Terrible Poetry

Yes it’s almost the weekend so it must be time for a bit of terrible poetry via Chelsea Owens great weekly competition. This week given the subject it’s going to be virtually impossible to skew this round to the worlds numpty politicians. So the rules are:

  1. The type of poetry I’m interested in is a tanka. Colleen Chesebro runs this form (and a few others) every week for her popular Tanka Tuesday challenge.
    A tanka is very much like a haiku, but uses the format 5/7/5/7/7.
    On top of that, our Topic is PUMPKIN SPICE.
  2. What’s the length? I already told you: it’s a syllabic pattern of 5/7/5/7/7.
  3. Rhyming is not allowed. Scented candles are.
  4. The most important part is to make it terrible. Madame Chesebro herself must apply to WordPress to have my site banned from the internet, burned, and buried with cloves to ensure we never attempt to write tanka poetry again.
  5. Pumpkins and their harvest seasonings can stay rated at PG or tastier.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 4) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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Had to look up Pumpkin Spice. Never had it before. Was also tempted to interpret tastier as X rated – but I’d better not.

Terrible Poetry

It’s Terrible Poetry time as ever thanks to the Grand Bard – Chelsea Owens. This week the rules are:

  1. It’s time for another Acrostic Poem. Let’s pick a Topic of Celebrities.
    An acrostic is simple; write a word (say, like the celebrity’s name or favorite habit) down the left side, and then do a haphazard job of filling in with your poem.
  2. Length should be dependent on the word you pick, and how verbose you feel at each letter.
  3. Rhyme if you wish. Don’t if you wish.
  4. Make it terrible!! Make our eyes beg our brain to stop reading, just stop. Please; they would rather read grocery tabloids than whatever you just churned out.
  5. Celebrities and their choices can get a bit racy, so we’ll up the Rating to PG-13.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 27) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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Arrogant

liar

extremist

x-rated

a charlatan

New Yorker

deluded

egotistical

racist

Brexit will make him millions

ought to make his pals billions

remain was always his position

it changed to suit his self mission

self deluded craving celebrity privileged Eton boy

Destined to play as Nero with his new burning country toy

england should be for the English he proudly shouts

privately whispering he’s actually not from these whereabouts

Funding his lovers and friends with public money

easily avoiding the rules like some corrupt Easter Bunny

fibbing and lying is his way to con the masses

flippantly poking fun at those from the working classes

evading visits from the police to one of his shouting matches

lovers are kept quiet maybe with gifts paid for from our hard earned taxes

Jovial and bumbling are what the media laps up

only reporting the fake image and never about how he is so corrupt

he said he couldn’t live on his huge ministerial wage

no thought for us as he takes us back to the Victorian Age

so a man without principles or any human decency

only interested in one person and slayer of our democracy

not a man of the people just a wannabe celebrity member of the aristocracy

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.

Terrible Poetry

It’s time to shake the very fabric of time and space with a bit of Terrible Poetry hosted by Chelsea Owens. This week the challenge is:

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Infinitely improbable, you say? Don’t panic! Read my basic outline on what every pan-dimensional being expects from bad poetry in my Blogger’s Guide to the Terribleness. Aim for a little lower than self-throttling by one’s own intestine; a little higher than Vogon.

Here are the specifics for this side of the galaxy:

  1. The Topic is towels. Do you know where yours is?
  2. The Length is up to the budding artist (you).
  3. Rhyming is optional.
  4. Just make it terrible. As you clear your throat for a recitation, the entire Vogon fleetmust flee in …well, in an organized, bureaucratic fashion after completing the necessary paperwork.
  5. How risqué can a towel get? I wouldn’t dare ask Adams that, but I think we can keep things PG or friendlier.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 13) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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My friend stayed at a Trump Hotel and pinched one of the towels

When the President finds out he will give him one of those scowls

On the Vice Presidents visit to Ireland he stayed at another Trump Hotel

I wonder if he had a towel in his bag when he bid the hotel farewell

Now the army has to bunk at Trumps Golf Resort in Scotland

Hundreds of fluffy white ones will go missing as mistakes are not learned

Poor Donald looses so many towels I hope he has a good supplier

Probably from China but he won’t know as he is such a crap buyer

And I wonder as Trump played golf while Hurricane Dorian continued to magnify

What was he thinking as he dried his grip with one of the finest towels money can buy

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.

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….

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

Terrible Poetry

It’s that time again. Time for some terrible poetry in the form of Chelsea Owens weekly competition.

This week the rules are

  1. The Topic is a limerick about poets who take themselves way too seriously.
  2. One limerick’s Length is five lines long; an anapaest meter. Double it up for ten, if you wish.
  3. Limericks rhyme …or, at least, they get really really close.
  4. The most important rule of thumb is to make it terrible! You need anarchist beatniks in coffee shops the world over to raise themselves from a backlit Apple, scowl over something besides the injustice of everything, and slowly sip their organic latte in pure distaste for what you have done.
  5. As usual, keep the rating PGish or kinder.

If you feel the creative juices flowing then pop over to Chelsea’s site. Just remember Terrible is the new cool or as we say in the UK now – Boris Johnson is the new lunatic in charge of the asylum.

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There once was a Boris who wanted to be a Poet

He thought he was better than us that’s why he only drunk Moët

He thought it was ok to lie, cheat and bluff it all the way to the top

He even had his hairstyled like his best friend Donald’s flop

Unbelievably one day he became a poet wouldn’t you ***** know it

As this is PG of course ***** means just. In no way does it mean effing.

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I completely forgot about the separate challenge I have with Bob where we have to include a specific word. This week was supposed to be jalapeño. So here is version 2. It’s not PG and is definitely not very good…..

There once was bluffer Boris who so wanted to be a Poet

By birth he was superior that’s why he only drunk Moet

Poet Laureate he became happily chancing his people everyday at the casino

Laughing with his Eton buddies as he made his servant suck on a Jalapeño

Not bad for a scheming chancer who really doesn’t know much s**t