Chip MacGregor

May 7, 2014

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!

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  • Tricia Sutton says:

    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)

    • chipmacgregor says:

      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.

  • Tracy Adkins says:

    OK, I will play. 🙂


    Could have called
    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
    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
    Duck you botch!
    A selfie captures angst
    Teary instagram.

  • Heidi Kortman says:

    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.

  • Melissa Jagears says:

    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      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.

  • elinorflorence says:

    Wonderful news, Chip. My husband experienced the agony of waiting to hear recently, with the same good results, so we share your joy.

  • cynthiahickey says:

    Glad to hear you’re going to be around for awhile 🙂 I don’t do poetry. Sorry.

  • Cindi Mc Menamin says:

    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      You will LOVE the Moon book, Cindi. Right up your alley. The author also had old cliches and brain fades!

  • Sandy Betgur says:

    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?

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Time to take the meds again, Sandy.

    • Sandy Betgur says:

      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?

  • Blue says:

    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.
    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.

  • Ron Estrada says:

    Praise God you’re in good health, Chip. My award winning bad poem, which received over five hundred negative four star reviews on BadPoetry&, is already posted.

  • No poem from me, either, but also want to wish you well. And Happy Birthday!

  • Susan Meissner says:

    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!

  • Rene` Diane Aube says:

    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 😉 *

  • Mrs. Smeej says:

    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      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.

    • Mrs. Smeej says:

      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.

  • M Prys says:

    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.

  • Janice Thompson says:

    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. 🙂

  • mulelady says:

    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

    • chipmacgregor says:

      In the words of mules,
      you found pools, rules, and schools,
      which I think is cools.
      and you’re no fools.

    • mulelady says:

      Just had to go there, didn’t you…hahahahaha!

  • RC Atchisson says:

    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…


    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.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      A truly bad poem, RC. You clearly have the gift! Thanks for participating.

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