Stand by your Panic Rooms it’s that time again. Yes it’s time for truly terrible poetry.
Its time for Chelsea Owens mused poetry contest. This week the theme is…
Our cat is not black. Not sure I’m allowed to paint him. Given his immense size it would take an awful lot of emulsion. So imagine it’s a black cat….
So here goes. Wish me luck. I’m struggling to think of a word to rhyme with LUCK….
Oh no it’s Friday the thirteenth
Which is one less than fourteenth
Started the day by breaking a bedroom mirror
To find my huge tax bill just got a whole lot dearer
Then I mistakenly opened an umbrella indoors
And now my garden is full of rowdy dinosaurs
I foolishly walked under a builders ladder
And got bit on the bum by an angry adder
With a sore butt I then I stepped on a crack
Only to be attacked by a rabid wolf pack
Finally a Black Cat crossed my path
And now I’ve just fallen into the bath
I realised that it’s been a while since I mentioned grief. If I’m not careful I will need to change the name of the blog. Maybe it’s time to find something with ‘muppet’ or ‘most excellent baker’ as a new badge to work under. The possibilities are endless when you think about it. So many things to go for
Trying to navigate the Asperger Parenting open waters
Truly shocking poetry
Badly behaved pets
Badly behaved wildlife
Village high jinks
The wonders of Switzerland
Hide behind the sofa politics
How many photos I can squeeze out of one back garden view
Maybe not accountancy…. Definitely not that. I would actually rather listen to a U2 album than read about that subject. But maybe there is a key message here. Apart from I’ve actually found something I hate more than Bono singing. If you had asked me back in 2016 and 2017 to make a list then it would have been very short. Grief, single parenting and Aspergers. Bereavement and loss seems to rob you of your life. Your gaze drops to your feet, just can’t lift your head up. Walls begin to surround you. But with time, in your own time, things do improve. You can lift your head up again. You start to want the walls to come down again. Yes maybe Bereavedsingledad doesn’t quite fit anymore.
It’s time to get scared, very scared. Almost Halloween and time for a bit of truly awful poetry. Admit you love it! What YOU don’t…. Oh pants…..
It’s time to try Chelsea Owens weekly A Mused Poetry contest. This week most surprisingly it’s as follows
So here goes. I will stick to my terrible poetry as that’s all I can manage. Look at it this way, at least it stops me baking……
So many years and so many Halloween’s
Desperately trying to create a scary smokescreen
Always searching for the perfect Mask
The truly frightening one which is up to the task
I’ve tried them all but they end of just being lame
Freddy Kruger was just do ridiculously tame
Dracula and Frankenstein were as scary as the lovely Joan Hickson
Jason and Michael masks made me look like the unlovely Richard Nixon
But now I’ve seen the path to the perfect scary look
Maybe I should don a Chefs hat and carry a cookbook
Maybe I should dig out my old French Can-Can costume
Maybe a morning mirror photo of me from the bathroom
Actually there is a much simpler way for me to truly scare
Me just going unmasked is the perfect psychological warfare.
Oh no, it’s time for the panic rooms. I’m doing poetry. How can I Tweet you this bad.
It’s that time of week for Chelsea Owens mused poetry challenge. This week the challenge is
As I am old fashioned and as it’s a great excuse for hiding my complete lack of poetry talent – I will stick to terrible poetry. See Terrible Poetry still lives….
If I get an anniversary card from my partner these days then it is the stuff of Ghost or the Twilight Zone. And a few years back if I received a 122 word message in my card it would either be a shopping list or divorce papers. Only joking. My partner would always write the sweetest messages. My messages would normally start with either ‘sorry it’s late’ or ‘I thought we had an anniversary last year…’.
So sorry this card is late
So sorry I’m a bit overweight
I thought we had an anniversary last year
Do we really get them every year, my dear
Just 122 words is perfect for a food shopping list
Or divorce papers which I have chosen to miss
I’ve really got no idea why you put up with me
Especially as I’ve just spilled coffee over your settee
Chelsea Owens has another poetry challenge on the go. This week it is….
