Category Archives: A Poem a Month

The Terrible Poetry Contest results for this week!

A big thank you to Chelsea for inviting me to judge the terrible poetry contest this week. The task was more challenging than I thought it would be!

No more suspense. The winner is.

In Love With a Ghost

By Mathew

I’ve fallen in love with a ghost,

She’s the one I care for the most.

No matter where I am,

She’s always there.

Supports me with this cross I bare.

Touches me in places where,

Other people aren’t aware…

~

My heart,

You pervert.

~

Your mind must be full of dirt

~

She also touches me under my shirt.

~

Like a gentle breeze, she tickles me.

Caresses me so tenderly.

If only she were still alive,

Then our love could really thrive.

~

Although there’s something about our connection

Which leads me to spring a massive…

~

Affection

~

Her haunting leaves me with no objection

~

She whispers in my ear at night,

About how she died here years ago.

I wish I could have met her sooner,

Perhaps I could have been her beau.

~

And then one night I met a neighbor,

We spoke about my couple acres,

And the woman of my dreams,

The experiences creating steam,

And how she died too soon it seems…

~

It was then that he informed me,

Of the man that lived before me,

And died there on the property,

From a clot to his coronary artery.

~

Now my home is up for sale,

And when he touches me I wail.

~

Goodbye dear ghost lady of my dreams.

Congratulations, Matthew! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

All entries had twists – and sometimes twists galore! There were two major criteria in making a decision: to write with or about twists, and to compose a terrible poem. Some (I thought) had marvellous twists but were almost too good! Some were terrible but weren’t quite so strong on the twist aspect. In the end Matthew’s poem for me was just a nose ahead because the formatting was terrible – and format is part of a poem. This poem muddled bold, italic, normal, double spacing… It was impossible not to read it slowly. (Why does every poet on the blogosphere double space?) The poem also had terrible rhyme (I particularly liked “neighbor” rhyming with “acres”), rhythm, and assorted poetic devices. Congrats Matthew – your poem was terribly terrible.

The rest of the entrants are below for your general edification and enjoyment (and I didn’t do the double spacing!)

—–

Untitled piece

By Trent McDonald

On a midday dreary

My eyes were all a-teary

As I had a report to do

 

My boss, grim-tongued mastered

Was such an awful bastard

Would kick me with his shoe

 

No way could it be finished by COB

And my boss knew it, that SOB

But he still goaded me with bull poo

 

So I decided, what the heck

I tied the noose around my neck

And went to hang myself in the loo

 

But when I rose, I heard something scary

And noticed an office fairy

Writing page after page of the report, over one hundred and two

 

I was saved and wouldn’t die!

Maybe my boss wasn’t such a terrible guy

Maybe he’d give a raise too!

 

As I started to celebrate I heard the clock

Ring the bells of five o’clock

And started to feel blue

 

For I was sleeping at work, it would seem

And the help of a kindly elf was all a dream

And my career was over, it is true

 

So I dove out the window instead of the door

I might have died, but I worked on the first floor

Now I need to go work someplace new

—–

Take two

By Deb Whittam

George and Helen went up the hill,

For they sought some water????

But George fell down again

So they called the police chief’s daughter.

Her name was Carmichael,

Because that’s always the way

She was happy to come along

She was having a boring day

Suspects, there were plenty

Helen for a start

But Carmichael wasn’t going to be mislead

She’s knew these plots by heart

The priest she dismissed

He was such a craven creature

Same for the murderer

He was just looking to feature

Out went Helen, out went the lost sheep

Out went the thief,

Who claimed he’s fallen to sleep.

Carmichael had this sussed,

She called them all to announce her verdict,

It was the phantom of the opera,

For he’d just relocated and was the local hermit.

—–

Untitled piece

By Nitin

We’re looking for masculine men

Who’ll fight with lions in a den

Not church boys or skinny dudes

Who cry with each turn of their moods

We want these men for our parade

We want them to be icons who’ll never fade

Yes, yes for the big bash

Where real men eat, brawl and smash

Wee doo wee la la la woo

And some super masculine Kung fu

We doo wee la la la woo

And some hyper masculine farts in the loo

We doo wee la la la woo

And let’s kill some cows. Mooo!

Yes, we want these men for this big event

Where they’ll lie in a pink tent

Stretch, stomp, jump, skip, flex

And some super masculine muscles like T-Rex

Stretch. stomp, jump, skip, flex

And some hyper masculine gay sex!

—–

Untitled piece

By Gary

Yoda was the all seeing Jedi Knight

Yet was fooled with a hood and a dodgie light

While Luke was being the Star Wars Galahad

Who honestly thought that Vader was his dad

Bruce Willis seemed the perfect host

But ended up being a sodding Ghost

Poor Liberty Valence ended up getting shot

By John Wayne that’s a strange train of thought

The Sting was a shock when Paul and Robert copped it

But it just ended up being a gigantic counterfeit

The Village tried to fool us with a bit of double play

But it ended up being set in the Present Day

Anthony Perkins seemed such a nice chap

Yet as Mum and a psycho he got me into a flap

Seven tried so hard to subvert

By having a Box in the desert

Vertigo was Very very bleak

Judy being Madeleine was a bit of a cheek

Who in the Murder on the Orient Express would be first to admit

But what a sneaky trick to have them all do seem do it

The Wizard of Oz seemed strangely certain

Yet the wizard was a sad bloke behind a curtain

Reservoir Dogs was as cool as a soda pop

Yet sneaked in that Mr Orange was in fact a cop

Wow Scream tried smoke and mirrors

All to hide we didn’t have one but two killers

Jacobs Ladder tried to hide the thread

Hang on a moment another one who is dead

Even poor Harry Potter tried to be as shifty as a Manx Cat

I never saw Peter Pettigrew was Scabbers the Rat

 

Untitled piece

By Ruth Scribbles

My brain betrays

The intentions of my ways

I say do this

But then I do that

How can I survive

Opposite directions?

