Come join our 7th Annual Bad Poetry Contest
Okay, the time has come… My birthday is coming up soon, and that means it’s time for our Annual Bad Poetry Contest! Yes, try not to wet your pants in excitement as you think about coming up with some deep and meaningful tripe. For those of you not in the know, there is a longstanding tradition with British novelists for turning out truly bad poetry, and the cool kids in publishing take a few minutes each year to participate in my annual contest. (Don’t be left out.) So this is your chance to create something truly bad and get away with it. I want you to send it in — your rotten rhymes, your horrible haiku, your crappy couplets. This isn’t just a chance for you to churn out some doggerel that will make others nod politely while thinking, “geez — was he drinking heavily when he wrote this?” No, this is your chance to give us something truly awful — a piece of crud that make others run screaming from the room. A bit o’ deep thinking that will show the world just how deep and sensitive you really aren’t. A chance to create a poem that will stick like a stone in the kidney of your mind.
We do this every year, and if you go to the categories (over there –>) you can check out all the bad poetry others have sent in over the years. They include bad imagery, faux depth, and LOTS of terrible word choices. Just consider some sample bad poems…
The bad opening lines from Ben Erlichman’s A Fruit Soliloquy:
Alas, the moose, she has taken my bananas
And I can hear the sound of the wailing wind no longer.
The bad comparisons, such as this from Damian Farnworth: “I’m spicy like taco meat”
The bad imagery, including Kay Day’s thoughtful, “Someday I will once again walk in the brightness
We even have bad fake ethnic poetry, such as “Krzjette” by Hajid Kirduz Mesechnohech, which begins:
Krzjette, your love for me
was like lowing of she-goats in spring
when bald sparrows
alight on budding bushes.
But where we excel is in the truly bad, self-indulgent, hey-look-at-me-I’m-a-poet-and-in-pain type of work that share the true deepfulness and reflectivosity of all poets everywhere, evident in John Upchurch wretched hunk o’ words:
You see those periods? That’s how
Serious I am (and even on separate
Lines). My thoughts are so deep
That whole sentences
Cannot contain them–not even
Complex compound sentences
With and after and, but
So yes, we do this every year, asking readers to participate in the “comments” section so we can pick a weiner… er, I mean, a winner. Last year’s weiner, Fifi, gave us these memorable lines:
Bleat. Bleat now! Before the day is done. Before the dawn
turns to gray. It is not too late. Huddled masses. Hoofs. Hollers. Hope. Bleat
before the clock strikes one. The tolling bell of ending desire. Doom.
Doom of the bleating ones.
You’ve gotta admit, that sort of poetry just makes you want to bleat. And, of course, the REASON behind all this is that you’re trying to win the Grand Prize — a genuine copy of what has been called “the worst self-published book ever.” The title is How to Good-bye Depression, and is the product of that great writing mind Hiroyuki Nishigaki, who added to its fame by creating this winning subtitle: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Every Day. Malarky? or Effective Way? (No, I’m not making this up. That’s the subtitle. Complete with punctuation errors.) Chapters of the book include Erase your bad stickiness and multiply various good feeling, Save sex energy and rotate vortex, and my favorite chapter, Stare, shoot out immaterial fiber, uceed in concentrating, behave with abandon-largess-humor, and beckon the spirit. (I checked to make sure I had that one exactly as published — right down to the word “uceed.”) Let me just point out that I’m not only a huge fan of this book, I’ve long been in favor of rotating your vortex. I’m not as big on shooting out immaterial fiber, unless you’re out-of-doors and wearing the proper headgear. Anyway, this book can be ALL YOURS if you win the this year’s Bad Poetry Contest. So don’t delay, start consipating now!
1. Go to “comments” and drop your bad poem for all to see.
2. Don’t send me a birthday poem, unless you want me to slug you. Yeah, this is my way of celebrating. But “Happy Birthday oh Chip o’ mine, Hope this finds you well and fine” gets tired in a hurry.
