This year’s Bad Poetry contest brought to light some truly terrible talent. Writers who spend their time creating thoughtful, sensitive novels can suddenly go all dark when trying to create something awful. So it’s tough to pick a winner when you’ve got so much Badness to sort through.
For example, Susan M Watkins’ Ode to Loade included this brilliant rhyme:
The Richter scale dost measure,
Like yon crashing chandelier,
Nary less support around me,
Than a 3-hook Sears brassiere.
And my buddy Eurovision provided this fantastic piece of bad poetry:
We’re Slavic girls, we know how to use our charming beauty
Now shake what your mama gave ya!
Clap your hands to this music
This is our nature, This is our call
This is our hot Slavic blood
Unfortunately, we had to disqualify the entry, since it turns out these are ACTUAL LYRICS TO A SONG on Eurovision (the European version of “America’s Got Talent,” it serves as sort of an Olympics for Bad Poets). Look for this from a finalist on American Idol soon.
Continuing the bad lines, Moon People Unite2 offered:
Lacerations are red,
contusions are blue,
a cliff, and a push,
and a fall from view.
It questions the validity of friendships.
Ya gotta admit, she makes you think. And The Emprys, in a truly bad poem, offered this:
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.
You are like a poet, except you aren’t. And those aren’t even the winners! Sensitive artist Sandy Begtur gave us this big dollop of dross:
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,
So you can see, our expert judges had PLENTY Of badness to wade through. But after hours of reading and heavy drug use, we came up with our finalists…
Loved this deep hockey poem from Mr Smeej:
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 Ask
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.
And this execrable ditty from Heidi Kortma:
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.
But the truly BADDEST came from the likes of Moon People Unite (named after our Grand Prize), who gave us this paean to Bad Disney movies:
“Let It Go!”
“Let It Go!”
sang the mean, icey FROZEN ho
as she changed her dress
from modest to “fresh”
and wouldn’t follow her own proviso.
She wiggled and strutted
like an arrogant, runway model,
and sang, and sang, and sang;
but the rhythm of her voice and words
didn’t match her choice of words
and together, they sounded like rusty, heavy, metal gates
when they clang.
So, to have my granddaughter watch this louse,
takes a great deal of explanation,
for if Elsa hadn’t unfroze her sister,
then I would have gone postal on The Mouse.
Our runner up (and it’s imperative we have a runner up, in case our Winner decides he cannot fulfill the Bad Poetry pledges) is novelist Gina Conroy, who brought together Bad Poetry, Bad Imagery, and Bad Behavior with her words:
There is no safety, no where to escape the flames inside
that urge me to mate like two deer in the meadow.
Burn, burn, burning across the meadow of my loins,
no chance to stop and quench the fire,
or I will burn, burn, BURN.
Run, run, RUN for cover.
Cover the fire that burns.
Smother, douse, extinguish the flames
that ravage body, soul, and mind.
Mind, thinking of you… how you started this fire…
How you played with my kindling and left me to burn.
Burn, burn, BURN… In HELL
I don’t know what two deer mating in the meadow sound like, but THIS poem sounds beautifully shallow, stupid, and violent. And be warned — you don’t want to play with her kindling. If you get my meaning.
However, the GRAND PRIZE WINNER, and the Bad Poet who receives this year’s fabulous prize (a actual hard copy of MOON PEOPLE, widely considered to be the worst novel offered on Amazon) is Tracy Adkins, with this sensitive and thoughtful bit of Bad Poetry that combines teenage breakups, love, loss, and misspelled text messages:
Could have called
To up with me break
But you took the low road
Brave Brave Sir Robin
And surmised a sneaky SMS
New Message Received
A digital viper
You could not
Had gone medieval like Marsellus Wallace
In Pulp Fiction.
Oh, cruel world!
Shock becomes despair becomes rage!
I respond and my phone
Duck you botch!
A selfie captures angst
A misspeeled twirt is being sent in your honor, Tracy (you botch!). Send me your mailing address, and we’ll grace you with your very own copy of MOON PEOPLE.
Thanks to all who participated. It’s been a Bad year, and YOU helped make it that way!