Chip MacGregor

May 4, 2016

The Tenth Annual BAD POETRY CONTEST!

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I know you’ve been waiting all year for me to host my 10th annual BAD POETRY CONTEST at the blog — so here is another reason to go on living. One week from today is my birthday, and I always try to celebrate by inviting all the bad poetry my friends can muster. Just go to the bottom of this blog, hit “comments,” and post some lousy piece of doggerel as your way of joining in the celebration. It can be a crappy couplet, a crummy free verse, a lousy limerick (let’s stay away from rhyming with the city of “Nantucket”), or any other ditty you create that shows what a sensitive and thoughtful artist you are, when you don’t happen to be worrying about your lack of a book contract or whining about the bad job of marketing your publisher is doing for you.

For those not in the know, this contest grows from my belief that every poet has the same message, which can be subtly summed up this way: “LOOK AT ME! I AM SENSITIVE AND REFLECTIVE AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! SO I’LL SHOW THEM HOW DEEP I AM BY WRITING POETRY!” (Feel free to edit that statement if you’re truly deep and meaningful.) I want you to know that I’m here for all you poets. In fact, I was once accused of being sensitive, and have occasionally been forced to reflect on something — that is, until I could grow up and get over it. Therefore, I’ve set aside the next week just for you. Write! Create! Sit and contemplate your navel! Do…um…whatever it is you poets do while the rest of us are out earning a living. Then send in your bad poetry! There are no rules, except that you don’t send in “birthday” poems. This isn’t a celebration of me aging — it’s a celebration of terrible writing, of faux depth, of deepful meaningness. So break out that sensitivity (with Trump the candidate, we’re going to need it) and demonstrate your reflexocity by creating something completely lame. Your fellow writers will love you for it.

And the best news of all… the winner, chosen by an experienced team of expert bad poets (me, and maybe a friend, if he agrees to buy the Guinness) will receive a special GRAND PRIZE: a genuine signed copy of my bestselling book The Y2K Family Survival Guide!!! That’s right — the book that saved western civilization as we know it! (Had it not been for all those stupid Y2K books by people like me and Mike Hyatt and Shauntee Feldhahn years ago, I’d probably be blogging in Chinese this very moment. In the dark, maybe. So just keep that in mind, Comrade. Mike Hyatt went on to become President of Thomas Neslon. Shauntee has written mumerous bestsellers. And I…uh…well, there’s no proof that the publishing of my book led directly to my being let go as a publisher with Time-Warner, but we’ve got people investigating that angle right now.)

Your little piece of literary history awaits. Write!

What can I do to make one see,

I do so love bad po-e-try.

It is, to me, a sort of balm,

And writing it just makes me calm.

For each time that I sit and write,

I show my depth, reveal my plight.

I’m really a reflective sort,

Hiding in my writing fort,

Revealing sensitivity,

For rhyme and meter, brevity.

So come join my happy clan,

Write something – show you’re a man!

(Or a woman, if you aren’t home

to the Y chromosome.)

We await your craft and work,

Know that we will go beserk

When, upon this blog we see,

All your best bad po-e-try.

— The Most Reverend and Holy Jerry Chip MacGregor, President of the Bad Poetry Society

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55 Comments

  • Lynn He says:

    Owed to Depression

    “I’m sad.”

    “It’s tedious,”

    you reply.

    “To sit and mope because you can’t cope

    with the tangledness life tends to tie.”

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Yes! Truly bad, Lynn He! Thanks very much for offering your awfulness to the world!

  • Ron Benson says:

    The Happy Tree

    Mommy said I’d see the tree.

    See the tree and me and thee.

    Put the three of us right there.

    Where the pond did urge us wear –

    A loincloth.

    ****

    Daddy told about the gun.

    Hid it in the hole in one –

    Tree within the orchard there.

    Where the pond did urge us wear –

    A monkey suit.

    ****

    Happy happy happy tree.

    Making merry ceaselessly.

    Joining in the parson’s lair,

    Where the pond did urge us wear –

    A golden hat.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      The above Bad Poet (a former Bad Poetry Winner, I might add) has been urged by all of those close to him to put the loincloth back on. No photos exist, or I”d be posting them.

  • PeterLeavell says:

    My heart is taken by another, ladybug.
    Broken in two, like black and red crunchy wings, ladybug.
    The pain like a forgotten aphid I’m trying to smother, ladybug.
    Shudder, how wholly foul do you steer—a last breath sings, ladybug!

