Who's bad? We bad. Bad poetry, that is.
So I got some great news today — I don’t have cancer. Yay! I’ve been waiting (semi) patiently while the labs were running their tests, but I got the news this evening — a nice phone call to get during one’s birthday week. It was a hard day — people fighting over blog posts, haggling with a contracts person, arguing over a movie project, and having to say some very hard things to someone we’ve worked with several times. Frankly, it was looking like a lousy day. But then, BANG! The phone call, and suddenly the birds are singing, the sun is shining (um… except that it’s night), God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world. Amazing how one’s perspective can change in an instant.
And what could make me feel better than a steamin’ pile o’ bad poetry? If you don’t know, we do this every year the first week of May — invite writers to send us their worst. Some of it rhymes, some of it is free verse, some was clearly written by people with drug dependencies. This is my unique way of celebrating my birthday. But don’t send me a birthday poem, or you’ll be disqualified (and possibly roughed up by the Poetry Police). Instead, we want poems that offer deepfulness, that reflect your struggling artistic side, that brings your true bad self out and parades it around for everyone to gag over.
And this year we’ve got a fabulous Grand Prize — an actual hard copy of MOON PEOPLE, the book voted as having the best reviews of any bad novel. (Check it out. I mean it. Go to Amazon and look up the 81 five-star reviews of MOON PEOPLE. They are brilliantly bad.) So what are you waiting for? Go to the COMMENTS section and give me your true bad self!
43 Comments
Thank God for the good news. As for the poetry contest … after a year wait and an anxious comment to you a few weeks ago about when it will start, I missed it. I don’t get notifications when you have a new post and thus left entirely up to me to remember to look daily for it, which of course, I did not do due to my writing bad poetry. So upon reading this morning about having missed it, I was just about to harm myself three ways until I read your cancer (lack of) post and became consumed with new vigor and reason. Good health trumps bad poetry so cheers!
(I have a year not only to writer badder poetry but to figure out how to get email notifications of your blog posts)
Blessings
It’s not everyone who can join are Bad Poetry. As the Good Book says, “Many Bad Poets are called, but few are chosen to sign up in time.” We’ll all take a moment of silence in your honor, Tricia [moment…] — there. And now we’re back to our normal lives. Glad you came on to confess.
OK, I will play. 🙂
STATUS UPDATE
You
Could have called
Me
To up with me break
But you took the low road
Brave Brave Sir Robin
And surmised a sneaky SMS
Would suffice.
New Message Received
A digital viper
You could not
Hurt
Me more
If you
Had gone medieval on my ass like Marsellus Wallace
In Pulp Fiction.
Oh, cruel world!
Shock becomes despair becomes rage!
I respond and my phone
autocorrects
Duck you botch!
botch!
botch!
A selfie captures angst
Teary instagram.
Hey, duck you, botch! Brilliantly bad and tender.
Tracy — I need your email, please. You’re the winner!
Chewy Pink Sonnet
Unwrap and masticate the solid block
The flavor guaranteed, won’t fade with time.
Now gnaw full twenty minutes by the clock—
Prepare to earn your living as a mime.
Your jaws, you see, are fully occupied
Hard block becomes a pink elastic glob.
The urge to blow is not to be denied—
Saliva on your chin, you are a slob.
It’s time! You must inhale a mighty gasp.
Extend your tongue. Be quick, the moment’s fast—
For victory seems near, within your grasp.
The wobbling sphere expands, but will it last?
The loser does as losers always do,
And wears discarded gum upon his shoe.
Fantastically bad, Heidi! Thanks very much.
If it made you laugh, that’s good.
I decided to share this great poem that I wrote in 7th grade. I have
fond memories of brilliancy and of course, saved it. I bet my teacher
saved it too.
Jane Milling Stoneyule
Did not want to go to school
All she wanted to do was play
At the playground slide all day
One day her mother took her things to the plane
And said you are going away to school Jane
So she said goodbye to her mom
Little did she no there was a bomb
When she stepped onto the plane
It bursted into flames
Jane Milling Stoneyule
Never ever had to go to school.
Entering your 7th grade poem is a common practice here at the Bad Poetry Contest, and one we encourage. Nice to see you discovered your true talent at such a tender age, Melissa.
Wonderful news, Chip. My husband experienced the agony of waiting to hear recently, with the same good results, so we share your joy.
Thanks, Elinor.
Glad to hear you’re going to be around for awhile 🙂 I don’t do poetry. Sorry.
Some people just aren’t deep and meaningful, apparently.
Hardy Har Har
Ok, Chip, I’ll take a crack at the “Bad Poetry” in honor of your birthday AND your clean bill of health:
“The words elude me
Staying distant
Ever distant.
Brain fade. Writer’s block. The old cliche.
Maybe Chick fil A
will help.
(Hey I didn’t even plan to rhyme “old cliche” and “Chick fil A!”)
The words are coming back,
Coming nearer,
Ever nearer.
But keep that “Moon” book far away.
Far away.
It won’t help.