Go right he said

I turned right but

It was my other right

That he meant

If he had said go straight

I would have succeeded

But right and left

Cause many plot changes

Thank you all for entering. Go to Chelsea’s site Saturday at 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

Poem 91: Thou wert my gate

I haven’t published a poem on this blog since last July, so here goes. Once again I have had the singular honour of winning the week’s “Terrible Poetry Contest”. My thanks to Chelsea, the instigator and judge. The theme for the week was “Engineering Failure”. I now know better how an astronaut feels when stepping on the surface of the moon – profoundly humbled by the experience. So here then, for your edification, is the terrible poem on “Engineering Failure”. Of course, it could double as a love poem if you want to use it for that.

Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life;
a doorway in the
corridor of existence;
a hole in the
wall of being

Now you have shut the
entrance to your heart
and I am shattered into a pile of quaking reinforced concrete.
No more will I hear your euphonious voice
wafting over the plastic barrier of time;
no more will my nostrils sense the scent
of your hair on the yellow brick road of vivacity.
Oh the audacity!

You have become an engineering failure,
a total engineering failure;
in fact you are the biggest engineering failure
I have ever encountered in my life.
And you are fat.
I wish you all the Botox you can lay your hands on.
You need it.

Strumpet! Strumpet!
You have no reason to blow your own trumpet
for thou art a total engineering failure!
Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life
but now you are just a pile of rocks –
to say nothing of your choice in tasteless frocks.

There you have it. Success has once again tempted me to blather on and on about myself – but, dear me, this is not Facebook. Mind you, I don’t belong to Facebook – or Twitter, or Instagram, or anything except this blog. I don’t even have Google Chrome. In fact, I don’t know if I’m utterly “Yesterday” or completely “Tomorrow”. I’m trying not to get spied on. I don’t even purchase anything on Amazon because of the astronomical cost of postage to New Zealand. Which accounts partly for why I am still reading stuff like Clarissa and Joseph Andrews with the odd contemporary thing thrown in that’s on hand such as John Millington Syne’s Riders to the Sea (my favourite play) and Mrs Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters.

So I hope you have a nice day – in fact a happy, happy day – and don’t feel bad if you haven’t got time to learn the above poem off by heart.

Poem 90: Blue

Kingfisher waited near fish-filled stream and flashed blue fire.
Distant thunder grumbled to a scream and flashed blue fire.

A welder melded into shape tough unbending steel;
this artist’s arc launched one steady beam and flashed blue fire.

The frantic horse’s metal shoes on stony gravel
broke the silence of the morning’s gleam and flashed blue fire.

Massed irises turned their heads towards the rising sun;
yellow, purple, peach, rose, white, and cream, and flashed blue fire.

And Bruce, patience at an end with this and that and things,
saw this growing mound of stifled dreams and flashed blue fire.

(This is my final poem on this blog – at least for the time being. I’ll still post the occasional poem hopefully, but a poem a week is a bit much! I shall be concentrating on putting out a story a day until the 1500th story is reached!)

Poem 88: The stream that flows near my house

The stream that flows near my house
comes from goodness knows where
and goes to goodness knows where.

I never visit it with dull skies,
but some days when sparkles shake the water
the dog takes a bath.

Has the stream perhaps scampered passed death;
a wild pig’s corpse
or maybe a tatty rotting bird?

Has it greeted fish of every sort;
eels and trout,
and cockerbullies* cowering in caverns?

Have the rough, rocky tumbles
bestowed both cheer and fear
on this joyful jolly journeyman jongleur?

Today I see it hubbubs happily on,
forgiving its past
and singing only of tomorrow’s adventures.

* Small New Zealand freshwater fish.

Poem 87: Gone but not forgotten

I saw my name on a war memorial
It wasn’t me of course
Same name but someone else who was
Gone but not forgotten

I fell between the cracks of wars
A rather rare occurrence
Else it would be me who was
Gone but not forgotten

They drafted names for Vietnam
Picked by random birthdays
Those born one day after me are
Gone but not forgotten

As each war comes and each war goes
And parents siblings fade
Dead soldiers are remembered in a generic sort of way
But as individuals no one would have a clue who the hell they were
They’re gone and long forgotten

Poem 86. A dire warning to lovers

Falling in love is sort of like
being diagnosed with sugar diabetes.
It’s kind of like a sugar overload
and the body can’t cope with all the syrup fast enough
so it results in a sticky mess
and you end up
chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Falling in love is sort of like
weeding the garden;
there’s a great vision of magnificent blooms
further down the track
but there’s the inevitability of pulling flowers out
with the weeds
and chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Falling in love is sort of like
you know
it gets more complicated than you think
and it completely stuffs up your life
because you should be finishing an assignment and
instead you end up spending all night trying to make
something to chuck out with the bathwater.

Anyway, despite my warning,
by the time you realize you’re in love
it’s too late. You’re completely caught in the net.
Every song on the radio is about you. The only way out
is not to get up in the morning
or to move towns and that’s tantamount to
chucking the baby out with the bathwater.

Be warned! Love’s sort of like a horse and carriage:
every wedding’s followed by a marriage.
It’s not that you can’t do it;
it’s just that so many for a thousand different reasons blew it.