Terrible Poetry

It’s that time again for hopefully some downright cheesy terrible Poetry thanks to Chelsea Owens. This week she has set the following challenge.

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Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is free-versing about secondhand sales. Ever been to a yard sale? Garage sale? Flea market? Write about it; flow about it.
  2. Looking for a certain Length? Let’s go with fewer than 150 words. Final offer.
  3. Rhyming is not allowed. This is free verse poetry, people. Curb your instincts.
  4. Above all, make it terrible. e.e. cummings must feel such a shock from your literary efforts that he vows to capitalize his name just to make you stop.
  5. Let’s keep the rating PG or cleaner. What sort of flea market are you going to, anyway?

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 20) to submit a poem the good ladies blog.

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I got carried away and the first version was an epic unfortunately way beyond 150 words so this is the heavily butchered version 2.

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Wandering round the stalls and jammed full car boots

Sellers imploring you to hand over your hard earned loot

In one car boot an autobiography from Donald Trump

Read that, no way rather have a session with a stomach pump

Then a special offer on CDs from U2 and Bono

Give you money for that, you got more chance of seeing a flying Dodo

Then a car boot with a portrait of a politician, Jacob Rees Mogg

I’d rather have my leg humped by a rabid flee ridden Rottweiler Dog

Some numpty called Farage is selling knocked off cheap French red wine

He bought the bottles with loose change from his European Pension goldmine

Then finally a chance to buy the actual Boris Johnson our countries so called leader

I bought him for 10p he’s now planted pretending to be a Japanese ornamental Cedar.

Homeless

Pets have really worked with our son. They provide so much fun and relaxation to him. Since he lost his mum they brought noise and life into the house again. That’s before we even consider the help they have provided with his Aspergers. Best parenting decision ever to bring them into our house. Not such a great financial decision but fiddle sticks to that.

One day we will get a sensible pet. It certainly isn’t the walking dinner plate which is our boy cat. It most certainly isn’t the mad pup currently outside trying to play hide and seek with the butterflies. The hope was that the three gerbils would bring some much needed sanity to the house. Team Gerbils maybe a super hero team ready to assemble but they are also a unrivalled demolition team.

The first house they had was plastic and lasted minutes. The second house was compacted straw and met a similar fate. We upped the anti for the third house with a construction of wood and wire. It has lasted longer however last night Team Gerbils got to work.

To be fair to them they did stack what was left of the house neatly to one side.

Dad we need to get them a new house don’t want them to get angry. You wouldn’t like them when they are angry.

So it’s wooden house version 2.

Notice that in the time it took me to get my mobile to take a photo Team Gerbils have got stuck into the roof.

If this house fails then it’s a phone call to Tony Stark and it’s time for Ironman Armour.

Terrible Poetry

It’s Terrible Poetry time thanks to Chelsea Owen. This week we need to remember the following school rules

  1. Topic, topic; who’s got a topic? Ooh! I do; I do!
    It’s Back to School!
    Thank you, Timmy. Now, next time let’s remember to raise our hands.
  2. No teacher actually reads those 500-word essays, so keep the Length above 4 words and below 200. For those in the advanced math group, that’s 4<p<200, where p is poem and 4 is 4 and 200 is 200.
  3. Teacher, should we Rhyme? If you wish, this occasion.
  4. Just Make it terrible! The superintendent of all the area schools must feel compelled to visit and deliver a lecture on “Why One Never Poems Without Reason,” followed by a light refreshment of watered-down punch.
  5. Naturally, this assignment must be rated appropriate for general audiences.

