Chip MacGregor

May 4, 2013

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

of happiness
I will walk like a girl who is happy
like a girl with ballet slippers on her feet
and I will think only of love and joy
rainbows and kittens
 Someday when my precious boy stops puking.”

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
After 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.

It comes.


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!

Some rules:

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.

Share :


  • Lydia says:

    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
    Koneeno, koneeno
    Pana, panito,
    Kanitt e tella fyro tee ta
    Lalo, lalo
    Meemo, deeno

    Jsdofm, canit, balo.
    TATILLIOKANA! (poot poot)

  • Tahma Nash says:

    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.

  • Mercey Valley says:

    Moy Oyrish Art

    ‘Make a rhoyme,’ one day moy luv said to
    But rhoyme I cannot, so disappointed
    was E.

    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
    moy out;
    E said places were limited but Oy
    dint pout.

    E offered me pubs, The Bog, The
    Oy ad to refuse with names such
    as that.

    ‘What am Oy?’ I asked, ‘Yer maid, a
    Oy anded it to im, E couln’t get
    any meaner.

    E said it weren’t true, said E
    loved me, E did.
    Oy asked how could it be when offrin
    muck amid.

    E said it weren’t loyk that, Oy
    just misunderstood.
    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.

  • Taryn Lindsay says:

    Be Dis

    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.

  • Rob Brunet says:

    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.

  • Michele says:

    Sibling Rivalry

    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
    Ride imminent.

    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.

  • says:


    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

    paige anderson

    butterfly creations

  • Jeanne Doyon says:

    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

    Too close.

    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

  • Nan Jones says:

    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.

  • Carol Weeks says:

    Oh, love

    Where the fore art youse?

    I observed,
    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.

  • 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. 🙂

    • chipmacgregor says:

      You know you’ve written a bad poem when it makes readers think, “She needs to clear her toilet.”

  • Dark!
    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…
    OH NO!
    NO! NO!
    …to Disneyland because I’ve never been there before and really, really, really want to go.

    The End.!?

  • The DAWN Cometh

    Alas, the DAWN cometh,
    on the wings of a ship.
    She sails.
    She flies.
    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.

  • Peggy Morris says:

    The sun popped out
    And it promised the unknown
    Of my hot fudge sundae
    On Saturday…

    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.

  • A worm
    A worm without a flower
    Squalid in the mire of my slimy intellect

    You, a snake,
    cannot understand

    When a baby cries
    My flower blossoms
    A Snake! Cries its tears

    But I have forgotten in the wake of the morning garden

    My intellect
    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.

  • Tim Knopp says:


    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

    “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.

  • Kevin B Parsons says:

    Depth of a Letter


  • Danica says:

    A birthday poem for Chip

    Written by Danica’s chicken, Gwendolyn Rose

    Uh, wait.

    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.)

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Actually, I’d say that pretty well qualifies as poop, Danica. Thanks for participating!

  • Rachel Niehaus says:

    Untitled #3

    “I will love you forever,” he
    (sighed, whispered, murmured, breathed)
    against her
    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.

  • Leola McCurdy Ogle says:

    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

    I puked

    • chipmacgregor says:

      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

  • katdish says:

    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

  • Judy Millar says:


    Juliet fell for Romeo
    And Scarlett fell for Rhett
    But you’re the one I can’t forget
    George Clooney.

    It’s that cleft in your chinny-chin-chin
    The sight of it did me inny-in-in
    My heart began playing a violin
    George Clooney.

    You’re not the only cleft around
    Kirk Douglas had one when he frowned
    But only yours makes my heart pound
    George Clooney.

    Your cleft is like a deep ravine
    Deeper than any love’s ever been
    What a gorgeous gully to store sunscreen
    George Clooney.

    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
    George Clooney.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Wow. Judy, that is truly terrible. Or as the French say, “Passe moi la pomme de terre-bull.” Oui.

  • Ron Estrada says:

    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.

  • Danica says:

    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.

  • Isla Dyle says:

    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 bake.
    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.
    Rib eye.
    Eye love ewe.
    Get in my belly!

  • Katharine Grubb says:

    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.

  • Travis Campbell says:

    Your face
    is a cubicle
    of knick knacks
    and paddy whacks

    The cheap rug
    your parents stapled
    in your hallway
    is tacky.

    You can’t roll
    with the punches
    with a busted wheel
    under the office chair
    of your soul.

  • Neal Werle says:

    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Yeah, bay-bee. The sump pump of love — that could become my new handle.

  • Neal Werle says:

    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

  • Becca Jackson says:

    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
    you would.

    Now I walk home at dusk,
    the sky as vivid
    as a t.v. show
    about vacation places.

  • 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.

  • Christy Hammer says:

    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.

  • Kevin B Parsons says:

    What is pathetic is some of this prose you could read in a poetry book that you bought! I’m just sayin’.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Correct. I mean, badly put, but basically correct, Kevin. That’s why I love this.

  • DrGailBones says:

    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      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!”

  • Alison Bliss says:

    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.

  • Tom Threadgill says:

    “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
    his breath.

    He wept.


    He wept again.

    Where did all these people come from?

    So alone.

  • Andrew Winch says:

    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.

  • Peggotty says:

    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.

  • Wade Webster says:

    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.

  • Steve Jackson says:

    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

  • Theresa Lode says:

    A horrible haiku by: Caleb Lode, age 15

    The fat astronaut
    exploded from the pressure
    within his stomach

  • Kathy Storrie says:

    “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
    quiet BRUNCH!

    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
    VanGogh ART.

    After 3 hours the old man finely comes HOME.
    He asks,“What did you want me to get you
    from ROME?”

    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.”

    • chipmacgregor says:

      That was written by Kathy STORRIE.
      She just wanted to share her STORY.

  • Lucy Morgan-Jones says:

    cow pats on the horizon
    grey mushiness of my mind
    stomping through thoughts worth chewing over, ruminating, thinking.

    cardboard freeway
    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!)

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Uneaten socks? So… in Australia, they EAT socks? I didn’t know that. You could write a poem about just THAT, Lucy…

  • NO YES




    YES NO







    • chipmacgregor says:

      Just keep taking those meds, Craig. By tomorrow, this will all be a Bad Poetry Memory.

  • Lindamaeb says:

    a seed
    planted deep
    in the soil
    of my soul,
    feel it
    entwining heart
    the end.

  • joshuagraham says:

    Song of Absalom

    The song of all songs, which is Absalom the Lesser’s
    (The Remote Roman Descendant of King Solomon)

    The Princess

    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

    The 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?

    The Princess

    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

    The Beloved

    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

    The Princess

    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.

    The Beloved

    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.

    The Princess

    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

  • :Donna Marie says:

    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 😀

  • Kevin B Parsons says:

    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

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.