Hey! It’s the A Mused Poetry Contest! Make a gaffe, cause a laugh!
Here are the specifics for this week’s contest:
You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 2) to submit a poem.
The problem is that I started writing a poem. A terrible one. I lime making my poems terrible. It hides how bad I am at being a bard, but it allows me to call myself one. But I went for the wrong subject. Adverts and Brexit. Just couldn’t make it funny. I failed. So I won’t be sending my words to Chelsea this time. It’s terrible. I could make it terrible. Definitely terrible but not funny this time. Sorry just not a funny subject. It’s just very sad.
Cue the patriotic music and views of the White Cliffs of Dover
It’s time to sell Brexit to the masses, to buy into the dream, moreover
Just think of the future with our new brightly coloured passports
The fun of all those new travel checkpoints and long queues at the ports
The joy of telling our kids that we have taken away their right to free travel
Watch as our worker rights and environmental standards begin to unravel
Be happy as we sell the NHS to American Insurance Groups in the hope of a deal
Any deal as we cut ourselves adrift, is it time for chlorinated chicken to be revealed
Let’s not forget the rich brexit backers who for some reason have now moved abroad
Let’s be proud that now as a country we are free to rip up international accords
Enjoy the sight of all those companies now moving jobs away from our now free island
Yes remember those glossy Brexit adverts that told us to dream, smile and
Strangely failed to mention all the crap that is about to happen to our country
That’s the problem with adverts, they sell you stuff you don’t need, that’s speaking bluntly…..
Stand by yours beds people. It’s kind of back. Chelsea Owen’s weekly poetry challenge. Ok it’s not officially Terrible Poetry anymore, but this is me, I can only do it one way. That’s Terrible. Do this challenge once a week and I can myself a bard. A bad bard….
This week Chelsea is back with
Where once I told everyone to write terrible poetry, I now tell you to write terrible poetry with the intent to make us all laugh:
You have till 10:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 11) to submit a poem to Chelsea.
Brace yourself, here goes….
I am English and I am most certainly very eccentric
I drive a car the shape of a teapot but don’t worry, it’s electric
I have a fine collection of pink britches with matching bowler hats
Let’s not forget I live underground with my cross dressing pampered cats
And pray tell what’s wrong shopping in a musical codpiece when it’s authentic
This is a photo from 3 years ago. I stumbled across it while looking for some old climbing ones. Another typical Yorkshire August day – all four seasons in one day. It got me thinking – what’s the same and what’s changed in those 1000 odd days. See that’s what a professional accountancy qualification can do for you – I’m good at those complicated adding up calculations.
THINGS WHICH ARE THE SAME
THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED FOR THE WORSE
THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED FOR THE BETTER
You might be thinking that looking at the relative number of entries on these lists that the last 1000 odd days have been generally bad. But look at some of those things on the last list. It’s not about quantity it’s about quality. Yep looking at that last list, over the last 1000 odd days we have challenges but some really good stuff has still happened. That’s why there is always hope.
It’s been far too long since I’ve inflicted some terrible poetry on you. Just like my baking and my terrible Yorkshire jokes – YOU KNOW YOU LOVE IT 💓. So here goes then, but wait….. the last time I did one of these, it was pointed out that I couldn’t write these without having a go at the Government. As we know having a pop at The Government can be fun. But it can also be just a little grinding. So this is a politics lite poem (honest, well I might have accidentally slipped in one subliminal message, can you spot it…..). Remember I’m not very good at this sort of thing. If you want brilliant poetry then look away and certainly look at the wonderful sites out there. I follow so many and they never fail to take my breath away with how good their work is. These are brilliant sites for a starter.
Tina (Pippi’s Poetry)
So here goes let’s make it terrible…….
