POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


Each week Marie and I have a difficult time choosing poems for the BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS because… well, they’re all that good. But here is the test.

For this week’s prompt, we want you to write a “Bad” poem. Surely, you can write about something bad. But really we want you to write a “bad” poem – a horrible poem… a completely atrocious poem. It could be written to form badly, for bad form to a poem is the worst. Lock your muse in a closet and let your inner bad poet loose, if only for one week. Be bad and you’ll be rewarded.


A Measly Poem

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If I had the measles,
I’d give them to you.
Then we’d both be sick
Doing, what do you think?
Just scratching our heads
Writing po-ems that stink.
You think THIS is shamelessly
Bad and oblique?
Well check out the po-em
I posted last week!
© Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013



Nature in short verse
Written in the classic style
Three lines, seventeen
syllables done badly.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

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618 thoughts on “BAD FORM / BAD POEM – PROMPT #108

  1. sheryl kay oder on said:

    If I have a chance I will write a new bad poem, but this silly occasional ditty was written years ago. Its Title?


    There is a young lady named Nancy
    Who a bouncing new baby doth fancy.
    Soon Randy the Dad
    Will be feeling quite glad.
    They’ll both be all songy and dancy.

  2. This was pretty easy. I seem to be a little too good at writing bad poems. 😉 (and very is one of my “banned words”. It’s bad, that’s why it’s in here so many times. ;))

    Somebody Save Me (a very bad 7/5 Trochee)

    Something terrible happened
    Today: I woke up with
    A great urge to write
    A very horrible poem;

    A very horrible trochee to be
    Very precise,
    Without meter or rhyme
    Or syllable count;

    And it happened,
    Oh yes it really happened,
    Just read my very bad example –
    Somebody save me!

    Copyright A Very Confused Poet – 2013

  3. William Preston on said:


    It was a dark and squirmy night
    when Mortimer met Millicent;
    the shrouded moon cast down its light
    with ambience grandiloquent.

    Their four eyes met, then locked in place;
    their breathing merged. Thus inspired,
    they walked along in common trace
    toward a sinkhole. Therein mired

    but unaware, they melded lips
    and bodies as the sucking earth
    extended forth its fingertips
    and pulled them downward, girth to girth.

    The legend says they never knew
    the mastic mud was Mystic Mind;
    but there they married green to blue
    and birthed the whole of humankind.

    That place today is slightly hilly;
    the airs around are always chilly
    upon the heath where, willy-nilly,
    Father Mort met Mother Millie.

  4. William Preston on said:


    It’s sad:
    the ancient plaid
    that dear Adelaide had
    was buried with Adelaide’s dad.
    My bad.

    copyright 2013, William Preston, though I don’;t know why I bother.

  5. A vicious crime against poetry

    I prefer to write the best I’m capable of But
    if I wanted to write a bad
    poem I’d end all the lines with
    weak words and/or meaningless conjunctions
    I’d try to make the rhythm lumpy
    with too much or too little alliteration
    assonance and consonance would need to
    be avoided like the clichéd plague.
    I’d have no respect for rhyme.
    count syllables instead of stresses.
    Lots of tautology abundant
    punctuation missing or misguided
    would exacerbate the felony
    I’d fill the thing with adverbs and
    misuse the blank blank apostrophe
    End of

    I did have fun writing this!

  6. Pingback: A vicious crime against poetry | Vivinfrance's Blog

  7. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    …hee, hee… thanks for the early morning smiles… I will think about this one all morning at work… Happy Sunday, everyone 🙂 !!

  8. William Preston on said:


    A sonnet should have fourteen lines
    and dance on bitty iambic feet;
    its form should ever be discrete
    and rhymes should rhyme with other rhymes.
    It should not stress on asinines
    and ought to be in thought complete
    with little need to be discreet
    for, after all, the lines aren’t mimes.
    The count should be pentameter;
    the sentiments, not amateur
    but circling the parameter
    and cutting the diameter
    out of the heart of the entire poem
    so that the poet can really show ‘em!

    copywrong 2013, William Preston

  9. I posted this one last year. It’s still one of my favorites, so I’m being shamelessly bad and posting again. *evil laugh*
    ~Marie Elena

    Old, Faulty Parts

    My fibula is so untrue.
    I lack the science gene.
    I cannot take a ribbing,
    And my brain is not too keen.
    I’m told I have a pisiform.
    I find that in poor taste.
    I’d find it humerus, except
    My funny bone’s misplaced.

