The Badness Continues… Bad Poetry Continues at the Blog

May 6, 2013 | Written by Chip MacGregor

Yes, it’s Bad Poetry week, here at the blog, where we take my birthday week and enjoy sharing with one another the worst poems we can create. If you’re a sensitive, deep, and misunderstood soul, then we WANT your crappy poem gracing the blog! All you need to do is go to the “comments” section and type in your  words. Share your deepfulness and reflectiveosity with others. The badder the better. Have a look at some of the rotten stuff that was written in the previous day’s blog, just to get a feel for the mood. For example…

Tom Threadgill gets us going with this truly terrible  opener:

“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.)

Deep. Meaningful. Bad. And crime writer Steve Jackson shares this:

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…

So… dare I say it? Truly crappy, Steve! I’m sure everyone will like the fabulously bad images Neal Worle shares with these wretched words,

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.

 

And we are immediately thrown into both brightness and badness! Becca Jackson takes a thoughtful tone with:

I was walking on the streets
bare and rusty, like someone’s
half-drank bottle of underwear

Who can resist an image like that?  Then Gwen Faulkenberry gets her Bard on with:
But sweet Rose protested muchly:
”Am I a play thing?
Have you no conscience? 
I say, Who died and made you king?
There’s LOTS more, just as bad as these, and we need to hear from YOU. So don’t delay. The Bad Poetry only goes for one week each year, and we crave your badness…

Posted in Bad Poetry

  • Richard Mabry

    Roses are red,
    Violets are…well, whatever color they are.
    I can never remember.

    • chipmacgregor

      Purple. The color of my prose.

  • http://therockstardevotional.blogspot.com/ Clint Hall

    I am the internet!
    Use me
    Abuse me
    Believe you can control me
    Until you are lost
    Tangled prey to be devoured
    In my world wide web

    • chipmacgregor

      Song lyrics for a Teen Angst band?

  • http://twitter.com/DaleSRogers Dale S. Rogers

    There is a time for everything,
    There is a time for all.
    But when you get kicked from behind,
    It is a time to fall.

    • chipmacgregor

      I’d just like to point out that my commenting here connects us as “Chip and Dale.”

  • http://www.facebook.com/lkharrel Lindsay Harrel

    A-round my square room
    All I can see
    Is the unseeable.
    My future?
    I really hope not.

    • chipmacgregor

      You wrote that in junior high, didn’t you?

      • http://www.facebook.com/lkharrel Lindsay Harrel

        Haha, I’m not telling…

  • Ginger Solomon

    I’m laughing at this insanity
    flowers bloom
    rain rains
    grass grows
    children make mud pies
    animal crackers are going to rule the world
    two by two
    eat-em-up, yum!

    • chipmacgregor

      No, seriously, Ginger… take your meds.

  • Michael Sheehan

    The drool on your lips,
    The extra 450 pounds on your hips
    Cake crumbs dance on your cheeks
    The slow drip when your adult diaper leaks
    Love is blind, but I must be out of my mind

    • chipmacgregor

      “Ode to a Sizist”?

  • Bailax

    If love was a plant it would be a genetically modified Venus Fly Trap fertilized through a hydroponic system while being injected with miracle grow and Prozac. People would poke it with sticks and take photos of it. It would become choleric and maniacal and would release repulsive pheromones and space monkeys. People will become afraid and wish it would just go away but instead they would become cocoons filled with knott’s jelly and consumed by wild wombats and dejected yellow bellied lemurs.

    • chipmacgregor

      But we all know love is NOT a plant, Bailax. Love is a bad song on the radio, sung by five white teenagers with very little talent but a strong PR firm.

  • http://twitter.com/queenjanedaly Jane Daly

    I’m the dust on the seat of the swing set
    marring the perfect whiteness on the shorts of humanity
    Brushed off with careless hands
    Only to fall, unseen, to the sharp green grass

    • chipmacgregor

      Okay, I’ll admit I actually LIKE this one, Jane. The shorts of humanity go well with the T-shirt of Meaning and the White Athletic Socks of Awesomeness.

  • http://www.facebook.com/cynthia.ruchti Cynthia Ruchti

    Opulent clouds in an opulent sky
    Corpulent slugs with splintered eyes
    Decadent picnics of ‘strami and rye
    Purulent poetry’s heaving sigh

    • http://twitter.com/jaime_wright Jaime Wright

      did you use a Thesaurus? ;) I need to go look up “purulent”

      • http://www.facebook.com/cynthia.ruchti Cynthia Ruchti

        I had to double-check its meaning, Jaime. But it was the right word! :)

    • chipmacgregor

      I feel purulent when I read this, Cynthia…

      • http://www.facebook.com/cynthia.ruchti Cynthia Ruchti

        Wasn’t that the idea? :)

  • Melissa DePasse

    A PRAYER BEFORE BIRTHING

    Oh, the dark and cavernous womb.
    For so long just an echoing tomb.
    Yet, now I feel the push of life,
    I will be born, but with great strife.
    Who is that yelling I hear without
    Is that my mother, is that her shout?
    Oh dear God, humbly I pray to thee,
    Don’t let that be the mother of me.

    • chipmacgregor

      Bad couplets! Yes!

  • http://twitter.com/MyParable MyParable

    Peoms are fine
    this is mine
    rhyming I love to sing…
    Let’s all celebrate Chip’s birthday
    with shocking poetry!!!!!!!!

    • chipmacgregor

      Peoms? Really? So my birthday only gets 15 seconds and no proofing?

