Honorary Bad Poetry

Poetic Musings, in memoriam, by Chelle Miko

Warning: Bad poetry does not get better with pictures. We recommend glancing at the photos while scrolling as fast as you can to the Pointless Reader Reviews. 🙈

Gutted

Kick the Bucket List, for DLord Tick Tock

Last thing undone. Fly to Alaska at 36 and spend 16 hour days sharpening your knife skills in Yakutat, sweating next to veteran Filipinos who populate the cannery and can skin anything hauled from the sea faster than you can finish a blink. Still, your foreman can’t help but notice his only good-natured wild-card who Will. Not. Quit. He plucks you from the rank and file, tucking you under his wing. Then teaches you to mirror the subtle nuances of wielding a blade. It never occurs to you to mention what’s left of the finger on your right hand, not yet healed from the construction mishap that claimed it. Instead, you're grateful and attentive to his instruction, and soon you’ve mastered the fine art of filleting.

You show up on the docks with fire in the pit of your belly, unloading the boats with your usual grinning gusto. When the others rush to finish and haul ass back to the cannery, you alone hang back and offer to help; within two weeks you’re fished from the cannery by the f/v Magia crew who see the potential in you, someone strong, fast, and uncommonly agreeable. Your vigor lands you on the f/v Ocean Nemesis and then the f/v Magnus Martens, a top Deadliest Catch caliber vessel. This crew’s been fishing on the open sea since they were big enough to hold a pole. But in a Big Apple minute, closing in on 40, despite the torment of your torn finger bones, you give Alaska every single ticking time bomb minute of your attention. Against the odds, DLord Tick Tock, you keep your grip and your footing, deftly transforming yourself into a bona fide commercial fisherman. Defying standard measures of expectation and performance, you, Dennis James Lord 11, fulfill your final frontier dream, proving yet again you are a singular exception to the rules and expectations of this world.
(penned 1-2021)

Pendulum

Grizzly

Do Not Go Alone Into That Good Night

A Penny For Your--

Cliffside, A Foreshadowing (penned in 1998 after Darlena's near miss)

Call of the Wild Receiver

Her Superpower is Love

Gravity

One Cool Human, Adrienne Tucillo's dad

The Universe Has Spoken, for Siguard Decker, with love

What He Wore

Salt and Pepper

The Usher

Tick Tock, for my brilliant boy

She’s a small minded micro-manager, you know the type, with tiny focused thoughts that feel like pin pricks on my skin, and I don’t mean the healing acupuncture kind. Impatient and intent, she’s got the snarky tone down pat, while painstakingly instructing me on How To Disinfect And Secure A Pen To A Clipboard. But all I can hear is my brilliant dead boy, who suffered from a chronic condition called Thinking Big, who flatly refused to misuse a millisecond of the time gifted to him. Oh, boy, do I hear him, Wait. Are you seriously explaining clipboards and soap and ink to me? I hear him laugh and clutch his chest, then peel off his yellow safety vest. I see him toss a Peace Out to his co-workers on his way to the nearest exit. When he slams the door, I haven’t absorbed a single absurd word of my clipboard lesson, but now my manager’s staring expectantly, annoyed at my having wasted her time on what appears to be frivolous daydreaming. My face mask hides my expression, but it’s clear to both of us that I’m lit to the brim with some amusing distraction. Lost in the hefty presence of my enlightened son, whose joyful voice of wisdom can still wind me up over absurdities, I hear his warning not to listen to talk made small, but rather to heed the nearly imperceptible ticking of a clock, the only sound worthy of my undivided attention, on my new and sunless journey.  
(penned 03/2021)

Some Shade Of Blue, in honor of my son, a commercial fisherman

A well-to-do couple approaches, clearly entitled to demand an explanation for obvious lapses in judgment; before they reach me, I sense the cause of their consternation, feel their energetic indignation in their heated conversation about how I’ve polluted their ordered world with my eccentricity, with a head full of hair dyed an extreme hue of blue. Without hesitation but with plentiful derision, the man frowns and issues his judgment: What on earth possessed you to do THAT to your hair?! His wife nods. They can’t see the fault lines under his question that threaten to shift and pull the rug out on the rest of a life sentence I’m living. So, there’s a split decision before me: laugh it off or strip the varnish of every strand to the root. I choose the latter, become the man’s empty echo, What on earth possessed me? Well, sir and ma’am, this is mermaid hair, in honor of my son, a fisherman who passed away unexpectedly.  I don’t say I know death, like the floundering soul of a grieving mother,

is unacceptable,

how Death and I both quake with the power to dismantle conventions of stability, such as the myth that parents outlive their children. Instead, I go on to assure them of the only truth left standing, that I will always be throwing some shade of blue.  
(penned 03/2021)

Ransom Note, for DLordTickTock from his Tribe

When the shoe dropped, every single person he knew mourned his name-- FIrSt,laSt, and MiDdle iNiTial--the one U scribbled in haste on this godforsaken ransom note. The same collective also flipped a bird at U, who alone are to blame: U made that grave mistake, that headstone glitch. You wrote that Big Fat Greek typo on your grim reaper’s capricious hit list.