    © Copyright Marie Elena’s Bad – 2013

  10. DebiSwim on said:


    It was a dark and moonless night
    so your eyes couldn’t sparkle
    so I couldn’t fall in love with you
    so blame it on the moon.

  11. Parched
    This is just a stepping stone
    in the pond of life,
    a pouncing point…
    a leap to another spent poem
    that leaves one’s mouth dry-
    abandoned to thirst
    for true water;
    relief in worded rescue-
    voice of authentic inspiration.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013
    Poetic Bloomings-Bad Form/Bad Poem
    Write badly. Simple right? Umm…
    I was going to try for over alliteration and an over-used topic, stepping stones…I tried but my muse would not keep quiet. Does anyone have a fresh roll of duct tape?!!
    Smiles and a happy weekend to all!

  12. Pingback: Parched | Metaphors and Smiles

  13. The Jabberwocky’s Got Nuffin’ on Me – An Amphigory Sonnet Poem

    They said, “Write some poetry. Really bad.”
    “Sure,” saith I. I know some squerious nonks
    which might, a bad poem make, but I had
    a thought: ‘twas brillig just some mimsy bonks?
    A sonnet, perchance, is just burbled kraff
    that a frebulichen (that’s faux German
    by the way) pens with a bit of the paff.
    But beware the lurg. Don’t predetermine
    your trochees. Sore feet don’t respond too well
    when you walk with the gorminacular.
    I get that this makes little sense but tell
    me – how does one outgrabe in the vernacular?
    Anyway, I know I sound like a total amateur
    since (among other things) I proddled the iambic pentameter.


  14. By the way, after I posted I read the other wonderfully bad poems here. I’ll comment shortly, but this prompt is a total hoot. Thanks!

  15. The best prompt we’ve had for ages, and just what I needed to cheer me up.

  16. William Preston on said:

    Marie and Walt: Thanks for this prompt. it’s more fun than skipping rocks.

  17. The prompts and forms are all Walt’s! He’s tastelessly poor at it, isn’t he? 😉

    Marie Elena

  18. Love Poem

    Roses come in an assortment of colors.
    The wavelength of violet is relatively low.
    I like #2 pencils.
    What’s your favorite song?



    I had a dream
    It was a scream
    A nightmare mean
    Where monsters teemed
    And sidewalks steamed

    When morning came
    I heard the rain
    And then a train
    Now home again
    It’s all so plain

    I had a dream
    It was a scream
    An ogre’s scheme
    To turn me green
    Tear out my spleen

    Then came the sun
    The dream was done
    A horror spun
    A battle won
    Some coffee, Hon?


  20. Like Marie, I was tempted to use last week’s poem. But this is how I feel about some sappy mother poems.

    How Lovely is My Mother

    Her lovely hair shinier than gold
    Her lovely lips redder than roses
    Her lovely nose, well it’s a nose
    And her lovely ears ever alert, whatever is to be heard, she hears
    And lovely eyes, like brown buttons, both in the front and back of her head
    No mother has been more gloriously wonderful and lovely than my mother
    Sweeter than sugar
    Smarter than owls
    Kinder than somebody who’s really kind
    My lovely mother the best, she is

  21. Conjured up this in honor of “Bad Poetry Day” announced on a radio station I was listening to one day.

    Cold Beer and a Hot Woman
    By David De Jong

    Workin’ part time at the local farm store; evenings, weekends makin’ extra cash,
    Quiet night, an old feller comes in; overalls, cane in hand, sportin’ a long mustache.

    He’s a wonderin’ all through the store; lookin’ and searchin’, scopin’ each isle, scanin’ each shelf,
    A friendly sort, easy to chat, so I asked if I could lend a hand find it, or fetch it myself.

    He chuckled and got a spark in his eye –
    “Ain’t nothin’ I really need, – just passin’ by.”

    He made me smile and start to grin,
    I could tell right away – there was sport in him.

    I replied – straight faced as I could –
    Eye to eye – there as we stood;

    “You looked a man on a mission”,
    “I could tell by your looks, what you where wishin’,”

    “I figured you to be lookin’”,
    “For a cold beer and a hot woman.”

    He raised his cane, thought his bibs to come undone, even made the hens start squakin’,
    He laughed and laughed, nearly lost a button, stopped short, serious; and said – “Now yer talking.”

    I could tell that fired up his memory, and soon some tales I’d hear,
    But this one – this one is my favorite, right here:

    I was a young buck like you once, he said,
    Tall, handsome, hair long, and red.

    Ridin’ for an outfit deep – deep in the west,
    Drivin’ cattle, the old way, the horse way – heck-of-a test.