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Is it really back to school

In that uniform so uncool

Yep

Do I have to Combe my hair

I’m not allowed to rock in my chair

Yep

Come again, I have to get up at Half past Six

Then get on the school bus with the other lunatics

Yep

Have to eat a healthy school lunch

And in the class I’m not allowed to munch

Yep

I have to learn my nine times tables

And I need to write my name on all the coat labels

Yep

I’m not allowed to pick my nose

While having to write boring prose

Yep

Not allowed to play games of my mobile phone

And if the teacher shouts I’m not allowed to moan

Yep

Must not run and play along the school corridors

And no pulling funny faces at the other choristers

Yep

When I ask a question I must raise my hand

Even when in Latin it’s impossible to understand

Yep

I have to fully button up my school shirt

Always keep the blazer on to hide all the dirt

Yep

Not supposed to throw objects at the head-boy

Be nice to your classmates and certainly don’t annoy

Yep

On no grounds can I fight or swear

Don’t attack the other kids with the set square

Yep

Need to pick my feet up so no scrapping only the floorboards

And certainly I’m not supposed to do rude doodles on the blackboards

Yep

I HATE SCHOOL……

Terrible Poetry – about to be sued by Shakespeare

To Bee or not to Bee

Time for a bit off Terrible Poetry in the form of Chelsea Owens weekly competition. This weeks it’s a bit of a walk on the Bard side of life.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. I’ve thought short and shallowly about the Topic, and it shall be Shakespearean laments. If you don’t know what a Shakespearean lament is, Google is your friend. And William Shakespeare.
  2. If you wishe to truley showe offe, go ahead and maketh the Lengthe a traditional iambic pentameter couplet. If ye wisheth not, at least keep the duration to that of a reasonable amount so as not to send the masses into a Midsummer night’s dream.
  3. Since The Bard most often Rhymed or near-rhymed, ye muste as well.
  4. Above all else, ye knaves, make it terrible! Off-the-cuff Shakespearean performers must give you a standing ovation, followed by throwing the foulest fruit they’ve purchased from the nearest funnel cake food truck.
  5. Keep things PG or lower. If ye must insult or deprave, use Elizabethan curses.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 30) to submit a poem.

The Sonnet 73 butcheringSorry Bill but I did keep a few of your words the same.

That time of year thou decides to do some baking and behold
Knowing the results will be that bad my shame do hang
Upon
finding I forgot to turn the oven on and thy food is still cold,
Bare ruined
I shall burn all food until the cry PLEASE LORD NO MORE is sang.
In me thou see’st
the worst kitchen abominations performed anywhere in the land that day
As after sunset fadeth
the Fire Engine arrives to put out the oven fires from the west;
Which by and by black
end food is thrown away,
Death’s
icy grip can be seen in the stodgy bread as it refuses to rise as long as it do rest.
In
my donuts the taste of vileness and repulsiveness does such fire,
That on the ashes
of the badly overcooked Rhubard crumble do lie,
As the death-bed
do lyeth anyone who tastes the food with the use by date do expire,
Consum’d
is the food not by any sane man but dumped in the bin by any brave passersby.
This thou
has bakethed food with a nauseating odour so strong,
To love
the simple beauty of a frozen microwave meal I do long.

Hot

It’s hot. Yes I’ve said it now. Yes Yorkshire is hot. When I say hot I mean hot for Yorkshire which probably means it’s probably two jumper weather in Arizona.

A grand day for a trip to the zoo.

Clearly the zoo animals had the right idea. Stay in the shade and watch the silly humans walk round in the blazing sun.

Dad can I have a slush.

What a grand idea. Unfortunately the kiosk informed us that they had just switched the slush machine on and if we came back in a couple of hours they should be available. It was a similar story with the ice cream machine. So we purchased from the limited available snack range. Sat in the hot sun with two cider lollies and a bag of just fried hot donuts.

Dad it’s a good job your a professional athlete or you would be getting a Dads Belly.

Clearly a kid with Aspergers don’t have a sense of humour. Come on Hollywood get your facts right.

Dad it’s getting too busy.

And with that we left. But the zoo gave us one last memory. As we were walking out of the main door a delivery driver had arrived and asked a parking supervisor where he was supposed to drop off. He was told “Through those gates. Just unbolt the lock and drive into the compound. Just make sure you lock the gate immediately”. The delivery driver in a slightly alarmed voice asked “Are you sure”.

Visions of Jurassic Park and a driver about to come face to face with a suitably pissed off carnivore came to mind. Clearly the driver had similar thoughts as he made sure he round his van window up before he ventured any further.

Terrible Poetry

It’s that time again to don the terrible poetry cap. Chelsea Owens has set the following criteria for this week.

  1. The Topic is vacations. Were you in paradise, the envy of all your online ‘friends?’ Did you finally cross off your bucket list trip to sleep atop the grave of Edgar Allen Poe? Or, was your experience a little less than ideal?
  2. As may be expected, this means the Length is postcard parameters. Write your poem home to your parents, to your grandparents, or your pen pal you want to impress.
  3. Rhyme if it works, or if it doesn’t. The choice is yours.
  4. Make it terrible!! Don’t make me sic the camp counselors on you, right after unleashing beach sharks to photo bomb your Leaning Tower of Pisa pic.
  5. Vacations aren’t risqué. This rating can stay PG or cleaner.