3. Um… I don’t know if there ARE any other rules. I mean, you create a bad poem and post it in the “comments” section of this blog. How hard can that be? Any kind of poem is fine. Free verse, rhyming couplets, limericks — the key is that it needs to be BAD. (And by “bad” we don’t just mean “sort of stoopid.” We mean “falsely deep,” “annoyingly awful,” and “please-shoot-me-before-I-write-some-more treacle.”) We’re looking for bad imagery. Incorrect word choice. Irresponsible concepts. Awful metaphors. Smarmy tripe. We don’t just want dumb cutesyness — we want mind-numbingly BAD poetry!
So put on your stinking cap, and think up something rotten. It’s a tough job, but SOMEbody’s got to create bad poetry. You have been chosen. Feed your gift. The contest starts… NOW.
I’m not sure if entering is closed yet, but I thought I’d try. If it’s too late, can I hold onto it for next year?
My poem has a deepness that many won’t be able to apreciate. The skeptics shall veiw it as total nonsence, and shall condenscendingly turn up their noses, inflated with their own facitiosness. But the open-minded, the inspired, the beautiful, the wise, the creative, the good – they shall find infinate layers of meaning, which they will peel away like a banana which has multiple peels, one on another (so that when you peel off one there’s another peel undeneeth it, and you never reach the bananna.) Because of the way that you could interpet the poem in a million (no, a trillion) different ways, true poets can draw many different feeling from it. (Feeling rhymes with peeling). Each time they read through it, it will be different. They could laugh like a hynena, reminise like an old guy, sob like someone who’s sobbing, or tingle like shooken oh-so-crisp lettece with a little water on it. This is a poem that literary critics, poem-lovers, and those classes which disscuss works of writing can obsess over for weeks. I proudly present:
Tae en koloko fiary
Ben neto kan ti ninary
Kanitt e tella fyro tee ta
Jsdofm, canit, balo.
TATILLIOKANA! (poot poot)
Howl fowl wind
With a horse voice
Your leaving with my youth in tow,
Having no snacks for the journey.
Cruelty for the menopausal.
Now you should fear the tyranny
Of a woman maladjusted for the weather.
Should I pack a sweater?
Yes, and some chocolate if you have any scents at all.
Howl, fowl wind, you flock of vultures; cannibals, feasting aloft on my ageless ness-ness.
This was written over 30 years ago and never shown in public before…;~)
The soul is a boat
as it carries our emotions
gently through the sea of life.
Rough waters may rock it
and the skies may pour
but always it travels
the path to inner peace.
Moy Oyrish Art
‘Make a rhoyme,’ one day moy luv said to
But rhoyme I cannot, so disappointed
E asked for a lim’rick but Oym
not good at that oyther.
I tried for a song but E dint
loyk that noyther.
Tiring of this, I asked E take
E said places were limited but Oy
E offered me pubs, The Bog, The
Oy ad to refuse with names such
‘What am Oy?’ I asked, ‘Yer maid, a
Oy anded it to im, E couln’t get
E said it weren’t true, said E
loved me, E did.
Oy asked how could it be when offrin
E said it weren’t loyk that, Oy
It was too late by then,
words dint do no good.
So that’s where Oy left it, no
further it went.
It seemed Oy just dint ever get
wot E meant.
Fuddled, I am. Oh so gruntled.
Couraged, content, heartened.
Everything I can be, without the Be, the Dis.
So don’t dis me.
But how can one be ware without the be?
I am ware. I am trayed. I am stowed.
One thing I am not – I am not twixed.
A Twix is a chocolate, and I don’t do Twix.
Advantaged, I am. Able & claimed.
I am associated, but never armed.
Am I banded, dained, criminated?
Of all the things that ought to be dis,
It should be the otheque.
That I can never be.
Love at first scent
In the morning, on the shore,
Where she bathest evermore,
With the wind, in her hair, by the sea.