Word.

In your tombstone haste, did U mistake him for another slightly balding doppelganger? Well, we swear on every last follicle of this fisherman’s beard,

His spirit has no twin. Our petition is clear: replace the tick in that once awesome tock! Buckle up for another expeditious cliffhanger, but only if we can count on U to repeat yourself, to topple time itself with a screeching freaking hair-raising halt…then wind it up again. Do U think U have it in U to antagonize this resurrection clock? Trust us, we’re woke! His spark lit every room he found us in, where we paced, dim and unknowing, until he slid in, beaming brightness into the darkest night, flooding the walls and ceiling and floor, making us stronger, wiser, and--U get that, right? His connection made us more.

If that’s what provoked U, then it must really tick U off to witness his restless spirit, still stoked, still in the game, luminous and strutting, always at play, his presence alive and well in everything that’s missing. Trust us, U do not need him floating about in that forever place, when our only neighbors are a bunch of wilting buds. What’s his mission, anyhow? Is he just another bulb, wasting all that boyish zest, waving his magnetism like a light saber and charming the wings off the delighted guardians of his soul?

With billions to choose from, some wreaking havoc, and others, like us, not doing much of anything, what, in Heaven’s name, possessed U to pluck this Limited Edition blossom? All you did was inspire every single someone he knew to yell, “Oh, hell’s to the no!” U see, we sincerely regarded him as a singularly cool, entirely exceptional human. He was surely one of God’s most astonishing blooms, while U, on the other hand, are just a gloating tool. Well, we’ll have U know, the rumors are true: hell on earth has no elevator. Or escalator. And while that blows, it so happens we’re both tattle and tale. So, on some moonlit night, expect the rock-n-roll piper, (and fellow whistle-blower) to shake, rattle, and roll us right up that secret staircase, where our blinding grief will expose the envious fool in U. There’ll be no Come to Jesus chits or chats.  True, that. No more ransom threats or battles for this soul, no more blame games, or rewinding ticks and late night tocks.

This most definitely will be just one big motherlovin’ tit for tat. U get that, right? One of these days, when U least expect it, when the thief in U monotonously spins the globe--playing a mean game of tag, you’re it!--this cool human will be restored to us, not a carbon copy, but whole, the Real Deal, body, mind, and soul. And we guarantee that on the very same day, the Creator will pull out all the stops, and the plug, and even your neon green shag rug. Just. Like. That. And then, for U, anyway, U gluttonous dud, it will be Lights Out.For reals.  (penned 11/2020)

Pointless Reader Reviews

🍑☆🍑 Reviewed by Chandler, Peaches & Crème de Menthe ‌‌
Somebody, help!! I’m like totally out of Kleenex! I can’t find like any more in here! I’m like ugly crying! I can’t even see like my notes!!  #ShortSuppliedCovidPanicRoom

🙅🙅☆  Reviewed by The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena‌‌
Lucky you. I can still make out tons of words. If it makes you feel better, apparently there’s no man-crying in Fake Obituaries, just room clearing full-blown wailing. I moved from tissue to Aunt Leesa’s white fluffy towels before I even got to that terrible hipster prose poem ransom rant. These make me weep for the memories of well-written poems written by actual poets.

📚🚵🏿‍⛺️☆ Reviewed by Uncle Bob, Mod Renaissance English Teacher Cycling Across Continents Sleeping in a Tent Taking Fine Arts Images & Reading Books Walking in Forests Like Stephen King & Buddhist Monks‌‌
Bawling Minty, I recommend Aunty Leesa’s guest room D. Porthault Mimosa bed linens. They’re soft on aggravated naval passages and boast a refreshing morning alcoholic beverage scent.  I might upgrade my sleeping bag with these for my European bike trip. In terms of the White Sox wannabe musings above, the only simile I can summon in my severely depressed mental state is that it’s as if we’ve been strapped to our theatre seats and made to watch the Private Ryan medic die over and over and over again. #RedSoxRitualsGreenMonsterMidasTouch

☆☆☆ Reviewed by 💀 This is a Comment About Saving Private Ryan
Oh, yeah, Wade’s death was brutal.