You will LOVE the Moon book, Cindi. Right up your alley. The author also had old cliches and brain fades!
If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium.
Or piano lesson day.
Or spaghetti night.
It can’t be Wednesday
Or I’d remember where I am
Or what I ate, or what I did.
And I’d remember you,
Wouldn’t I?
Time to take the meds again, Sandy.
Glad you don’t have to take cancer meds. “Thank you, Lord.” And thanks, Chip, for the shout-out in yesterday’s Finalist’s blogpost. Does that mean I almost won an Honorable Mention?
That’s good news to hear for anyone Mr. MacGregor. And, while passing by, I thought I’d contribute to the celebration with a poem I’ve been working on for several moments now.
Hark!
Harken to the bird, and the lizard
Chirp on the wing, and croak on the rock
Nature’s own warning bells
Tolling in her sanctu…ughh.
Hark! A Bad Poem!
Praise God you’re in good health, Chip. My award winning bad poem, which received over five hundred negative four star reviews on BadPoetry&CritterWineReviews.com, is already posted.
That alone garners you extra points, Ron.
No poem from me, either, but also want to wish you well. And Happy Birthday!
Thanks, Johnnie.
You have to be a truly good poet to write a truly bad poem, so I’ll wimpily forgo the challenge, but I will say how wonderful it is it hear your good news!
Thanks, Sooz. Nice to see you on here.
Hi Chip, no poetry to share, just wanted to say that I’m so very glad you do not have cancer…will keep you in my prayers, though. And Happy Birthday! *I’d sing it, but you’d be REALLY sorry you had to hear me 😉 *
Okay, we won’t ask you to join when we do Bad Karoke Night, Rene.
LOL 😀 If it’s BAD karoke I can more than oblige. 😉
So much bad poetry to choose from – so little time. I know… The dreaded sports rhyme:
I have got a history of sabotaging teams;
In the past my silly rhymes have ruined play-off dreams.
Thus, I hope you’ll understand when I say something nice
About Montreal’s Canadiens and Carey Price.
He has been on fire – stopping every puck he sees –
“Like he’s on a mission,” which is bad news for my Bs.
P.K. Subban (he’s the guy the Bruins love to hate…
Mostly out of envy, because he’s been playing great)
Scored, again, on breakaways last night on Tuukka Rask
Who, with a new baby, fell asleep behind his mask.
Series stands at 2 to 1; Game 4’s on Thursday night.
If the Bruins lose that one they could still be all right
But it isn’t likely. The Canadiens are good.
Even when the games are played in Boston’s neighborhood
If the Bruins cannot find the will to step it up
They are gonna miss their chance to win the Stanley Cup.
Brilliantly bad, Mr Smeej! Clearly one of the best entrants, even if nobody in America is really paying attention to hockey until the Stanley Cup Finals. (Right now there are people reading this and asking, “They’re still playing hockey?”) Thanks for this. Loved it.
Why thank you kind sir… I think. The better news (although not as good as your clean bill of health news) is that my rhyming jinx worked… My team won the next 2 games.
My Table…and You
You are like my table–except you have two legs, not four.
My table is aged, dented, and useful. TREASURED.
Shellacked glitter, cookie sprinkles, and leftover Mac-and-cheese linger.
Its face is a window to its soul. Like you.
Deep. And meaningful.
Who does your kitchen counter remind you of?
I have no bad poetry to offer (not because I’m an excellent poet, but because I SUCK at poetry to the point where I can’t even come up with a bad one). I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re okay. Sounds like you got the news on the perfect day. 🙂
Thanks, Janice.
Chip, that is wonderful news and God bless you! And, like RC I have to share another pile of bad stuff…but since you mentioned Ogden Nash, you reminded me of something he had written about my beloved longears, so here you go:
mr nash wrote
in the world of mules
there are no rules
I haven’t a clue
why mules were in a zoo
but if there are no rules
then why are they not in pools
why are they not in schools
why are the not in cars
or bars
In the words of mules,
you found pools, rules, and schools,
which I think is cools.
and you’re no fools.
Just had to go there, didn’t you…hahahahaha!
First of all, congratulations on the good news, Chip. Okay, I’ll play. My poem is called “Sunlight”, something I’d hope this collection of words would never see again, but since you asked…
Sunlight
Like Icarus I see the sun
But not part of the sky
The light he seeks shines up above
And mine glows in your eyes.
Still a clear and present danger
Sends him tumbling back to ground
And no more safe am I to touch
This love that I have found.
My wings are made of memories
No stronger than his paraffin
And foolish pride, like him,
May send me far from where I’ve been.
Far from the security
The safety of my home
Aloft into the azure winds
To search for you alone.
And from the earth mere mortals wish
To reach forbidden heights
While all I wish is for an end
To all my lonely nights.
So I will brave uncharted land
To this new course stay true
And I will shadow mountains high
If awaiting me are you.
The land below can’t anchor me
Love lifts me to the skies
And even on my darkest days
I’ll still find sunlight in your eyes.
A truly bad poem, RC. You clearly have the gift! Thanks for participating.