapon

A weapon that has spikes
And shoots bullets, too
A weapon that will not let me rest
And keeps me awake almost every night

My torment is awful
Really awful
I just can't explain how awful

But it is a little bit like
Smelling a skunk
Or watching somebody self-pierce their navel

Will this black wind ever cease,
Or am I doomed to
Rancid skunk smells forever?

[Betty Castleberry]

Life Wind

The wind blows life my way
And deposits stuff in my hair
Like molded sprinkly things on doughnuts

But not just in my hair
It leaves trash in my soul
In the deepest, most private part of my soul
Where nothing, not even the wind, should ever go.

But now it is there
Like some kind of armed intruder
With a big, evil weapon

A weapon that has spikes
And shoots bullets, too
A weapon that will not let me rest
And keeps me awake almost every night

My torment is awful
Really awful
I just can't explain how awful

But it is a little bit like
Smelling a skunk
Or watching somebody
Self-pierce their navel

Will this black wind ever cease,
Or am I doomed to
Rancid skunk smells forever?

[patriciazell]

A poet I am not,
So I should be
A natural winner,
You see.

Metaphors escape my pen
And the same do similes.
Oh, and tell me how
my words become huperboles.

I never got personification
A non-human acting human?
Oh, my--what confusion,
Won't you help me illumine?

And, then comes rhyme,
A scheme, you say?
That's beyond my pay grade,
So, I'll defer the challenge today.

Poetry is beyond me,
As you can see.
A natural winner
That's what I should be!

[C.D. Morgan]

Ode to Warren Jeffs

My sister is my mother
My father is my brother
I married my first cousin
Then another half a dozen

When we started having babies
They was acting kinda crazy
So we started our own church
And wed them all to Uncle Lurch.

[Betty Castleberry]

Life Wind

The wind blows life my way
And deposits stuff in my hair
Like molded sprinkly things on doughnuts

But not just in my hair
It leaves trash in my soul
In the deepest, most private part of my soul
Where nothing, not even the wind, should ever go.

But now it is there
Like some kind of armed intruder
With a big, evil weapon

A weapon that has spikes
And shoots bullets, too
A weapon that will not let me rest
And keeps me awake almost every night

My torment is awful
Really awful
I just can't explain how awful

But it is a little bit like
Smelling a skunk
Or watching somebody
Self-pierce their navel

Will this black wind ever cease,
Or am I doomed to
Rancid skunk smells forever?

[Jenny Fjellgaard]

I am the driver in the car of my life
but my tires are flat and the little nubs
where the air hose goes is broken by life
and life sometimes throws rocks in the road
as my car drives down its windy windy path
even though the path is paid for by my taxes
and the rocks get stuck in my rubbery grooves
like little rocking life-rock hitchhikers
and the rocks knock the socks off my feet
so I get cold feet in my rust-bitten life car
and the air conditioner in my life car
is cranked on high though I don’t know why
because I am the driver and the one
closest to the knob in my life car even though
the knob fell off on the passenger seat
where a passenger would sit if I had a passenger
but I don’t have a passenger in this crazy life car
this crazy lazy life car import from a factory in hell
and the hellfire in my imported car makes me hot
so I’m hot and cold and getting older by the mile
and there’s a knob on my passenger seat
and there are rocks in all four deflated rubbers
and my car rocks when my unmatched socks
are pulled off my hot cold calloused feet
and I am sad no hose goes inside my broken nub
so I drive my life car into the ditch because it hurts
like hell to have to drive on four flats in a passionless
passengerless fiery freezing rocky roady crazy lazy life car

[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!

[Janice Sheridan]

Hark, the Old Maids Sing.

My Love, you are my
frozen popcorn in the morning
of grief grinding our splitting
entwined caskets of oiled
coiled wedding vows.

Hark, Hark, the old maids sing.

Whatever, you say,
Just sign the escape clause
And squeeze the blood
from my finger with that
wicked wing of brass
knuckles
Just one step closer
to separation, single
joyful plopping,
stopping
in the crusty dusk
of
pure rapture.

Fracture my love
Capture my sorrow.
And,hark,drink.

[J. S. Watt]

There once was a woman who loved spinach
but refused to eat black eyed peas...
they were her favorite band
all across the land
and they flew out her nose when she sneezed.

She rolled on the ground
and laughed like a sick hound
every time the thought crossed her mind.
So she bought their c.d.
and fed them to me...
and we listened till we both went blind...