⭐⭐☆Reviewed by the Spirit of Topher, Patrick’s Twin, and Peerless Movie Critic
But not unexpected. There’s arguably more depth and complexity in the characterization, actions and the foreshadowed demise of the left-handed pray-aloud sniper Jackson, who promised Captain John H. Miller (....) “if you was to put me with this here sniper rifle anywhere up to and including one mile from Adolf Hitler... with a clean line of sight... well, pack your bags, boys. War's over.” Too bad this Not An Obit doesn’t have a similar targeted option,. Not to salt and pepper this wound, but my own parents gave me a time-honored sendoff with an awesome eulogy and a focused obituary.
(" "Daniel Jackson -IMDB )

🆘🆘☆ Reviewed by Patrick Topher’s Copycat Twin
Copy that.

🍑☆🍑 Reviewed by Chandler, Peaches & Crème de Menthe
Wait. Are we reviewing the terrible poetry or like the movie?

🙅🙅☆  Reviewed by The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena
Both, Creme Dementhed. As it happens, our own personal sharpshooter, AWOL Aunt Nancy, forgot the foxhole loyalty pledge or whatever the hell it is people swear to in front of firing squads, wars, or Deaths by Bad Obituaries; she deserted us way back on page 453. And it should be clear to everyone still here that the right handed windbag who wrote this experimental mess did it with that hand tied behind her back, leaving it to the blind leftie.

🍁🍄💼☆ Reviewed by Drummer Jonah, One Man Boy Band Baby Faced Ted Talking Jiu-Jitsu Practicing CEO CAO CDO CFO CIO CMO COO‌‌
Whew. Pretty heavy. Even the Fake Dogs are in a moody blues funk. Not in favor of the grass poem. With my Clooney orthopedics, I now stride confidently across all blades that hide weird Kamikaze silkworms. Minty, the bouquet on the Panic Room side table is really a bunch of tissues in disguise. Not sure of the reasoning behind that, maybe a Covid hoarding thing? Go ahead and grab a peony and clean yourself up, buddy.

📚🚵🏿‍⛺️☆ Reviewed by Uncle Bob, Mod Renaissance English Teacher blahblahblah‌‌...
Another quick correction for Dementhed Peach’s notes. Silkworms are found in trees, not grass. Drummer Jonah, you appear to be one bowl short of a working memory cell. For a refresher, refer to my previous notation in the Disclaimer reviews.

💋💋👙 Reviewed by Kim, Only Living Beach Babe in Mars New York
Awwww…I didn’t need any Kleenex or beach towels. I only read that happy one with my name in it.

☆☆☆ Not Reviewed by 💀 This is an Observation, Not a Review
The one where I’m dying. That one, right?

💋💋👙 Reviewed by Kim, Only Living Beach Babe in Mars New York
Yep!! Hi, Babe! I didn’t even flirt with the cute bogeymen that time! Oh, I really love to spoon. It’s so romantic and cuddly and warm and fuzzy and should never be confused with sexual intercourse. It’s like a hot Florence Nightingale story, and I’m a total beach babe and my Mars New York surfer boyfriend’s fighting for his life, and only his living beach babe can save him with emergency I.V. transfusions of pure love. Oh, those really were the ER good ol’ days.

☆☆☆ Not Reviewed by 💀 This is for Florence Frightening Gale
I got nothin’.

☠️☠️️☠️️ Reviewed by Dead Posse
There was once a bad Obit called Poeming | followed by more crap about spooning | The wrong sound, the wrong shape |Without rhymes or duct tape |That made us wish for more death, less atoning.

💋💋👙 Reviewed by Kim, Only Living Beach Babe in Mars New York
Ha ha ha! Dead Posse Leprechauns! Next St. Paddy’s Day, I’m going to dress up like Dead Posse's girlfriend and recite terrible limericks!

🙅🙅☆  Reviewed by The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena
You could just recite the terrible writing above. That'll clear a room. Compared to the so-called poetry that preceded it, the limerick is at least identifiable as a type of poem. And I support the idea that death is preferable to this Karmic purgatory.

