I decided today that I was overdue for a reading to camera. The longer I don’t do one, the easier it is not to do one. I’ve read a handful of poems from the current work-in-progress this morning, and, as rough as it always is, with me, I did enjoy it. I find that the […]Working title – ‘A Magpie Sings’ – a reading from the #WIP — Frank Prem Poetry
Just a free write. Enjoy.
Come all, come one. The more terrible your poetry, the better! 🦴🎃💀
Come here, my poet, and prepare to enter the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest #49! You’ll find a basic outline on terrible poeting here. Ready?
Here are the specifics for this week:
- Our Topic is Halloween. Write something SCARY!
- As is usual, the Length is up to you.
- Rhyming is also up to you. Frighten us with what you do.
- Just Make it terrible! Make the very souls of the Wal-mart imps moan in agony and terror at the very thought of your verses.
- The Rating’s fine at PG-13 or cleaner.
You have till midnight of All Hallow’s Eve, 12:00 a.m. MST next Friday morning (November 1) to submit a poem.
Use the form below to be anonymous for a week.
For a more social experience and immediate fame, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. If you do not see a pingback within a day…
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Here’s my entry. Join in on the fun here. The instructions and rules can be found via the link. Good writing and good luck! 🎃
There is a being, you see, upon this evening’s brow;
two stories up, where the night’s extinguished candle was used to enshroud.
Over the flame she turned, over their breath she heard, their pensive dishes of gruel and meat,
their spoons clashing, bread ripping, as they spoke of things without understanding;
without understanding at all.
Notes of music spilt onto the wooden floors; clanging mouths and spit soon sealed every door.
A rush away, chains soon met.
Truth was heard whispering nevermore;
it was beckoned back through the Hall’s front doors.
Now with violence ripped and pages fell,
Darkened calendars and lighted gold,
the lady of the manor haunts her lonely, ever darkened but discreet,
“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore; when he beats his bars and he would be free, it is not a carol of joy or glee, but a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core.”
Based on true events….
A Time of Kerfluffles
Two weeks ago, my eyeglasses broke. The pin popped out and the tech’s head just shook. “Too bad, you’re out of luck; you’re a blind, little bat now you idle schmuck. And don’t stumble on the welcome mat on the way out, you putz!”
My finger, shortly thereafter, broke in two; would I ever lie to you? Oh well, it’s just a strain, but I do have people sign my little splint just the same.
And then last Tuesday, I recall still yet with dread: I stepped on a rusty nail head! No scratches, no impailments, no ER trips or sky rocket payments. Tetanus shot is up to date and my guardian angel is going on vacation, post haste.
And then yesterday, or was it two days ago hence? I broke my car’s side mirror, to my garage’s horror and my proceeding recompense. Seven years of bad luck is mine from parking a smidgen too close inside.
No worries and have no fear. Because, even if this superstition is true, it’ll be over so very soon. At my current rate, I’ll be free of this bad luck around, well…let’s calculate and see. Why the year six thousand, four hundred and ninety three!
Come all, come one. Can you write the most terrible poem to the theme?
Welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! This is our 34th time of offending the internet and I hope we continue to disappoint.
As those who’ve entered before know, writing terrible poetry is an art form. To truly offend one’s sensibilities; a bad poet needs to nearly fit a meter, almost follow a rhythmic pattern, or get so close to a beautiful description his audience starts picturing EXIT signs instead of snow falling gently in a springtime field. I explain the process a bit here.
Besides that, here are this week’s specifics:
- Topic: Animals and their pregnancy.
Did you know the African Bush Elephant carries …well, an elephant for 22 months? That a male seahorse carries the babies (up to 1,500!)? Or that female Komodo Dragons can impregnate themselves without a male through a process called parthenogenesis?
Did you know you’re going to write a poem about it?
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Hey, you there. Yes, you. Go to Chelsea’s page and submit your own Terrible Poem take on Unusual Ways to Make Money. Read the rules, mind the PG rating and dive in. We need fresh blood of the terrible kind.
My entry is below. I took a different turn with this one. Crack on.
Continue reading “Terrible Poetry Contest Entry: Entropy”
Lightning has hit twice. I have won the Terrible Poetry Contest for the second glorious time. And everyone rejoiced and roasted Oxford commas over cozy bonfires.
Want to join in on the terribleness? The new contest opens tomorrow. Check out Chelsea’s page for details.
Check it out, Arcians and consider supporting a fellow author. I realized after reading Devil in the Wind’s blurb that 1.) It sounds very interesting and 2.) I know next to nothing about Australia. Thus I need to read and learn about these bush fires of 2009.
I pre-ordered my copy. Check out the links for more information. I’m adding this eagerly to my summer reading stack. ☺️📚📚📚
Hi, Folks! It’s #ShareAReviewDay Tuesday again, and our guest this morning is Frank Prem. Frank is sharing a review from his poetic anthology, Devil in the Wind. After reading this, I’m sold. I’ve pre-ordered this one to add to my collection of poetry anthologies, and I suspect many of you will as well. Thanks for checking it out today, and for sharing far and wide, as well.
Mick rated Devil In The Wind5.0 out of 5 stars on Goodreads
Like Frank’s previous book, Small Town Kid, this collection of poems tells a story of rural and small town Australia. But the similarities between the two books end there.
Whereas the previous collection was a celebration of boyhood in Frank’s hometown, this is an account of the dreadful bushfires of February 2009 that swept through parts of Southern Australia, the area that is home to the author…
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