There she frolicked, with a grin,
And my heartbeat did begin,
To a-pounding, with the surf, and much glee.
For she stirred, in my loins,
Love like gold—not just coins—
And I knew, there and then, she’d be mine.
‘Cause her voice, clear like bell,
Made me think, “What the hell,
Doesn’t matter that I reek of turpentine.”
So I strode, brave as heck,
With proud head, on my neck,
And I said, “Come with me, and we’ll love”.
And she laughed, like a bark,
And my mind went all dark,
And then rain fell on us from above.
She said “No, you’re not right,
Your bad smell give me fright,
Do you paint? Do you clean? Who are you?”
“I’m your dream,” said I then,
And I pulled out a pen,
And I wrote words for her that were blue.
Which she read, in disgust,
And crumpled into dust,
And threw them out to sea with disdain.
And I stood, lone and bare,
With my hands in my hair,
And I cried, for my love, in the rain.
I wrote it in high school:
My boyfriend is a constant jerk,
He really thinks he’s grand.
His opinion of himself
Is more than I can stand.
He thinks he’s all my dreams come true,
My ever-guiding light.
He thinks I’ll be his walking slave-
But worst of all, he’s right.
In which a brother and sister rival…
Stop, she cries, whacking stick in two hands.
“Sniff,” goes the platinum haired one
Who cries out regarding the
Smell of the little girl’s feet
We all cry.
The descent to hell begins as we
Close the car doors
He’s looking at her
She is restrained, constrained by the seatbelt
She looks back
Volcanic eruption in their eyes and the third child is caught
In the middle…forever.
A BAD POEM
a bad poem…why
for the laughter or accidental cry
a bad poem, perfection broken
not thinking nor caring for the “winners” token
entering this in a goofy way
switvhing my genere, this is what i made
not quite sure as i attempt this , bold
and give my opposite side shown
confusing, not great
questioning , but surly i relate
curiousity in a sence unknown
realeasing to you my happy birthday bad poem
You did it, Paige! Thanks for joining in the fun!
My chalice runs over with sour wine
A symbol of my undying love
Brimming with foam
My cup runs
Like stockings in a briar patch
The buggy prickers stick closer than my younger sister
My heart is close to yours
Beating like an old drum needing a tune-up
But beating just the same…
The same as what you ask?
Like the old ticker on the mantle shelf
Bored out of its mind, waiting to chime.
My love is predictable and wants to run after you
Now that is a sick love poem. Thanks for joining in. I do think it qualifies for bad poetry!
Okay, I will admit to loving this sort of bad metaphor for love, Jeanne. Thanks for the badness.
The Pine Tree’s Fleeting Moment
The pine tree bowed like a ribbon in the wind,
Messing my hair, doubling my chin.
When what to a wondering eye did appear,
But a tiny, little squirrel
With an acorn in his ear.
An acorn you say?
But it is the pine tree that is bowing.
Alas, the acorn appeared in the blowing…
Of the wind that bowed the tree like a ribbon,
Messing up my hair.
So that’s where my double chin came from? Hahahaha…Thanks for lowering yourself to post something so bad. 🙂
Where the fore art youse?
oh yes, I looked.
The closets of my mined,
They be cluttered with chaos.
My studies are unusable,
Your rejoinders are ne’er to be unearthed.
Meaning becomes pedestrian;
Thus I will trek.
Wow, Carol, I didn’t realize you had so much Bard in you. (Or is it BARF?) Great bad job. Proud of you!
Writing bad poetry, I’ve always tried to avoid,
Like Brussel sprouts and mushrooms
And the mold in my toilet,
But now I guess I’m entering the void
Of disgusting and truly awful rhymes.
I hope no one I know
Or will know in the future
Will see this unpoetic poem of grime.
(There I did it, I wrote a bad poem;
It’s awful, it’s terrible, it’s nothing but gook.