    We’d been drivin’ for weeks, if not days,
    Trail master sends me – me – out for strays.

    So I ride each gully, and gather a herd,
    Hot – dry – dusty – days hadn’t heard a word.

    Daylight was fadin’, as I broke over a hill, an’ saw a vision, nestled under a butte,
    The overland stage station – I walked in a-callin’ – “Just a cow-poke, no need to shoot!”

    Closer I got, the better it smelled,
    Every few steps, just to make sure they heard me, I yelled;

    Been many a day, ridin’ this trail,
    Gettin’ a might thirsty, for a good brewed ale!

    I finally made it in, boots on wood, squeak in the door,
    Dusted my hat, pulled off my chaps, laid em on the floor.

    Kind woman at the counter said, “Welcome – What’ll it be?” – With a mug under her arm,
    I couldn’t help myself, so I started at the beginnin’, and spelled her, my whole yarn.

    Told in detail each stray I collected, how the trail had been long, hot, and dusty,
    If it weren’t for her, they’d found me over the ridge, probably dead, and all crusty.

    She finally got tired of it, and said, – “Enough!” – “Tell me what’ll ya have, not where you’d been”,
    I only meant to explain to her, that’s how I got wishin’, it prêt-near became a mission.

    Hadn’t given any thought, what I’d say next, would make it hit the fan,
    So I told her, all I wanted now, was a cold beer, and a hot woman.

    I’d never seen a woman raise and cock rifle that quick,
    She had it done, and these words said, before I could lick;

    “You dang fool this ain’t yer stop”,
    “And this sure as heck, ain’t that sort of shop”;

    “If it’s hot you want, well here I am”,
    “Been cookin’ – cleanin’ – workin’ since early – dark – a.m.!”

    “Got sweat runnin’ through my petticoat, down to my boots, I’m so blasted hot!”
    “You get any wild ideas cowboy – I’ll kill ya – just one shot!”

    I nearly busted my stitches, started laughin’ so hard,
    Done offended her, in her home, on her own yard.

    I begged her forgiveness, and said “I meant no harm” –
    “Just foolin’ – jokin’ – tryin’ out my charm.”

    She finally eased up, and poured me that beer,
    Fed me a meal; potatoes, corn, fresh skinned deer.

    For some reason, my horse, always wandered that way,
    Each time I’d visit, I’d hardly wait to say;

    “Been ridin’ this hot, dusty trail for might long spell”,
    “I’m just a cow-poke – don’t shoot!” – I’d yell.

    She’d call back; – “Where ya’ll been, and what’ll it be?”
    I’d smile and tell her, “Cold beer for my horse, and a hot woman for me!”

    The stages are gone, but the cabin still stands, just under that butte,
    I’m sure happy she waited, and didn’t just shoot;

    Raised a family there, now all teachers, preachers, and docs,
    I married that woman, hot in her boots, down to her socks.

  22. (with a note to William: I wrote this rubbish poem before reading any posted here, so the first line isn’t nicked from your frightfully (good) piece.)


    It was
    a dreary dark
    and stormy night, and we
    knew it was alright, and so we
    parked, right

    there in
    full sight, bouncing
    the night away on the
    back seat without wearing a safe-
    ty belt.

    A Cinquain

  23. Bad Dog

    Cowering in the corner
    with memories of a rolled up magazines
    and angry words he can’t comprehend,
    only the menacing face
    of anger
    creating an invisible fence
    that he will not cross.

    Bad Man

    He thinks,
    Bad man.

  24. Bad Poem

    Dont know what to write
    cause my muse’s
    locked in the closet
    hollerin’ let me out
    let me out.

    Sorry muse.
    your in their
    till im done with this
    bad bad poem.

  25. claudsy on said:

    This has been such a fun prompt. I’ll see what I can do here and let you all be the judge of things. This is all off the cuff, don’t you know. That’s the very best way I know to make sure that my mixer leaves it as bad as it can be. Not that what I do is always good, don’t you know. But Muse has been frightened, left shaking and quaking and panting in her recesses dark.

    It Stinks

    Well, it does.
    little thing can’t help it.
    Its how it was made.
    None can blame the
    created for being brought
    from the mold too soon.

    It slides around, in search
    of an appreciative pat,
    only to find no hand raised
    to lend it aid and comfort.
    It can’t help itself or it’s odor;
    its just a bad little poem.

  26. sheryl kay oder on said:

    The period behind the word grammar was a mistake, but it was so bad, I decided to keep it.

