Bad Poetry – Good Cause
I’ve been bad. I’ve been goofing off having fun in Santa Fe instead of writing new stories or even writing this blog. The only thing I have been writing has also been BAD—bad poetry, that is. Writing deliberately bad poetry is just SO MUCH FUN.
I’ve already shared some of my intentionally bad poetry in my video rendition of “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.” But General Store Publishing House got me hooked on writing more with its Spring Bad Poetry contest. Then literary agent Chip MacGregor ran his annual bad poetry contest and I couldn’t stop myself from writing this (sadly unrequited) love poem to George Clooney (more specifically, to the cleft in George Clooney’s chin).
In case you think writing bad poetry is too low-brow, note that even Columbia University’s Philolexian Society has been sponsoring a bad poetry contest since 1986.
Then it hit me: Why should these other websites be having all the fun hosting bad poetry? My readers can write stuff that’s bad too—maybe even “badder”! So the challenge is on.
Can you write some squirmingly sentimental, over-the-top awful, bad poetry? The worst of the worst you send (which of course means the poem that best tickles the funny bones of our three renowned judges—all of whom insist on remaining anonymous) will win a copy of Beaver Bluff: The Librarian Stories to keep the laughs going.
Entry fee is FREE–with a wee request in support of a good cause. I recently learned that Canadian humorist Gordon Kirkland is dying for lack of a liver transplant suited to his rare blood type. I don’t know Gordon Kirkland personally, but I’ve enjoyed his work. As a humorist myself, I know what it takes to make others laugh so I know Gordon has worked hard to brighten our days. If you can find it in your heart or your wallet to support the fundraiser for Gordon, here’s how. If you can’t contribute, maybe you could share that link with someone who can. At minimum, perhaps our bad poetry will make Gordon smile. Laughter is good medicine—even for those waiting on a miracle.
If you need to prime your poetry-writing pump by reading some bad poetry, check out some of the hilarious submissions on Chip MacGregor’s blog. Then give it your best—I mean worst—shot. You can paste your bad poetry into the Comments section below (inappropriate material will be deleted). If you prefer that your effort not be posted unless it wins or you want to submit a video entry, send it along by email.
You have the rest of May to submit your bad poetry. If you’re inspired, send several submissions. I’ll announce a winner June 1st. Have fun! (And if you happen to know George Clooney’s email address, please send him a link to my unrequited love poem. Maybe he’ll be smitten–and REQUITE. 🙂 )
19 Responses to Bad Poetry – Good Cause
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“Judy, thank you for entertaining our members with your quick wit and hilarious delivery of seriously funny humour. You had us in stitches!”
John O’Malley, President,
Bastion City Probus Club
Laughter is the best medicine—unless you have diarrhea.
Kay Morrison – AATH
(Association for Applied & Therapeutic Humor)
Asimov started all this talk
about the three laws of robotics –
human beings must not come to harm.
A female voice intones if a seat belt’s forgotten
but, when our son speeds past houses and trees
while texting on a cell phone,
the car hums along with nary a word;
no demands to keep his eyes on the road,
to stop steering with his knees!
Ain’t that the truth. Thanks for kicking things off, Harvey!
In this bowling lane called life,
I felt knocked over, until
you came along offering love
and my heart opened like an accordion,
the two of us singing like tree frogs,
happy at last, until
you spotted another, a younger version
of me and left me flat as a pancake,
no spatula to pick me up.
No butter melting on my crumbled heart.
Your heart opening like an accordion, and then crumbling in the kitchen like that! Truly tragic! 🙂 Thanks, Mary Ann!
I was blindsided by love
when I saw you stop talking
as I entered the room –
I saw your eyes, like green
orbs, look at me and the birds
in a living room’s bird cage
shouted their song, bees hummed
over shimmering fields of clover.
I approached to hear you speak
but realized you were looking
beyond me at another man
who also darkened the door
so I slipped from the room
and a pigeon pooped on my shoulder.
Now that’s a different take on the birds and the bees! 🙂
The Waste of a Ford’s Good Back Seat
The night is cool and rather chilly,
the scenery green but wet and hilly,
the guy I’m with polite and pilly.
Now isn’t this just too, too silly?
Silly it is … that’s the idea! 🙂 Thanks, Leanne.
I am the best man
but second best
standing with my brother
who stole your heart
then borrowed my car
to take you away
on a honeymoon
far away to the stars
away from gravity
that weights me down
like Chris Hadfield
who returned to earth
but now must learn
to walk again.