The PG level rules out my previous trips to Amsterdam, Brussels, Glasgow, Prague, Lille, Oban, Cardiff, Brighton, Dover, Paris, Caen, Strasbourg and most certainly Aberdeen. This week I handed over the poetry/postcard cap over to our son. He asked for a location and I gave him Marseille.

It’s Marseille

Postcards are redundant

Will email so I can attach photos

With that he hurled the cap back in my general direction. Ok. Here’s my go. I asked son for a location and he helpfully gave me Pluto. Does an airmail stamp cover space?

Arrived in Pluto just 459 years late.

You wouldn’t believe what they are charging on the exchange rate.

Can’t open the hotel windows as the air tends to dissipate

Can eat what I want as the low gravity gives me little weight

The beaches are empty so it feels a little desolate

The trip round the 5 moons was first rate

The nightlife is great at the disco you should see the locals gyrate.

Tomorrow off to one of the poles to ice skate.

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I have to own up I did promise to include a theme for someone but just couldn’t fit it in this one – definitely next week. Plus this is version 2. Version 1 finished with the line copulate….

Kielder Water

The last post left the unscripted day trip deep in Kielder Forest.

Right Dad it’s time to have a closer look at one of Northern Europe’s largest man made Lakes. Rutland is larger but Kielder holds more water. Don’t worry I’m not expecting you to go swimming. The water will be too cold.

That’s a good job as a I can’t swim and I don’t fancy a bout of frostbite. I later checked those facts. Apparently Kielder holds 44 billion gallons of water. That’s an awful lot of trips to the toilet. It tends to be full at all times. It has a number of natural springs feeding it plus let’s not forget the weather.

With the autumnal like wind whipping across the lake and the breaking waves – it did feel like a seaside walk.

I’m guessing it is just under York Minster deep. That’s about 235ft. I’m going to say about 70 metres as Boris Johnson will hate that. He hates everything from Europe or that is what he wants people to think. Some people will fall for that.

Ok can’t miss a bit of of annoying our Buffoon of a Leader – so Kielder holds 200 billion litres.

Wouldn’t it be great if Kielder had its very own Loch Ness Monster. Ok it’s a manmade lake built in 1982. But the monster could have migrated here. What do you think Dad.

How about a Megalodon.

No legs or wings so it’s not migrating in a hurry. I’m seeing either a Spinosaurus or a very large otter.

Unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity to explore the monster otter concept as suddenly a large military plane swept low over us and across the lake. My ancient mobile didn’t do it justice.

Dad what time is it. Have we got time for one more place. We are on a roll now.

It’s 3pm let’s see what we can find. So back at the car. Is it Left or Right.

East.

Final part of the road trip takes us back in time.

Terrible Poetry

It’s time for a bit of the weekly Terrible Poetry indulgence run by Chelsea Owen. This week the guidelines are

  1. Topic: Plot twists. Lament about how often stories have them, include a few in your poem, or pull a fast one on us and keep the poem going exactly where we expect.
  2. Length: Since this is Bruce’s first time, let’s be nice to him and keep the word count under 200.
  3. Rhyme? Your call. Have fun with it!
  4. As the #1 rule listed at #4, make it terrible. I want Bruce himself, master of the macabre story twist, to shake his head in disbelief and secretly envy the part of the twisting Roman gutters in which your mind lies.
  5. Rating? For general audiences, keep things PG-13 or cleaner. Bleep it out if you really need to release a torrent.