These words that I’ve written, I sure don’t know ’em,
And I’ll tell you they certainly won’t appear in my chapbook.)
Whitney, you could write a genre of chapbook. Start a new trend! You’re certainly qualified for it. Hahahaha! Proud to have you in our den. 🙂
You know you’ve written a bad poem when it makes readers think, “She needs to clear her toilet.”
Ripping my curls out I moan and wail.
Blackness pierces my optical orbs like a roofing nail.
Slithering, dithering, ooey-gooey all the way…
Engorging horses, hips a-sway…
THEY ARE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY…
…to Disneyland because I’ve never been there before and really, really, really want to go.
The DAWN Cometh
Alas, the DAWN cometh,
on the wings of a ship.
She never doth dip.
Are you high, my love?
Higher than the sky?
Over the field of meadows,
like one giant pie?
Alas, the DAWN cometh,
on the tip of an ice skate,
on the end of a lace.
But never, oh never,
on the end of my face.
I’m impressed, Lori. I do believe that qualifies as bad poetry! So proud of you. 🙂
Alas. And thanks, Lori.
The sun popped out
And it promised the unknown
Of my hot fudge sundae
And without warning,
My weighted heart was whisked away
By the BLAST
Of the whippoorwill’s whisper
As the rain drip drip drappled on my windshield
And as happy clouds hovered heavily
Like chocolate drizzled over taffy
I clung paralyzed!!!! to the handle of my car’s door
Frazzled in fear
Unable to face the music
I turned on the radio
To boogie with Barry Manilow
So I took a nap
With leather purse in lap
Wear I couldn’t hear
The Weight Watcher’s scale jeer.
Such deep emotion, Peggy. I’m so proud of you. (You had me at the hot fudge sundae. )
A worm without a flower
Squalid in the mire of my slimy intellect
You, a snake,
When a baby cries
My flower blossoms
A Snake! Cries its tears
But I have forgotten in the wake of the morning garden
The price of consciousness is
The early morning gives life
I have forgotten the tears
I am out of my mire
I am swimming through dirt to my prize
I am eaten.
Your memories collect in my mind like age,
like newspaper at the recycling drop,
like triglycerides on the thought pods of my artery walls:
atherosclerosis = a disease of you.
The message you left, “Gone to the store”
aches in my retina,
patrols my visionary cavities
like uniformed police on patrol,
resounds like symbols of lost love:
a lonely deer,
a forlorn eagle,
a cigarette butt.
The infinity of your absentia stretches on in seconds.
Four hundred and twenty three
According to Online-Stopwatch.com.
“Come back to me!” I call
into the darkness of the sofa back,
its plush microfibers receiving my plea,
a strand of your hair, a reminder,
thtuck greedily to my thongue.
Oh my, Tim, you really ARE bad! So proud of you!
According to http://www.badpoetry.com, this is well done.
Depth of a Letter
A birthday poem for Chip
Written by Danica’s chicken, Gwendolyn Rose
Chickens can’t write poems.
All a chicken can do is
Eat, Sleep, Peck, and Poop.
Therefore, Gwendolyn cannot write you a poem.
However, she excels at pooping.
Hence her nickname, Gwennie Poo Poo.
I don’t think you want chicken poop for your birthday,
So instead, here’s a poem (sort of)
That my chicken would have written
If she could have.
(Be grateful it wasn’t poop.)
Actually, I’d say that pretty well qualifies as poop, Danica. Thanks for participating!
“I will love you forever,” he
(sighed, whispered, murmured, breathed)
he never decided how he should say it.
And so she was gone,
parading motionless and faithless
in the store window,
leaving the words hanging unused in his mouth
like a tabby-striped sheer bodysuit
in the closet of an aging telemarketer
as he dreams of the lead role in CATS.
Deep. You have a bad poet’s soul, Rachel.
