Ode to Bad Poetry

William Haskins

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It sags like the tits
of a suckled-out sow
and rolls off the
tongue like mud.

It creaks like the cracks
of a moldering bough
and clumps at the
edge like blood.

Like flotsam it floats
in the wake of the word
riven apart
by a flood,

And thrown in the air
like a dumb flightless bird
crashes to earth
with a thud.
 

Billytwice

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I have several books on the subject and consider myself a master poetaster.
Still aspire to reach the dizzy depths of McGonagall.
 

emax100

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You need to write more odes to things we can all make fun of.
 

William Haskins

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Ode to Roadkill

I saw you at eight
and again at six,
your fur blood-matted,
eyes like ice,
your grimace greeting
the traffic, speeding
to places where
slaves while away
their days and
nights in cages,
swallowing rages.

I wonder if they
ever felt the rush
or risked the risk
to bolt between
those metal monsters
on instinct alone;
I wonder if you
took some satisfaction
in those errant tracks in
the roadside grass and
foolish fear of
the human heart.

Sleep well, my friend.

The buzzards will wait
until rush hour ends
and traffic thins, when
the sun isn’t watching,
then pierce your skin
and take you home,
piece by piece.

Peace.
 

shakeysix

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That was wrenching, William. In all truth I am close to tears.

I am no PETA nut. In fact I have grown a little callous. Stafford County Kansas must be the road kill capital of America. I have been passing this mangled deer for days now, trying not to look into its dead eyes. The coyotes haven't made it to the buffet yet but the crows have--grizzly, grim and true to life. Mr. Haskins, you tapped my trigger on this one--s6
 

William Haskins

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That was wrenching, William. In all truth I am close to tears.

I am no PETA nut. In fact I have grown a little callous. Stafford County Kansas must be the road kill capital of America. I have been passing this mangled deer for days now, trying not to look into its dead eyes. The coyotes haven't made it to the buffet yet but the crows have--grizzly, grim and true to life. Mr. Haskins, you tapped my trigger on this one--s6


poetic successes are few and far between. i will count this as one.
 

Creative Ghost

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As ever, William's pen cuts swiftly and to the bone.

You need to write more odes to things we can all make fun of.
This should be a contest. Not necessarily to things to make fun of, but to things we dislike, loathe or hate.

Passion always makes for the best poetry.
 

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I liked the first one especially. The rhyme scheme was simple, yet surprising.
 

Billytwice

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Here's that link Kie:

http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/

Here's one of my efforts:

The Night My Hamster Died

My furry friend has met his maker
Time to ring the undertaker
I’m so upset, I almost cried
Tonight’s the night my hamster died

But wait! I’ll ring my girl instead
To tell her gently; ‘Hammy’s dead’
And with a little bit of luck
She’ll feel so sorry we’ll have a
Good chat over a cup of tea…


The inspiration for this piece came from post 2 of this thread:
http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=48988&highlight=night+hamster+died
 
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Stew21

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well, let's just say this sentiment and I go way back. Perhaps, slightly schizophrenically, but still.

Minefield

She preens while thumbing her pages.
I, with one cigarette too many and one drink too few,
don't stop her.

She quotes the good parts – does victory laps
for the uniqueness of her thoughts;
each spelled out in thick block-letter clichés.

Her words are just-so-damn-perfect she can’t stand it.
She points to her brilliant cat metaphor.

If I don’t smile she’ll think I don’t get it.
So I don’t.
In appeasement, I tell her she has the timing
down to clockwork.
And the words melt her with buttery goodness.

Take a swig and crush the butt
to make me even.

She takes the strokes and circles for more.

I tell her she’s looking sharp since she started
dressing from the Emperor’s Closet.
She asks me if that’s a new store downtown.

And then right back to the cat.

She takes being misunderstood
as a sign
of being too profound-genius-goddess-artiste
for someone like me –
the one who doesn’t get the metaphor
about the fucking cat and
can’t stop talking fashion.

I order a double, smoke three last cigarettes,
nod.
And continue my careless stroll
through a metaphor-minefield.
But I can’t get blown up to save my life.
 
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