    It is not I who dreams what could be, ladybug,
    But who can guess where you store your effects, ladybug?
    Freedom to walk is wonderfully oh so free, ladybug,
    But, alas, my dreamy promenade in a forest glade with unwatched steps, ladybug.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Alas, my dreamy promenade through the forest of bad poetry has struck Peter. Alas.

  • Lydia says:

    Salt-tinted liquid excretes from all two of my tear ducts
    Why, oh, why, have I lost my once-plentiful lucks?
    I shan’t forget the blue of the ring-like muscle controlling your pupil
    Now that you’re gone, my sadness is quadruple
    It broke all four chambers of my blood-pumping organ
    when you left me for that lousy Morgan

    It’s time to take matters into my own pair of five-digited extremities
    Because I’m 100% certified lonesome and there is no remedy
    My weepful-juices are sloshing off my cheeks; it’s too much to bear
    Bang! The sacs on either side of your trachea will stop moving air
    The hour for payback has struck, though I have nothing to gain
    I’ll embodify your dread nightmares and unwave your brain
    Then I guess I’ll find a new boyfriend.

  • Tracy Adkins says:

    Saviour

    Through the long, long
    Night
    Of my suffering, I
    Dreamt
    You were there, in the Somewhere.

    Suddenly, bold, you appeared,
    Flowing orange locks matching
    Face, aglow.

    Could you be the one to
    Save me
    From the dark menace and
    Return us to the light?

    In your capable hands,
    “Yuge hands,” you promised
    “I guarantee there is no problem, I
    guarantee you.
    Okay?
    Just ask
    My lovely, lovely daughter.”

    When you shouted
    That you were very, very rich,
    I believed.
    “Believe me.” you said.
    “Don’t be
    A stupid loser.”
    My heart knows the truth.

    And when you shouted,
    “I’ll build a wall, did you know that?”
    I whispered, “Why are you shouting?”
    “I’ll make America
    Great!”
    You shouted. Even louder.

    With a bible
    And a taco bowl
    We shall
    Overcomb.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      He has written a Bad Poem (“and this is a terrifically bad poem, by the way, everyone agrees, he has terrific poetry ability – there’s no problem with his poetry ability, believe me… he’s going to win this one bigly”). Here’s hoping some readers actually GET this joke.

    • Lynn He says:

      I stand in ahh.

  • Susanna Dewey says:

    Odd Socks:
    Odd socks, odd socks
    Sitting in a box
    Always disappearing
    And never reappearing.
    They never seem to match,
    Or we always have to patch
    Because they have a hole
    Oh what a bother and a bore.
    When the washer eats one in a flash
    The other one goes in the trash.
    Then we have to buy some more
    And go and get them from the store.

  • Tricia Sutton says:

    Dear Chip. I had a question but didn’t want to waste any keystroke which may be useful in sucking so bad it might be good, so it’s in the form of an entry. And please, do not update the restraining order from 2009.

    the contest, the fantasy, the multiple entries

    I ask of thee, is there a “per customer” limit on poems? I’m on a roll, like toilet paper but rollier. I make up for lost years. Like the years prior to 2009 (the year of The Restraining Order, due to a tantrum for not even placing top ten) when I knew of no such honor to be awful. And all the years after (except 2013) when I thought so hard of magical poems I could smell the inside of my head.

    I forgot to enter.

    Which brings us to 2013.

    I was so close. 2nd place (alias Junior) http://www.macgregorliterary.com/blog/all-bad-things-must-come-to-an-end/. So close to Winning. Winning How to Good-bye Depression: If you constrict anus 100 times everyday. Malarky? or Effective Way?).

    I pictured myself, my honored self, accepting my award of How to Good-bye Depression: If you constrict anus 100 times everyday. Malarky? or Effective Way?)

    from you, my bleary eyed one.

    I made my acceptance speech.

    We went out to dinner

    I gazed upon your bleary eyes, blue. Blue as toilet bowl cleaner.

    and then i asked if you could hem my pants. They were frayed at the bottom. It tickled and made me think spiders were crawling up my leg

    we had a lovely evening

    I’m dreaming again

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Good News: The restraining order has been lifted! You are a free woman, Tricia! Free to be yourself! Free to send in Bad Poetry! Free to take more of those drugs that caused this problem in the first place! Free to use as many exclamation points as me!!!!!