It was for love, I saw you
With mine own eyes, I saw you
Leaping and dancing for love
I saw you, I saw you
Glistening with love, I saw you
Melting with glorious love, I saw you
Rancid and putrid, decaying with love
I saw you, I saw you
Love so rare must be seen, smelled
Dancing, twirling, fainting, revived
Love so alive, yet stinky
I saw you, I saw you
I smelled you
Hey! I had that same response when I read this poem! Excellent badness, Leola.
As I wake,I think of you
Your bright face gazing back at me
My fingers tingle when I touch you
No other makes me feel as giddy
Or as sad when apart
Alas, I must upgrade you
But wireless will be so much fun
Just think of all the places we will go
Just as long as there is internet service
As he penned his hauntingly truthful memoir
In the increasingly dark shadows of twilight
I quietly came up from behind those shadows
And punched him in the neck
Because I really hate adverbs
Katdish? Weren’t you in HUNGER PAINS?
ODE TO GEORGE CLOONEY’S CLEFT
Juliet fell for Romeo
And Scarlett fell for Rhett
But you’re the one I can’t forget
It’s that cleft in your chinny-chin-chin
The sight of it did me inny-in-in
My heart began playing a violin
You’re not the only cleft around
Kirk Douglas had one when he frowned
But only yours makes my heart pound
Your cleft is like a deep ravine
Deeper than any love’s ever been
What a gorgeous gully to store sunscreen
I’d love to trace its canyon walls
Pour out my love like Niagara Falls
But I guess you’d say that’s enough of this schmalz
Wow. Judy, that is truly terrible. Or as the French say, “Passe moi la pomme de terre-bull.” Oui.
Ode to Tomatoes
Oh my tomato plants!
Why dost thou wilt?
Did I not stuff you in ground full of silt?
And apply daily doses of animal by-products?
Yay in this spring that springeth forth dew
I watch in deep sorry as you bow to the hew
Reach for the sun my small yellow friends
for green you must turn before the month ends.
If you are to give unto me fruit (you’re not veggie).
So when I pick forth I might be given a wedgie.
Alas, sweet summer, when thou give and I take
my tall lovely ‘maters will provide much beefsteak.
Next up: Ode to Marinara.
Wait… Didn’t give away the rotating your vortex book in a previous year?? I’m starting to think that you’re really the guy who wrote it, and you’ve got a few cases of those puppies stuck in your closet somewhere.
Who knows? I may secretly be the author, D…
Behold. What a rack. Rack of Lamb, hooked up high, like a fish in the sky.
Only without the scales. More like a butterfly.
Looking so fine. A fine I’d like to fry.
Or barbequeue. I don’t mind.
Minty. Minty mint sauce.
Green beside the brown. So fine. Like a tree, but on a plate, and without the extra leaves and bark.
I meant baah.
Eye love ewe.
Get in my belly!
Isla, that’s so bad I actually enjoyed it. Thanks.
The morning has arisen, the day is anew
And in my eye pockets I find my green goo
Oh friend of the dawn! Let me wash you right out!
The first thing I do! The first thing I pick out!
Do I brush my teeth? No! Do I don my attire?
Nay, I wash eye boogers out with furious ire.
Once I am free, once my eyeballs feel clean
I can see what this day may gradually bring.
So bring me my coffee! Bring me my eggs!
Let this morning take forth with purposeful legs!
See, my eyeballs are clean. My eye boogers are gone.
I can start, nay, I can embrace, this beautiful day with a song.
this is so good! Very Dr. Suess-ish. 🙂
Very bad, Katharine. Thanks!
I couldn’t read it to my wife, I was laughing too hard! I may memorize this one.
is a cubicle
of knick knacks
and paddy whacks
The cheap rug
your parents stapled
in your hallway
You can’t roll
with the punches
with a busted wheel
under the office chair
of your soul.
Teen depth! Wonderfully bad! Thanks for participating, Travis.
My love for you fills me,
a flooded basement.