Beatin’ John Beaton
You wanted a poem of complete and utter crap
if it were a tree, it would be oozing yucky sap
into which I would step in the garden as I dug
and then I’d track it inside to the living room rug.
Look here, I’ve made such a horrible mess
and will have to clean this sap up, no less,
before my good wife arrives back home
to see what I’ve done while left all alone.
Oh, why didn’t I slip off my shoes at the door
instead of creating a mess she’ll abhor?
I’d better get to it and clean it right now
before she gets home and has a big cow!
So into the cleaning cupboard I reach
and come out with a bottle of very strong bleach.
The sap on the the rug is sticky and strong-
I guess I should pour it directly right on?
I rub and I scrub till the sap is all gone-
but now another thing has gone wrong!
A spot on the rug of bleached out white
is ever so noticable in this afternoon light.
If this were a film it would be a damn movie
so bad it would have to star George Clooney.
But alack and alas, it’s actually my real life
and now I’ll be in trouble with my real life wife.
Unless, I can figure out how to save the day-
Oh God, please show me- there must be a way.
Blast that white spot on the rug by the couch!
That’s it! I’ve got it! I’ve been such a slouch.
You’ll pardon me for stretching this rhyme
but as you can see, I’ve run out of time!
The solution I came up with is ever so simple
that it made me smile creating a dimple
on my face just as cute as George Clooney’s cleft.
But enough of that now, there’s not much time left-
I grunt and I groan with the couch that I shifted
to cover the spot where the colour got lifted.
And now this bad poem has come to an end,
I’ll put it on email and ‘REPLY ALL’ to friends
despite Judy’s request to put it on her blog-
I’ll return to the garden and continue to slog.
May 17, 2013
Oozing yucky sap? Yup, I’d say so. (For another take on “crap,” check out Collie Boy’s entry.) Thanks, Andrew. 🙂
A dog’s breath smells of doggy butt.
and he thinks I am some sort of nut
when I am offended by his tongue
’cause he’s been licking other’s dung.
By Collie Boy
Oh, Collie Boy … that’s some bad poetic doodoo! 🙂
My neighbor is a thorn in my side.
His grass is always greener
and grows like a weed, while my
garden grows at a snail’s pace,
and then goes to seed.
I don’t mean to open up a can of worms
and spill the beans,
but I won’t beat around the bush.
I must say that this guy, who ain’t
no spring chicken, was leading
a certain grass widow,
(the apple of my eye),
right down the garden path.
But when he tried to sow
his wild oats, she dropped him
like a hot potato, which really
upset his applecart.
Today, fresh as a daisy
and cool as a cucumber, I
turned over a new leaf, so to speak.
After all, you have to separate the chaff
from the wheat, and make hay while the sun shines.
I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet,
hit pay dirt with the widow,
and now that everything’s coming up roses,
my neighbour’s green with envy.
What can I say? You are the Queen of Environmental Cliches, Jazz! 🙂
ODE TO A HIDEOUS URN
Thou still unravish’d eyesore on my mantel
No passing cat nor errant elbow hast dislodged
In spite of my most fervent prayers.
Puce tendrils and misshapen leaves
Wrap about your squat and bulbous form.
A ghastly thing, more hideous with time.
How came thee to disturb my classical décor?
What evil motive from yon mother-in-law
Led her to gleefully present
This atrocity to me?
There is no escape from that baleful pot
On full display for all who visit me
Should I dare remove it, I would be shot
Most glaring looks by said matriarch.
Oh, how lovingly did I search Crate and Barrel
For each memento to my own good taste
Now all is ruined by this atrocity.
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty” – said the poet.
There is neither in this barbaric thing
But torture for my tormented eye!
Even Oscar Wilde knew The Importance of Being Urn-less, Sharron. 🙂
Together we scratched our heads
and faced the dermatologist
heading our Dry Scalp group.
He showed us such deep concern
for our dry hair plight;
said it would be alright
then told the lot of us –
do not use fancy shampoos
to stop all the white flakes
from drifting down to our shoes,
buy a good brush and then brush
whatever hair you’ve got;
create natural oils for your scalp
and feed each hair strand
while removing dirt and dust .
I took his advice and found
the perfect item I could trust,
a wild boar course hair brush.
Now I multi-task when I can;
brush every dark strand that stands
on this head of mine – move
each curl about as I watch TV,
only rest when I have a guest
then brush with renew vigor
to make up for lost time.
But I check the mirror and realize
my hair looks like a greasy rat’s nest.
Eww … from flaky to greasy … singin’ the hair brush blues. 🙂