    Contest Winner, of Course

    I know this stupendous posey will win your prestigious contest.
    When you read all the bland, boring others, you will obviously see this as best.

    All of the many, many, many others will fail because I am so blest
    With such wonderful marvelous talent, this is sure to be the best.

    I can now see those bad, sore losers beating their now-scarred breasts.
    It will not help them at all, for mine will outstrip the rest.

    You might as well stop reading the others; that is such a reasonable request.

    Just give me my well-deserved reward, and give yurslelfs some rest.

    My rimes, rythms, spelling and grammar. Will pass every scrupulous test.
    I’ve though of enough reasons, so this is the end.

  27. Marjory MT on said:

    “BAD NEWS”
    A Tune-ful Poet Form….

    When I was a kid, I dreamed of singing opera,
    only I never could find the right tune.

    Now singing in the shower
    in the only stage I know,

    but the family turns
    the water off
    when the fat lady begins to sing.

  28. Pingback: Sunday’s Blossoms: Deliberately Bad | Two Voices, One Song

  29. Country Love

    By David De Jong

    I love you bigger, than the back side of my horse.
    I can’t wait to see you, so I hurry with the chores.
    My love for you is so strong, let me show you how,
    Stronger than my tractor, pulling that big old plow.
    Holdin’ your hand comes normal, puts me at ease.
    While you’re standin there; could ya hand me that grease?
    You’re just like the spare tire on my old truck,
    Ya help me get goin whenever I get stuck.
    Won’t never forget the first time you caught my eye,
    There at the county fair, when it plopped in your pie.
    No one can fix an old rooster the way you do,
    How you kill an’ butcher em, fixin’ that fine stew.
    I’ll be thinking on you, while I watch the cows graze
    Like green grass, I’ll be lovin’ you, rest of my days

    • New version:

      I love you bigger, than the back side of my horse.
      I can’t wait to see you, so I hurry with the chores.
      My love for you is so strong, let me show you how,
      Stronger than my tractor, pulling that big old plow.

      Holdin’ your hand comes normal, puts me at ease.
      While you’re standin there; could you hand me that grease?
      You’re just like the spare tire on my old truck,
      You help me get goin’ whenever I get stuck.

      Won’t never forget the first time you caught my eye,
      There at the county fair, when it plopped in your pie.
      You licked it; and slicked it; wiped it all clean,
      You is the prettiest my eye ever seen.

      No one can fix an old rooster the way you do,
      How you kill an’ butcher em, fixin’ that fine stew.
      They don’t know what hit em when you whack em dead,
      Their legs runnin’, chassin’ crazy, lookin’ for their head.

      I know how they feel, tryin’ to recollect their hinds,
      Love for you drives me loco, the only thing on my mind.
      I’ll be thinking on you, while I watch the cows graze,
      Like green grass, I’ll be lovin’ you, rest of my days.

    • Omigod — this had me howling — especially the eye in the pie; really, who could resist that? Too funny…

    • claudsy on said:

      Aw, such a touching love poem, David. Whoever the lovely gal is who gets this testament of devotion would be a fortunate one indeed. You’ve captured a mindset from a long-gone era.

      Good for you. Love the “eye” line. Having had friends with such aids, I can stand witness to the hilarity of such an accident.

      Loved it.

  30. Small Talk from Milton, 99 Years Young

    Trees have leaves and birds have feathers.
    His skin is like rhino hide on basset ears
    hanging floppy-tough like he does in the sun.

    Lavita dances dragging her right leg—
    a sort of gallop, making others sway
    this way and that to avoid collision,

    a wise decision on their parts, for in these parts
    we don’t make good decisions, by and large,
    by whimsy or design, we call it fate.

    There’s a trench between those fields there
    that reminds me of WWI although the gas
    is gone replaced with morning mist. That’s good.

    A warning has gone out—steer clear of food
    Miss Tilly made, for she’s been slipping fast
    and there’s no telling what she used for meat.

    She says her dog and cat are missing now;
    could be they saw the writing on the wall—
    a lively anapest—which she thought was a pest

    Apocalyptic, when the rapture comes
    and strips her naked pure
    though she’s unsure if spirits have a limp

    if bodies do. I side with ice cream
    every single time, no matter what,
    any flavor you got, as long as it’s peach.

    • William Preston on said:

      Milton sounds like he lost a pair o’ dice. This has left me with lots of mental pictures, mainly of Lavita in the ballroom. Lots of fun to read.