I must not drown,
I bail out my heart.
This poem I write,
a sump pump of love.
Yeah, bay-bee. The sump pump of love — that could become my new handle.
Sunspot of my eye,
You blind me with your brightness.
Large energy equating to radiation,
You half-life my heart
and I hand it to you
Neal understands how to do bad. Nice bad work.
I was walking on the streets
bare and rusty, like someone’s
half-drank bottle of underwear
that’s when I saw you.
You, with the mouth
of a thousand pigeons
in their majestic fuselage
like a magic carpet
I could vacuum you,
and you would be clean
like a pale fresh spring day
just out of the combination washer/dryer
but as the frog escapes the grasp
of something trying to grab it,
you escaped me
like I should have known
Now I walk home at dusk,
the sky as vivid
as a t.v. show
about vacation places.
“a thousand pigeons/mid-birth” . . . you win
🙂 Thanks, Holly.
I’m glad you appreciate my talent for tripe.
I gotta agree, Holly. “Like someone’s half-drunk bottle of underwear”? Fabulously bad. Simply fabulous.
I am a worm.
I am a worm? That may be just a BIT overdone, Kevin…
drip drip drip, your words fill my head like a stomach full of acid stew,
nip, nip, nip, you love to hear yourself and tell others what to do,
snip, snip, snip, your mouth reminds me of a fat cow’s chew,
whip, whip, whip, your tongue stirs up a molten brew,
trip, trip, trip, wishing you to fall in your own bowl of stinky pooh.
That is one stinky bowl of a poem, Cindy. Thanks!
It came upon me like a ferocious fire
From deep inside it came like fire
It made me feel like I was on fire
Menopause… nature’s fire.
Bad Poetry — Nature’s Extinguisher.
What is pathetic is some of this prose you could read in a poetry book that you bought! I’m just sayin’.
Correct. I mean, badly put, but basically correct, Kevin. That’s why I love this.
Foreboding is Hard: My life is Owed to the Bard
And lo, long I’ll be wearing the eyes of March,
Having given my kingdom for whores,
My vision’s doubled,
I’ve toiled, I’m troubled.
In Rome— O! Where four are thousands!
I spied and bespoke me to a comely wench—
though but a lass—“Pour your icky brewed teas
once more into the breeches of Iago.”
But sweet Rose protested muchly:
”Am I a play thing?
Have you no conscience?
I say, Who died and made you king?
T’was the sweetness of her sorrow that
set my teeth upon their edge,
Forced my feet unto the ledge,
My heart and flesh pounded,
The heavens now hounded
and deafened by my bootless cries,
( I’d removed my shoes so I could fly)
I softly broke the window yonder,
and took a moment to briefly ponder,
To be or not to be?
And below, as the restless natives shook their spears
At the sight of my streaming crocodile tears,
I thought I heard
a voice from beyond the grave,
Resounding, as though issuing forth from Plato’s cave:
To my own self should I tell this truth:
The course of true love never did run smooth.
In the words of Cole Porter (creating verses for his wonderful ditty “Brush Up Your Shakespeare”), “If she says your behavior is heinous, kick right in the Coriolanus!”
I wrote a fiction novel and it was good.
Chip would sell it if he could.
But the publishers don’t want it. I don’t understand.
I tried to self-publish, but then I got banned.
My words are tasty like a peppery cake.
Who cares that I don’t even know how to edit or bake.
It will make you cry til your eyes bleed
What do you mean, “I don’t want to read?”
It’s good, it’s good!” I shouted loudly
and held up all fifteen pages proudly.
It took two hours to write this book.
And you don’t want to take a look?
It’s going to be a best seller, you wait and see.
Because each and every page has been signed by me.
I read this out loud to my family and laughed. Awesome bad poetry!
This poem is bad as bad can be,
But we’ll run it by the com-mit-tee…
(Which is to say, THIS is bad poetry!)
“Knock,” he said to no one.
