Poetry Dispatch No. 24 | November 8, 2005
Each year, at this time, I submit on my entry to winningwriters.com bad poetry contest. Last year, despite composing a wonderful ode to deception, sadly I did not win. Yet, not to be daunted, I am submitting another epic for this year’s competition.
The online competition, I fear, has degenerated to a morass of bad sex poems, ones which now require the excessive use of prurient imagination. Despite that I am soldiering on, hoping that the judges (or judge, rather) will finally come to her sense. Also, I only write “classical” bad poetry, free from obvious crude physical or metaphysical references. Dorothy Terry October 28, 2005
EPHIPANY OF THE ENTUBLAR HEIRS
Hotcakes and syrup and my father a leathery no one can fathom
My father wore his red hat similarly sweating
The band played on and what was that stepped stop for the third?
Note on the muffled piano the thrump of the clavichord futile hoarding
Nothing today but perhaps tomorrow Who knows?
I ask then what meaning the flow and ebb of the missals overhead?
Or ordinary in the event the sower sows all we will be
At last wreathed in garlands who only knee each other in our
Sleeps weeping for forever never arriving lone leavings of murk and
Mash of our futile futures all we ask is
That we may be allowed to bereave
Without speaking in silence inhales exhales embellishing all
I remember when he knowing me on his knee
Spoke seriously of my future then we did not grow or learn
The proper way to stay entubed so we go “a’hoo” and went to rent
Bluegrass and nervy tints so favored by our nether family’s crest
Aflight above the fireplace then but now down the servants’ stair
They wave/ waved their Plumes in mist of draconian breathmintlessness
Our noble sword of favor bent by words bespoke
And lies unsaid reread
In trashy poems like this
Alone in bed.
If only he were here to belch before the prayer.
Dorothy Terry would like you to visit this link on WinningWriters here…