    • What a fun poem, Jane! Very interesting. 😉

    • claudsy on said:

      Jane, you’ve done it. You’ve gone and made me picture this old guy sittin’ on the sidelines doing a running commentary of an ice cream social like we use to go to when we were young. This was an absolute hoot to read. Great job.

    • Milton could well be spinning in his proverbial grave methinks…in the best way…good work

    • “a wise decision on their parts, for in these parts
      we don’t make good decisions”

      Jane, your poem is entirely too smart and well penned to be bad, but oh is it bad anyhow! 😀

      Marie Elena

  31. janeshlensky on said:


    My muse enjoys a belly laugh
    that stretches her like a giraffe
    has neck to spare and spotty hair
    and legs that run from here to there.

    But she wants rhyme and meter used;
    she’s cheered if she’s a- or be-mused,
    but frankly lines that are abstruse—
    we oft’ refuse, but she’ll excuse.

    If she’s my muse, where has she gone?
    Is there a bus she travels on?
    I’ve been de-mused and need re-musing.
    Are cocktails served at her museum?

    I’ll try to help her laugh aloud,
    alone or sandwiched in a crowd;
    the hussy wouldn’t be too proud
    to drink to muse-less mus-ic, plowed.

  32. Bad News Bares

    So much of
    life is timing—not
    being caught
    naked when tornadoes hit,
    fires start, trees fall,

    Thieves break through
    your door, sheriffs come.
    Avoid bad
    news, but if it comes, keep your
    pants handy and smile.

  33. Bad Poem Excuse

    Do not con-
    if when I type this po-
    the lines breaks
    are all a mess.
    I try my bess-t
    but as you might guess
    I’ve trouble with the space
    Cause I’ve got the hicc-
    and they

    That is probably the worst thing I’ve ever written but it was fun.

  34. Brie

    I think that I shall never see
    a poem tasty as a brie.

    A brie that’s topped with berries and
    some toasted almonds? Sounds quite grand.

    …Or maybe in a pastry wrap
    with arsenic and chives? A cap

    of poisoned mushrooms? Cyanide?
    In cheese it’s so facile to hide

    a toxin that is menu-wrought.
    It’s cheesy, but one won’t get caught:

    an epicure can make the plea
    that only they can ‘snuff’ a brie.


  35. William Preston on said:

    Killing Kilmer softly with your song, eh? No fooling. The Sons of the Pioneers once sang Trees (beautifully, I might add), and I was singing yours as I read it. Personally, I think this is too good to be bad.

  36. Genuine Feeling

    “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” ~Oscar Wilde

    Into the crisper bin, I stick
    my fingers. They feel something slick.
    Is it a nasty cuke or is
    it lettuce with a bit of frizz?
    Tomato squished and turning white
    with fungi? Other veggie blight?
    A celery that’s limp and pale…
    My crisper bin’s the moldy grail
    of salad stuff that’s past its prime.
    No wonder I feel (oh gosh!) slime!
    My bin holds genuine produce
    that presently is more like juice.
    It’s time my fingers are withdrawn.
    I feel a poem coming on.


  37. So I Says to My Muses

    now you come around?
    now you show up?
    when I would least like to see
    any one of you that is
    now here you come, toting
    metaphors and similes
    trailing gaily behind
    your pretty selves
    tempting me with forms
    galore and rhyming schemes
    and other poetic devices
    you never usually bring round
    now, when I’d like to write
    something truly horrid
    the nine of you are playing
    the old “pick me” – I’ll make you
    famous, it will be fun
    how about some enjambment
    you know how you do love that
    and on and on
    you witches, you bitches
    you out and out mean-girls
    leave me be now

  38. This poem laid so many eggs, it reeks! I am so embarrassed that I wrote this but it was an honest effort gone terribly wrong! I have since rewritten it, with obvious humor (see my site) but it will always seem odorous to me.

    I Am A Poem (Yeah, Sure…)

    My poem slithers through a murky mind
    dependent upon times unblinking toll.
    I practice with the surgeons hand to bind
    the weakened line and cut away the droll.

    My poem loves to paint with purposed thought
    and surely loves a song with steady beat;
    sometimes the wan`dring troubadour who sought
    the winding road where is increasing heat.

    My poem often dies before its birth
    but sometimes, with a sudden lift of chance,
    words gather wings and hover over earth
    demanding life and so goes this romance.

    My poem is of time and space and me
    My poem is a fiery song to be.