Since he was alone in the room, so alone.
(Unless you count the other people in the room, which he
didn’t. Sometimes he did, but not this time.)
“Knock,” he repeated, the misery of a fiery Cheeto fresh on
He wept again.
Where did all these people come from?
Excellent badness, Tom! Fake depth, stupid phrases, bad imagery. Nice work! I’m definitely voting /
Awesome badness, Tom! I’m so proud of you!
A Cacophony of Discordant Sounds Shining Dissonantly
The shining moon shines on my heart,
With shining rays of anguish.
She doesn’t know the hidden art,
Which breathes my cries of languish.
The mausoleum wastes away,
With crumbling greys and greens.
The crickets scream and cry and bray
Which ‘wakens timeless fiends.
Curs-ed wolves howl at the moon,
Making damsels faint and gasp and swoon,
And I, I…howl with them.
That’s bad, Andrew. Thanks very much.
OK Here goes.
The eve wore a shepherd’s cloak over the lonely, groping heart-a shadowy fragment of its former Izodian glory.
Until you. You treader-upon-mens-freetime-vagabond you.
Requiring me to cough, to wretch and writhe a document of brain-pickling prose.
I was like a pudding. But my gut has turned to rock candy for my evensong is not my own but has so firmly fled beneath this plate of leaden verse.
So much for dessert.
Guts is what it takes. Guts I say!!!
Gluten-free sugar-free freedom-free
My night has flown the loops of wasted ink.
Izodian glory. Now THAT’S bad. Thankts, Peggotty.
Thanks, Chip. And did you notice how I cleverly misspelled the word ‘wretch’ in this usage? Ahem. Bad.
And how cleverly I misspelled “thankts”?
Chip spent the day here in Dallas.
The house of mirrors was no palace.
He shared with us what he knew
Gave us time to ask and to spew.
Looked at proposals after lunch
without so much as a hunch.
But we knew that our writing
just stunk. Yuck. 🙁
Actually, it was a good day. Okay, this might not be bad poetry, but, I just had to add something to the conversation.
It was great conversation!
Let’s not go overboard, Christy…
I was there
Then I wasn’t
like the water in the toilet
swirling down into lead-piped emptiness
carrying with me the byproducts
of my broken life
down down down down down down down down down down down down down down
until I filled up again and was silent … waiting
I’m sorry, but I’m laughing to tears here! LOL
But I was being serious. Thanks a lot. Think I’ll flush again
Will it give you more inspiration?
Yes! Someone who gets the true meaning of bad poetry! You’re a champion, Steve, offering this log of a poem…
A horrible haiku by: Caleb Lode, age 15
The fat astronaut
exploded from the pressure
within his stomach
That is bad, Caleb.
Sucky po-e-try for all.
And messy in space.
“Retirement . . Not What Its Cracked Up to Be . . . But Better.”
Stay up late watching the FOX.
Sleep late and wake up with garbled
Plenty of time for sex before LUNCH.
But after 50 years all they want is a
Here we go again with his ANTIQUE SHOW.
She wants to see George Clooney on the Marie
She made a list and sends you-know-who to WALMART.
She pulls out the brushes and paint and does hours of
After 3 hours the old man finely comes HOME.
He asks,“What did you want me to get you
I can’t take it I can’t take it ANYMORE!
She runs to the bedroom and shuts the DOOR.
He knocks gently on the door and says, “what wrong DEAR?”
“Nothings wrong.” she say,s “I’m just watching a DEER.”
He comes in and puts his arm around her fragile SHOULDER.
“Glad to finally watch a deer together even though we’re OLDER.”
That was written by Kathy STORRIE.
She just wanted to share her STORY.
cow pats on the horizon
grey mushiness of my mind
stomping through thoughts worth chewing over, ruminating, thinking.
boxy cars, leftover pizza, uneaten socks
rolling through forgotten streets of emptiness. Empty, fluffy, gone.
bookshelves full of magazines
full of regret, happy for the bookspace they take up, wide and glossy, they fill pages of nonsense, steal hours, feed an empty hunger.