  • Kimberly Buckner

    your love is the stuff in my refrigerator. Or, Ode from a hungry person. I couldn’t decide.

    your love is milk. good for my bones.
    your love is a mango. red, green, or yellow depending on how long I leave you.
    your love is a zuchinni. underrated.
    your love is an avocado. thick skinned, and smoother when I mash you with a fork.
    your love is bread. darker on the outside, fluffy on the inside, allergy inducing to my mother.
    your love is a piece of…what is that? cheese? no…me–no, not meat….okay, well
    your love is this fuzzy thing. its been there longer than I can remember and has grown over time.

    • chipmacgregor

      More mango? See what I mean?

  • Junior

    There are just 3 things:

    What is this you think

    of while viewing the black circles in my eyes when you’re
    controlling me when I pet Junior the cat?

    My brain is telling me things I don’t want it to.

    1. I like Junior.

    2. Love so fierce

    I want to cut your
    head off and carry it around so I can see your face whenever I want.

    Your eyes are like mangos … no wait, one eye,

    the other is blind and cannot see nor stare.

    3. Mango eye watches.

    • chipmacgregor

      Mango eye watches are SO overdone this year…

  • David Olawoyin

    The rising of a day anew
    The rising above the night agone
    The rising call to all human labor
    The call to rising duty.

  • http://twitter.com/jaime_wright Jaime Wright

    My 3 yr old daughter’s contribution (some potential plagiarism involved but she’s a toddler so that’s an automatic pass, right?) :
    “I may never ride in the infary
    toot in the tootery
    march in the infamy”

    • chipmacgregor

      Our judges have said your toddler is in violation of IRS Rule 43(b) 527 BP (Baby Poetry). You may want to call a lawyer, Jaime.

  • http://whostolemybaby.wordpress.com/ LisaR @ Who Stole My Baby?

    Oh Peach, you are my Princess,
    Oh Mario, so Super,
    Yoshi – you’re a dinosaur,
    And Bowser, you’re a loser.

    You’re all so very real to me –
    The fun just never ends!
    Real people, they just can’t compare
    To animated friends.

    You always want to play with me.
    My mother says “No way.”
    She thinks that you will rot my brain.
    But I say, “Not today!”

    I owe it to your kingdom
    To save you from the doom
    That no doubt would befall you
    Were I to leave the room.

    I’m getting pretty hungry.
    I’ve been in here a while.
    I smell a little funky
    But you won’t let me die!

    And if I do, then what of it?
    The game, it tells no lies.
    It says I have three hundred lives,
    And who needs more than five?

    You all are just the greatest friends
    A kid has ever had.
    Who cares about the outside world?
    I’ve heard real life is sad.

    • chipmacgregor

      It is indeed sad, Grasshopper. Stay inside. Be safe. Rot your mind. You’ll be better for it if it generate poetry like this.

  • http://www.facebook.com/alyciamorales Alycia Johnson Morales

    The dog bolts out of the door
    Free to run
    And run
    And run.

    Like a fool I chase
    Running
    Walking
    Running.

    I reach out and grab for his collar.
    He slips away
    And runs out of reach again –
    Just like my dreams.
    So close yet so far.
    I chase again.

    • chipmacgregor

      So close to being a good poem… and yet so far.

  • http://twitter.com/Dabneyland Dabney Hedegard

    Noggy

    Noggy was a boy.

    A lovely boy man.

    A boy man who grew and grew.

    A handsome feathering haired man with yellowish hues
    streaked like strands of goldeny goodness.

    So boy-manish and sumptuous I could intake wafts of his
    skin-scent all the live long day.

    Mmm, boy man.

    Sniff. Sniff.

    (Said standing with feet apart, then closed, then
    apart—alternating action with each line, with the last line ending in a long
    elbow-crease sniff. Then eyes scan nodding audience. Then blink. Blink again.
    Perform sweeping bow with tips of fingers slowly caressing the wood planked
    stage. Relish thunderous applause with sheepish grin.)

    • chipmacgregor

      It’s better with the stage direction, Dabney. Thanks for participating.

  • Nice Lady with Dog

    I thought of you again
    and my heart swelled

    and swelled.
    My lungs were getting squashed.
    My fingers tingled and went pale.

    They said, I think she’s dying of love.
    Well, duh!

    Somehow they revived me.
    I will live again.
    But this I know:
    I will never love again.

    Too damn dangerous.

    • chipmacgregor

      Wonderfully bad, Nice Lady. Thanks!

  • KingdomHerald

    The rising of a day anew
    The rising above the night agone
    The rising call to all human alabor
    The call to rising aduty.

  • Hymn Herself

    why

    do you lie

    you know

    i hate it

    when you spit in my eye

    with your fallacious

    untruths

    borne of a heart

    cultivated in

    green-grey moss-tone stone.

    no

    actually

    it’s okay to lie to me

    (see, look

    i can lie, too,

    asshole!)

    • chipmacgregor

      It’s this sort of sensitive, deep work we treasure here at the Bad Poetry Contest. Nice work, Hymn.

  • a friend of Fred’s

    What’s in my head cannot be said, so I’ll put it to bed. If
    I write it out I MIGHT JUST SHOUT and offend a guy named Fred

    Okay, so here’s Fred: Internet dating sites left him a
    blissful state,

    while still mildly conscious, a space elf appeared

    Goth, plugged, pierced, and a sexililsious neck beard

    said Fred never

    this space elf, with its enhanced mental health slowed his house
    clocks but not the one on the shelf

    that one just glowed

    then outside it snowed

    Fred, a man of reason and fortitude, felt, for some reason,
    he was an awesome dude

    danced outside in the nude

    said this dude

    he was quaking with pumped love, asked elf to be his wife

    now Space Elf is cranky, riddled with strife

    Fred put a robe on to run for his life

    but goth elf caught up, and cut his cheek with a knife

    a dirty knife

    … and then he found five dollars