  • Tricia Sutton says:

    poetic numbers: 3 poems part 1 of 2

    1 is unacceptable and won’t be discussed further.

    hate it

    16 is the number of pets, cats in particular, one should adore. At a certain time (not 1 time)

    love it

    There are 21 pizza rolls in a family pack, good for a person (I regret now banning the number 1 and therefore rescind my restrictions)

    eat it

    does 1 remote control in the hand equal 2 on the coffee table?

    question it

    ………………………….

    3 friends, Kurtis and Lee

    4 were sinners,

    1 wore tinfoil

    2 had to pee

    Part 2

    21 pizza rolls divided by 16 cats equals 1 or 3 half eaten friends

    • chipmacgregor says:

      “Adding numbers to your poems always improves them.” – Bad Poet Tricia Sutton

  • Tricia Sutton says:

    Wither and Die From My Hi

    If I told you I love that tree or that it’s the most beautiful tree
    tomorrow it will be chopped down

    I can’t tell you my pants size as suddenly I will
    pop a button

    If I told you my favorite song the station will never air it
    again

    If I told you I love rain, my geographical location will suffer
    a 73 year drought.

    I once told you I loved “Loving Spoonfuls” pudding cups.
    They are no longer in existence. (my favorite cereal too but I can’t remember its name. There were dinosaurs in the box. I’ll remember only after I hit send. Or not)

    If I love you today i will hate you tomorrow

    hate

    I can tell you only one thing. As sure as the sun rises and the moon too, nothing can stop it. It cannot be undone. There will be no consequence for saying it. Nothing can change it. Nothing can hurt it.

    It is 9:46am

    boom

    • chipmacgregor says:

      And I can also tell you only one thing: You’re spending too much time on Bad Poetry, Tricia.

  • Tricia Sutton says:

    The Big Easy Blank Love

    Love came not easy. Not easy. She sought a blank canvas, untouched, porous and white. He sat staring blank, blank as a canvas, only not white, and not porous, and not untouched (he had a scar), but a blank either way, blinking, blankly, eating a scone, slowly. She knew.

  • Nice Lady with Gun says:

    COMPOST LIFE

    You think you have it so tough-
    Well, my life is the one that really stinks.
    You sit there, you whiner, and even your fingernails are clean.
    Well, look at me!
    My life is like compost!

    You and your precious little fingernails,
    You don’t have a clue.
    Compost! That’s my actual life!

    Everything smelly and cast-off and moldy.
    Everything that nobody wants,
    it just gets dumped on me,
    on the pile of rot that is
    MY LIFE.

    Eggshells once filled with the very richness of life,
    now broken and empty,
    heaved out onto My Life.

    The cruddy grounds that once made
    the steaming richness of the coffee of life,
    scattered now on the compost of
    My Life.

    You ate the grapefruit of possibility,
    and then
    you tossed the empty halves of peel,
    with just that bitter membrane stuff
    Onto the compost of
    My Life.

    All that other stuff from your lip-smacking days
    Piles up on the rotting compost of
    My Life.

    Worms. Stench.

    Well, the joke’s on you, Precious.
    Because all this decay is turning into
    rich soil

    And I will rise again,
    actually fecund with possibility and hope
    Because that’s how compost works.
    Just in case you didn’t know.
    Ha!
    Then who’s the winner in life,
    my friend?

  • Nora Spinaio says:

    Ode to a Dark and Stormy Night

    It was a dark and stormy night
    And murder was afoot
    As a bullet was shot with the thunder
    And lightning showed the way
    A body swam in blood
    Though how a dead body swam
    We’ll never know
    Oh, old dark and stormy night
    Where or where did the rain and wind go?

    Ode to a dark and stormy night

  • Lisa Godfrees says:

    Once, twice, thrice now I’ve entered your contest for pundits, and poets, and such.
    I’ve learned you like yearners, thinkers, big-word users.
    Alas for us third-grade rhymers
    Even in failing at poetry we fail.

    As I contemplate life and the geist within us, searching to find poignant commonality
    I’m captivated by poignant, the oy sound, the spelling
    And p words like pumpkin and pumpernickel
    Which make me crave eating and romanticized spying

    Oh what am I doing and where am I going?
    Shall I count the ways?
    Shall I compose an odious ode?
    I think not therefore I am not

    My love of language strings together words that sound exquisite
    If they contain q and x, so much the better.
    If they contain scarpulcruous words that gyle and gimble in the wabe
    Then like the mome raths, I’m outgrabed.