  39. For poetry I have all the tools
    and I make sure I know all the rules.
    A poem, I know, must always rhyme
    or else you shouldn’t waste your time.
    I think that big words are much better
    than simple words, like a cashmere sweater
    is better than a simple throw
    of cotton, as anyone must know.
    As long as a poem pleases the writer’s eyes
    there’s certainly no reason to ever revise.
    And rules, they say, are made to be broken,
    so I’ll ignore grammar as a worthless token.
    If I can’t use a rhyming dictionary
    then novelists can’t have a fiction fairy
    (what they call a muse) to help them write.
    I just let the words pour out and hope, just maybe, the meter will be right.

  40. A BAD (shadorma) POEM

    indigo blue
    moon shadows dancing
    behind me
    stained glass windows
    sandstorms across the desert
    blinding me

  41. Pingback: A break from the usual… | echoes from the silence

  42. William Preston on said:


    It’s a long way: you reach Tipperary,
    but your plan was to seek Tucumcari.
    You try to address
    your new GPS
    but the voice has fled into the aerie.

  43. You guys are just having way too much fun! 😀

    Marie Elena

  44. I Am

    I am a shadorma
    Oh no, wait!
    Syllable count
    is wrong, and I have forgotten
    what subject I had chosen
    to write about.

  45. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Ah, another confused poet. :-).

  46. A Very Bad Plan

    I snuck into the pantry
    With a furtive glance behind me
    My muse has been screaming all day
    Oh the horror she cries
    Just look at that grammar
    Or lack thereof
    And why aren’t you counting syllables
    You shameless girl
    And what on this side of heaven
    Happened to your meter and rhyme
    Shes an annoying pest
    That muse I used to love
    But today Im being bad and shell feel the effects
    Anyway shes been screaming all day
    And its driving me dotty
    But I know the way to silence her
    That bossy excuse for a muse
    Ill eat a little sugar
    Thatll shut her up a little
    Sugar goes a long long way
    It even changes bread and water into tea and cakes
    Surely it can silence a near to exploding muse
    So I snuck into the pantry
    And reached a dirty inky hand
    Into the jar
    Not bothering to read the label
    I stuck the entire handful into my yawning mouth
    Oh the shock I got as I tasted
    Not sugar as I had expected
    But salt coarse and rough and salty salty
    Now I have sores on my tongue
    And as for my muse
    Why shes shrieking louder than ever
    And Im feeling the effects.

    Copyright Me Again The VCP From Way Up There ⬆ – 2013

    So here’s another one. Every line was torture to write. This is the first time I’ve intentionally used no grammar in…um…practically forever! 😉

  47. sheryl kay oder on said:

    You ended it appropriately, Erin,

    “And as for my muse
    Why shes shrieking louder than ever
    And Im feeling the effects.”

    Now, lemme out of here! 😉

  48. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Bad Dog (I don’t think you could even call this a Poem)


    No Barking
    No Jumping
    No Biting
    No that’s not your toy
    No that’s not a fire hydrant
    No Leave the catbox alone–NOOO… don’t eat that (Yikes!)

  49. This prompt is right up my whammy alley. I’m an expert at bad poetry.

    “Love Poem Won”

    I love umbrellas
    they remind me of you
    -a splotch of magenta
    on due-drops. Your my vinegar
    and that little worm in the tequila
    bottle. #winning

    “Love Poem Too”

    You are my childhood dream.
    The one rite B4 the neon elephants
    and my alarm. I brush the cobwebs.

    You, too?

    “Love Poem Tree”

    First of all, I trust my olfactories
    first of all–the answer is in the trees,
    like a bat in a cave
    the bats love lemons like lovers
    love bats, for men it’s a reflex,
    for women a cloud a rose like
    no other.

  50. “Of all the FIGS, I loved yours best. . . ”

    Buddy, can you spare a peanut?

    i wrote about one once
    it a NAME. THAT’s
    the LAST time I give a FIG
    about a FIG of yours. Buddy, do
    you have a peanut for a tribute
    to love?

  51. CRAP! I posted mine here yesterday, quite early on, and I see it didn’t “take.” And I’m on WordPress, too! Oh, the pain… and here is more pain for you. So bad I didn’t even put it on my blog….! Amy

    Me, Bad

    I’m a cup of coffee
    I’m a glass of milk
    Staring out the window
    at the passing ilk

    I’m the bowl and pitcher
    on the table stand
    I will crack if dropped real hard and
    break at your command

    I am sad as a navel
    on a preg-stretched tummy
    and as full of noisy crap
    as a seashore rummy

    All this is to say that I
    think about me a lot
    So take the best and leave the rest
    because the rest is rot

    © 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

  52. ejparsons on said:

    Writing bad verse
    Making it even worse
    Takes time to think
    To make it stink
    But properly done
    Could make it fun
    To write bad prose
    That curls the nose
    But why waste time
    Poeming bad rhyme
    It’s a challenge you see
    From Walt and Marie

  53. Paula Nancy Mill-
    Stone Jennings is vaporized.
    Vogons move to two.

    • LINDA!!!! Welcome to our bloomin’ site!! Couldn’t resist, could ya?