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Yoda was the all seeing Jedi Knight

Yet was fooled with a hood and a dodgie light

While Luke was being the Star Wars Galahad

Who honestly thought that Vader was his dad

Bruce Willis seemed the perfect host

But ended up being a sodding Ghost

Poor Liberty Valence ended up getting shot

By John Wayne that’s a strange train of thought

The Sting was a shock when Paul and Robert copped it

But it just ended up being a gigantic counterfeit

The Village tried to fool us with a bit of double play

But it ended up being set in the Present Day

Anthony Perkins seemed such a nice chap

Yet as Mum and a psycho he got me into a flap

Seven tried so hard to subvert

By having a Box in the desert

Vertigo was Very very bleak

Judy being Madeleine was a bit of a cheek

Who in the Murder on the Orient Express would be first to admit

But what a sneaky trick to have them all do seem do it

The Wizard of Oz seemed strangely certain

Yet the wizard was a sad bloke behind a curtain

Reservoir Dogs was as cool as a soda pop

Yet sneaked in that Mr Orange was in fact a cop

Wow Scream tried smoke and mirrors

All to hide we didn’t have one but two killers

Jacobs Ladder tried to hide the thread

Hang on a moment another one who is dead

Even poor Harry Potter tried to be as shifty as a Manx Cat

I never saw Peter Pettigrew was Scabbers the Rat

Terrible Poetry

It’s time for Chelsea Owens weekly poetry challenge. If you want to have a go pop over Chelsea Owens great site by 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 8) to submit a poem. This week the challenge is.

  1. Our Topic is Anything. You choose.
    The catch? Whatever subject you select has to be way too flowery and/or descriptive. Adjectives and adverbs are your new best friends, closely followed by metaphor, simile, hyperbole, synecdoche, and personification.
    The other catch? The type of poem is free verse.
  2. Length? For the judge’s time and sanity, keep things under 250 words.
  3. For the first time, you may NOT Rhyme! What could be more poetic than free verse? Most people think that’s true and who are we to add rhyme to their meter?
  4. As always, make it terrible. Poets who take themselves way too seriously must applaud your efforts, worried to be the first to point out the emperor has no prose.
  5. Although a bawdy free verse poem is likely to exist somewhere, most stay around PGor cleaner; you can as well.

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In our darkest times you bring unbroken sunshine

With a bouquet unrivalled amongst the finest wine

Like a fragrant flower sat below the finest red pine

How can something so small be so life enriching

Your smell, your taste so utterly bewitching

Just one drop is so completely uplifting

You shine out on our world like the stars of the southern cross

You are as wondrous and spectacular as the wandering albatross

You paint the world with a sparking diamond jewel embossed gloss

In the kitchen you are the unrivalled boss

Riding across the sky like the ancient god Helios

You are our light oh Great Tabasco Sauce

****come on you try to find something that rhymes and fits with sauce

Not a clue

I’m still trying to get my head round the fact that me wearing a In The Night Garden T-shirt is not a sign of me absolutely reeking of awesomeness. Apparently it just makes me sad.

Clearly I have missed the last 20 years of cultural development and I am fossilised, moldy and a dinosaur. As you can tell this post is about how dated I have become. The most obvious sign is how our son is talking a different language to me.

When I was young (about 3500 years ago) if you liked something you shouted ace. Apparently not anymore. I should in fact be shouting yeet. I ramped up my uncoolness as for a couple of days I misheard him and started shouting yeast.

A few months back son started referring to the worlds best footballer, Messi, as GOAT. I naturally thought that was to do with his beard or worryingly maybe something to do with satanism. Thankfully I finally discovered it was Greatest Of All Time.

Then I was shopping with our son and I kept hearing kids talking about buying new Rides. Trying to be with it I asked our son why so many kids wanted a new bike. The look I got. Apparently they wanted new sneakers.

Or maybe it was the time son was getting ready for school and I asked if he was sure that he didn’t need his sports kit.

Hundo P

I assumed he was referring to some new Manga character. Again I didn’t have a clue. Apparently it means 100% sure.

Today in my customary daily humiliation which is playing our son at FIFA 19 I was called a Newb. Harsh but my team had just been beaten 14-1. I am also a newb at Fortnite, Minecraft, WWE2K, Xenoverse 2 and Rainbow Six. Why is it that the only games I ever got good at have disappeared without a trace. I was the John Cena of the Donkey Kong world. The Yoda like playing beast in the BBC computer space game Elite. And don’t even mention my brilliance in Galaxian. But today that counts for nothing. Time moves on.

As I was putting the finishing touches to this rubbish a new blog notice popped up from Autism in Our Nest. Spookily Robyn had just blogged on a similar theme. Again she deals with this with far more insight than my sledgehammer approach will ever do. However it is reassuring that I’m not the only one out of step with modern culture.