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Emily Dickinson, With a Prediction that Agoraphobia Will Saves Live in 2020
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading - treading - till it seemed That Sense was breaking through - And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down - And hit a World, at every plunge.
(" "Emily Dickinson)

📚🚵🏿‍⛺️☆ Reviewed by Uncle Bob, Mod Renaissance English Teacher blahblahblah...
To draw an unfortunate analogy, E.D., we do indeed feel a funeral lurking, the same way Stoned Drummer Jonah senses the presence of silkworms he can’t see because they’re in trees, not on the ground. But back to my deplorable analogy...this Not an Obituary does indeed keep smacking our compromised mental faculties with something that feels very much like a wooden plank, and then continuously drops us back into a hellish pit of endless words.

📓📓☆ Reviewed by Quizzical Cliff Notes Pretending to be Shortcut Stiff Notes
What he said.

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Amanda Gorman  Poet Laureate Accused of Uniting the World and Causing Global World Peace for 5 minutes on 1.20.21
‘When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?’ Not the Mom/Chelle Miko, keep your day job, night job, part-time twilight and daybreak jobs. Keep all the jobs. Additionally, take any job offers. And in between, volunteer all leftover minutes in which you are awake.

🙅🙅☆ Reviewed by The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena
Let’s not miss the point that’s face-slapping me like Aunt Nancy’s pistol: Amanda Gorman, America’s hopeful childlike Poet Laureate, sent the Earth into a 300 second tailspin of peace and love in just 723 words.

🏓💄🏡 ☆ Reviewed by Aunty Leesa, Pickleballin’ with Swag
Oh, my gosh, and didn’t you just love Amanda’s yellow and red ensemble and the to-die-for Prada headband?! It’s so nice to have a stylish young bard leading us out of chaos and possible nuclear war into greener pastures not filled with cliches like sunshine and roses. I never thought of poets as being fashion icons, but then again, I’ve never met a poet.  
(" "Sports Feel Good Stories)

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Billy Collins, Unremarkably Outfitted Former Poet Laureate Whose Poetry Suffered from Displaying The Sixth Sense Called Humor
Directions to find poets: scroll past the “poetic musings,” do not stop to pause and muse, go directly past Go, do not collect any random not-poetic thoughts along the way, go straight to the Pointless Reviews.

🍑☆🍑 Reviewed by Chandler, Peaches & Crème de Menthe
I figured it out!! It’s like a puzzle! If you take away the line breaks, it’s just like a bunch of like regular sentences Not the Mom centered on the page.

📚🚵🏿‍⛺️☆ Reviewed by Uncle Bob, Mod Renaissance English Teacher blahblahblah‌‌...
Very insightful, Mental Peach. This is a technique commonly employed for writing bad poetry. And with your horrendous example poem, you’ve proven that anyone can write like crap with just a little extra effort. Well done, indeed, de Menthe.

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Ed Harris
With the notable exception of this disproportionately bad reading experience, “Most of the best writing, the most creative writing, the most interesting, the most out-of-the-box kind of stuff, is being done on cable, you know, and on the computer.”  
(" "Ed Harris, BrainQuote)

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Tim Burton
“I wouldn’t know a good script if it bit me in the face.” Or a good poem, if it bit me in the ass.  
(" "Tim Burton, BrainyQuote)

🙅🙅☆ Reviewed by  The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena‌‌
You're in luck. You have less than a zero chance of assbite.

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Kingsley Amis
"If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing." (" "Kingsley Amis)

🙅🙅☆ Reviewed by  The Only Adult In The Room/a.k.a. Darlena
If that’s the point, then Not the Mom hit the nail on my head, about a thousand times since the first word of this hot mess.

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Dylan Thomas
“A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.”  The opposite is also true. A bad poem spreads bad ideas and pollutes the air.  
(" "Dylan Thomas GoodReads)

Extreme Doubtfire Volunteerism Rating Tallier w/a Fake British Accent Like Madonna: Oh, yes, indeedy. Red Flag warning!! 🎌 Our air quality has been severely compromised! We've moved from misery loves a pity party to dead poets desperate for a society of Poets against tormenting innocent children's rhymes! Do yourself a random act of serious kindness, Dear Beleaguered Reader: Print this page. Fold it into a B-52 bomber and fire it into the nearest dumpster. 🍸

☆☆☆ Not Reviewed by 💀 This is Origami Advice from Childhood

⭐⭐☆ Reviewed by Sir David Attenborough, Extremely Old and Endangered
Disregard the above instructions. Printing 7000+ pages is a waste crime equivalent to Aunty Leesa's holding her frozen mac-n-cheese hostage, during her cheesy emotional ban.

⭐⭐☆ Uncle Joe's 2 Star Printer, Paper + Ink
[shudders] On behalf of threatened resources everywhere, thank you, Sir Tree Hugger.

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