(all the best to the other participants. Funny as!)
Uneaten socks? So… in Australia, they EAT socks? I didn’t know that. You could write a poem about just THAT, Lucy…
IT IS THERE FUN SHE… SHEEP
LONE VICAR ON A HONDA
SHE IS GONE
OKAY BING BONG
WILTED LIKE HOUSE SHINGLE
WILL TO LIVE YES NO. OPEN BAG OF CHIPS
WHISTLE THE KETTLE FARM HAND
SAY SNEEZE SAY SKI’S SAY SOMETHING
SMILE SMILE FILE DIAL
DON’T RUN WALK OVER THERE
LIKE A SAD MAN LIKE A GLAD MAN
KITE ME INSIGHT ME. LOOK THROUGH
GLOW ME SHOW ME SNOW ME
SANDWICH IS THE HOUR OF IT. WHAT SANDWICH ARE YOU
DO YOU RELISH THE THOUGHT? ARE YOU KOSHER?
I BET THE EARL OF SANDWICH NEVER FLEW A KITE. I BET HE WAS FULL OF BOLOGNA.
YES NO, A MEGAPHONE FOR LIFE, AN EARL OF MANWICH
A REAL MAN IS NOT AFRAID TO EAT HIMSELF
UNLESS HE WATCHES TO MUCH TV
Just keep taking those meds, Craig. By tomorrow, this will all be a Bad Poetry Memory.
in the soil
of my soul,
Thanks for planting seeds of badness, Linda.
Song of Absalom
The song of all songs, which is Absalom the Lesser’s
(The Remote Roman Descendant of King Solomon)
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his befuzzed muzzle
For thy love is better than aged goat cheese
And thy fragrance, stronger than durian
Do not delay in thy coming, O my beloved
Lovely art thou, blessed daughter of Pompeii
Thy face is fairer than the water buffalo’s
Thy feet, more delicate than the duck’s
Why must time and distance torment me so?
Behold, my beloved cometh!
He bounds over the hills like a kangaroo
His arms are strong as the limbs of a rubber tree
As the warthog panteth for the mud, so my soul longeth after thee
Arise, oh daughter of Nero!
Come away with me to the hills of Vesuvius
As its peaks doth smolder, so my love for you doth burn
For your beauty is like no other
My beloved is a mighty warrior
His chest is like granite, his legs powerful as the ostrich’s
Surely thou hast smote thy foes with thy mere flatulence!
Downwind, your enemies cower and flee at the mention of thy name.
Barely can I contain myself, oh daughter of Pompeii
For thou hast ransacked and pillaged my soul, utterly
Thy eyes are green like algae, thy neck like the bark of an oak,
Thy breasts are like two prunes, and thy skin as fair as salt.
Take me away, my prince!
Together shall we sire children plentiful as little pigs in a barn
Our love shall endure as long as my father’s empire
Surely good fortune and prosperity shall follow us, all our days
…and so…the laughter begins! 😀 Thank you to everyone who submits!
I laughed out loud! Loved it!
The Lady of Bath-esque
Behold, the badness cometh. Verily, and amen.
Wow. O.O Good…I mean, bad job!
Chip, I don’t know if I’ll be participating this year, but thoroughly enjoyed the year I did and am SO excited for this year’s! I can’t wait to start crying from laughing 😀
i learned poetry in school
teacher said, “kid, you ain’t no fool
“poetry just ain’t got no rule”
i waited ’til the season of yule
and drowned her in my pool
the prosecutor he did drool
gonna hang that boy like a big old ghoul
but then i testified
so i wouldn’t be fried
that finishing her was just a poem
so they let me off
“poetry just ain’t got no rule”
teacher was right
so why’d she put up such a fight
by kevin b parsons
Kevin b rapping.