    This road could go ever and ever on
    Would you award your highest prize to the rambler, the reacher, the scurrilous keeper?
    Existential I would say it matters not, but that it matters
    But some roads lead to Mordor, where the shadows are
    So I shall seek the Jabberwocky at the end of mine.

    Beware the jackalopes.

  • Jenny Snow says:

    Lady Lackadaisical
    Licks a lollipop
    Lemon-lime lullaby
    La La La

  • soulsupply says:

    “Mary had a little lamb
    Her father shot it dead.
    Now Mary takes her lamb to school
    Between two chunks of bread!” .. I stole this from Peta Conwell on FB. I do not know her, but it was too irresistible and I must be honest.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      No stealing of Bad Poetry, soulsupply. Sorry. You’re being disqualified, and will NOT be receiving a copy of “The Y2K Family Survival Guide.” Try to find a reason to go on living.

  • Kiki Hamilton says:

    Though I should be working

    I’m really lurking

    Admiring Chip’s wit from afar

    A clever twist of the tongue

    A fancy turn of the phrase

    Confirms what we know: he’s a *star*

    Professing to hate the art form of po-e-try

    He slings out rhyming words among his co-te-rie

    Daring us all to compete

    Yet he seems so sensitive

    And shows such depth

    His talent is pretty dang hard to beat.

    So with hat in hand

    And kerchief to nose

    I hold my head high in defeat

    And raise my glass

    (of Guiness no less)

    To hail he who is slightly off-beat

    Let’s lead the cheer

    Using utmost di-plo-macy

    Here’s to Chip MacGregor

    King of Bad Po-e-try!

    –The Most Irreverant and Undinstinguished, Kiki Hamilton, Poetry Serf

  • Keys

    Where are you?
    Where are you?
    Where are you?
    Oh, there you are.
    No, wait, these are my old keys.
    Why do I keep you?
    You are of no use to me right now.
    But what if I need you after all?
    Like that platonic friend in high school,
    You decide to marry if you’re both still single at 50,
    Backup life.
    Backup love.
    Backup keys.
    Filed to the junk drawer of your mind.
    Backup keys.
    What do you go to?
    Why are you here?
    I guess you should stay.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Of course you did, Stephanie. This poem is full of deepfulness. It exudes reflexocity. Nice work.

  • Allen says:

    Someone is singled out for celebration

    like a saint the Church decides on

    counting up miracles

    good works in multitudes.

    Is there an act left to sanctify

    some area of living not media-blessed?

  • Jim Gullo says:

    The soles of my feet
    on your face as you sleep
    my love
    for you, tides of hibiscus longing
    universal Earth Mother Bisquick
    In China they see the moon, too
    mothers say, “If you dug a hole deep enough…”
    New Jersey
    You wake, you breathe
    you remove the mask we all wear
    but you only at night
    impenetrable, waking night, dark
    smells like socks in here.
    # # #

  • Jennifer Labadie Fromke says:

    Here’s my philosophy:

    Wherever I go, I have to see

    The idiots clamoring hard to lee.

    So I will not go, I will not see,

    I will stay at home and just be me.

    By myself.

    • chipmacgregor says:

      Sniff. Touching. As background music, let’s play “All BY Myself…”

  • Policeartist says:

    Ode to Love

    my love for you is like a pair of rabbit ears, the ones you used to put on the television so you could watch “Perry Mason” on Sunday nights.”

    Spotty reception and with rerun-.

    s. But in my bubble-bath daydream thoughts of you, I scratch at mosquito bites,

    because I didn’t have Off! or Skin-so Soft, so this line is done.

    I must get over this love like malignant animal magnetism, as the Christian Scientists would call it, and then give it last rites.

    If they were Catholic, which they aren’t, and I’m not poking fun.

    I’m getting my love self-poetry published on Createspace because my mom thinks I deserve acolytes.

    the end
    -Carrie Stuart Parks

    Thank you, Chip, for letting me share this most sensitive side. It’s dedicated to Harvey B. Twit, my college hamster, who was eaten by Shasta, mom’s dog. I found the body.

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