Basking in a garden full of weeds
One which requires no expensive seeds
Requiring absolutely no tiring weeding
It’s good on the knees with 100% chance of succeeding
Such a source of endless colours
Just perfect for my crappy watercolours
Oh I hear you shout, I didn’t know you could paint
He is that good I could be paintings patron saint
Should see the mess I made of son’s bedroom wall
One would think I did it after a hefty pub crawl
No painting is not my thing, weeds are what I excel in
It’s as natural to me as having a hairy double chin
So why don’t you venture with me into my overgrown garden
A special place which is great at capturing that pesky carbon
Please bring your own cakes as mine might make you unwell
Really bring your own as my cakes are as hard as a bombshell
And we can have a drink you can comfortably settle
Then watch me get stung by that pesky little nettle
****** as pointed out I can’t spell Johnson – makes it even more terrible and clearly indicates my inability to write English.
There was a time when my mobile phone was only used for making phone calls. The phone call function now seems to be an optional extra. It’s now basically my camera, runs the house and sons Pokemon world generator….
As the great Terry Pratchett once said
Always be wary of any helpful item which weighs less than it’s operating manual.
As ever Terry in his hilarious fantasy worlds got life better than many so called modern philosophers. And while we let that thought hang in the air, let’s move onto the last Thursday challenge for a while. Yes people you will be safe from my terrible poetry for a number of months. But as Terry P also aptly pointed out
It’s not worth doing something unless you were doing something that someone, somewhere, would much rather you weren’t doing.
So it’s time for Chelsea Owens last challenge for a few months and my poetry….. Chelsea is taking a much earned blogging break over the Summer. This week’s challenge is about writing your very worst poem possible. Bonus points for squeezing in Douglas Adams like Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy references. Truly awful poems need to forwarded to Chelsea by 8.00am MDT on the 29th. As a Yorkshire lad I have no idea what MDT means – but it does sound kinda cool. Maybe something like Mindless Donald Tweets.
This poem might not mean too much if you have never read the great Douglas Adams books or have not had to endure the UK governments truly disgraceful lies (on a different scale over the last few days). To cut a long story short our PM is not in charge. That honour goes to a bloke called Cummings who is unelected but seems to have plenty of dirt on enough people to make him important. The country followed strict lockdown rules with the police taking action action rule breakers. We were told the rules were not requests, they were mandatory instructions. Stay at home or people will die. Senior People have been forced to resign for breaking them. Well apparently the rules didn’t apply to Cummings. He travelled 250 miles from his home to his parents (also a no no). This was when he and his wife had symptoms. Let’s just hope they didn’t need fuel…. He then decided to apparently test his eyesight by driving his wife on her birthday and with young son and dogs in the back of the car, 60 miles to a tourist site (Barnard Castle). Now this has been discovered the public are what is the phrase I’m looking for – pissed off. But now the government is saying that Cummings acted as any parent should do. So absolutely no action should be taken against him. In fact he’s a great citizen and parent according to Hancock (Health Minister). Basically all the parents who stayed at home and followed the lockdown instructions were stupid mugs.
Douglas Adams wrote of other worlds and evil races like the Vogons
He didn’t need to lie and cheat, no need to come up with patronising slogans
Now we have our very own new fantasy story authors
Cummings, Hancock and Boris, the UKs evil lying rotters
They inspire as much hope as Marvin the Paranoid Android
And are as pleasant as a hot curry to someone with a hemorrhoid
They only look after themselves, just like two headed Zaphod Beeblebrox
They gorge on the finest food while the peasants are expected to stay in detox
We all thought the answer to life was forty two
Well apparently not, that answer was a load of poo
The answer to everything is now apparently the tourist site called Barnard Castle
We are instructed to lockdown but for Cummings that is far too much hassle
If you are Cummings you can test your eyesight by driving your kid 60 miles
Just a coincidence it’s your wife’s birthday, ignoring restrictions with many smiles
Now that’s apparently Ok as it Cummings says his little poodle called Hancock
A man so stupid he’s turned this country into nothing more than a laughingstock
So thank you Douglas for writing some of the funniest stories ever told
And thank you those who voted for Boris, a man as useful as the common cold