      That is like the third worst poem in the world. 😀 !!!!!!

      Marie Elena (tell hardt to give you a hug for me, will ya?)

  54. claudsy on said:

    Gotta run for now. Will be back. These are all too bad to not finish reading for the laughter factor. See y’all later.

  55. I find I’m usually ahead of myself, so if you didn’t notice how bad last week’s offering was maybe this will catch your attention !

    Masochistic Poetry Piercing

    O thrash me with your muscular muse
    trounce me with verbosity found in the news
    tase me with glorious verbification
    a pronounced ribbing with interjected exclamation
    expose not only my coordination dysfunctions
    but also highlight subordinating conjunctions
    pierce me with homely adjunct identifiers
    lambaste me with steroid-laden modifiers
    sticks and stones may break my bones,
    but parts of speech excite me !
    if your critique does not assail
    like racing snail, my poem doth fail

  56. Haunting Thoughts of Bad Poetry

    Whispers in the dark
    Going through my mind
    Both in the park and in the field
    The kind of every type

    The one that bothers most
    Is why I cannot rhyme
    I’d boast if it worked out
    In time the skill will come

    At least I’m good at stuff
    like syllable counts,
    enough grammar I have,
    and low amounts of mispellings

  57. Pingback: Haunting Thoughts of Bad Poetry | Gene's Musings

  58. Pingback: BAD FORM / BAD POEM – PROMPT #108 | cloudfactor5

  59. I remember hair
    Touching my shoulders and back
    Now it just grows there


    I had it in my head
    what I wanted to write
    Roses are red? No…

    It’s on the tip of my tongue.
    Violets are blue?
    No, that’s for the young.

    It went out of my head
    as soon as I smashed my toe
    on the foot of the bed.

    Darn it.
    It was going to be good, too.

    P. Wanken

  61. Pingback: From Head To Toe | echoes from the silence

  62. Pomme de Terre-ible – A Sarabande for the Spud at Hand

    “I for one believe that on a weekly basis I am possessed by the spirits of Couch Potatoes past…” ~Chris Orr

    Remote in hand, I settle in
    for a night of channel flipping.
    Then…cable’s out, to my chagrin.
    What’s a poor potato to do?
    Not to worry. Popcorn’s at hand,
    and next to me, a six of brew.
    But wait…the cable’s back on. And…

    I watch a minute of a show
    about some iceberg. Time to change
    the channel, take a swig and throw
    some chips to the dog, who begs.
    The phone rings. I won’t answer it
    S-i-t-t-i-n-g! (I won’t get on my legs.)
    I am a load. This I admit.

    So, didja think a poem could
    be about glorifying spuds?
    My muse belches. I smirk, “That’s good!”
    She says to the dog, “Oh, yeah, right.”
    I laugh and spill some suds. I grab
    pillows to hide the stain from sight.
    Potato life is simply fab.


    • William Preston on said:

      This tuberous sarabande deserves a hand. Front or back, I’m not sure.

    • sheryl kay oder on said:

      Indeed I had thought this would be about bad spuds, but your imagination goes all over the place. I should have known better. How I love that title, though.

      • Okay…I will pen a pomme about bad spuds then. 😀

        • The Root of All Evil – Potato Gangs

          The Russets and the Idahos
          say, “We are here. You’re in our throes.”
          These gangs are pomme de terrible
          and in this lies my parable.

          Beware the tubers, (beady eyes)
          and don’t dismiss their wee small fries.
          Those Tater Tots will steal your Bliss
          and, oh Great Scot! – The Spud Abyss!

          Oh no!

          You know the cabinet that holds
          collections of those Yukon Golds?
          Forgotten, so their sprouts grow wild?
          Becoming evil…so reviled.

          And yes, each one of ’em has been heard to say,

          “I yam what I yam! Yea, rhizome…
          I set down roots right in your home.
          I yam a red, white, pink or new
          potato who’s out to get you.”

          So hash those browns. The fingerlings
          are waiting in the wings with stings.
          I hate to sound so awfully arch
          but this is life when you’re a starch.

          The moral of this octave run?
          Just ‘cause they’re cooked don’t mean they’re done.
          Remember this: a rule of thumb…
          Solanum tuberosum,Chum.


      • Henrietta Choplin on said:

        !! 😀 Yes, Your imagination is WONDERFUL!!!


    Climb to the top of the twin peaks
    to view all that is below.
    Valleys, forests, gorges,
    flowing rivers, gushing geysers.
    One would be much wiser
    to not view nature
    in a such highly suggestive way.
    What can I say, I’ve been a bad boy!

    • William Preston on said:

      Whatever Nature this is, it ain’t Mother.

    • sheryl kay oder on said:

      This is a BAD place for my suggestion, but do you think we might each aspire to a Pitiful Bloom once a year? I doubt we could get as good (bad) as we did this time, but not needing to be good at poetry at least once a year would be a great non-perfection vacation.

    • Henrietta Choplin on said:

      … those images…!!

  64. Henrietta Choplin on said:


    A Be-Bad Prose Poem Letter to My Muse

    Dear Muse-in-the-Closet, Though you come and go freely, it seems, I was wondering if you might sneak out of the closet and jump into my travel bag this weekend… I don’t think that I can bear to leave you on my next journey… You don’t have to answer right away– I will Feel you there when I reach my destination… Hugs even if you can’t make it, Yours, H

    • Hen, this is adorable! Not even remotely bad, just sweet. I hope your muse answers you soon. Hugs! 🙂

    • Marjory MT on said:

      Dear Hen, MMT here, I just received a special notice from your “Muse-in-the Closet”, she has gotten her ticket squared away, and her own bag is packed ready for a Big Weekend. She feels fresh and ready to go after her short vacation and promises to “Do her Best” for you. She has no idea where U-2 are headed – but knows it will be very poetic.
      🙂 ❤

      • Henrietta Choplin on said:

        Awww… thank you, my friend, he seems to stay with me, wherever I go… this trip, a wedding, family, and MY GRANBABIES!!!!! :D!!!

  65. Maybe this could fit in the bad poem category! 🙂

    • sheryl kay oder on said:

      Ah, Nathan, how often we all feel that way. Not so much a bad poem as describing how often we feel we are bad poets.

    • sheryl kay oder on said:

      Nathan, I tried to post this on your blog, but for some reason I could not write the WordPress URL in a way that would suit them.

      “Meaning falls to Form”.

      That is the problem I often have in trying forms. Often my poems simply follow the form of the first two lines. Trying to put ideas and forms together is sometimes to hard. One time I wrote


      Trying to squeeze words
      and ideas into form
      is sometimes taxing.

  66. If I Be

    If I be
    Than I am
    But am I
    What I be
    If I be
    Or am I
    Just me

  67. Golden ibis stands
    Silhouette against the moon.
    Gunshots. Ibis falls.


    Random thoughts.
    Episodes of old shows.
    Old baseball stats and averages.
    Lyric hook, no book comprehension,
    Not to mention old girlfriends who linger
    As memories tattooed on the cave walls.
    Hear that noise? What is that?
    Heiroglyphics and specific volumes
    Of mindless minutiae, fuschia treatments
    On the windows to his soul, sometimes
    Mindless never heartless. There’s that noise
    Again! Again with the noise! Boys chasing
    Voluptuous vixens in a loop; me taking notes
    Future reference for a story to hone later. Random thoughts. Erotic women with
    Popsicle toes. It goes like it goes.
    It’s amazing what you find in Walt’s mind.
    What the hell is that #*?£!!! noise?

  69. Potted Shrimp

    Driven to write a poem that’s baddest
    The urge to rhyme drives me maddest
    And I really don’t have much Thyme
    Though there’s plenty of Rosemary

    With grammar control switched to zero
    And spell cheque off I fiddle like Nero
    And contemplate the Parsley patch
    And wonder why the Chives so tarry

    I stretch my legs to take a gander
    At the Basil, Sage and Coriander
    (That’s Cilantro if you didn’t know)
    Oh! See how my garden blooms!

    Water, water each morn and night
    If I drank like herbs I’d be a fright
    But the Kumquat tree just loses leaves
    Oh poor gardener, how his heart glooms!

    Now hang on there, what nonsense!
    I fear I’ve crossed the poetic fence
    And instead of potting potty herbs
    I should’ve rather Potted Shrimp

    For lunch, with brown bread and butter
    And a wedge of lemon on the side
    And perhaps a glass of Ginger Beer


  70. Nonsense

    No meter
    no rhyme
    no chickens
    no nickels
    dirt between the toes
    yes, and freckles

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