Poetry Challenge (7th Grade English Terrors All Over AGAIN).

So I received this challenge from Blunderdad (how do grown men get roped into these things?  Oh right.  Dads.)  to write a ten line poem with the “love” in each line and only four words per line, the “Love in ten sentences” Challenge. The last time I wrote a poem was … seven grade English class?  Having to stand up and read the abominable thing was a nightmare.  Publishing this one on the internets?  Well, at least my fly isn’t down this time.

Love has no shame:
Love’s a dad who,
Loves you shifting blame,
On that lovely fart,
Ungloved with stinky aim.

Love can be chaotic:
When there’s trash allover,
Sloven cleaning is quixotic,
Yet love doesn’t blame,
Beloveds hoarding the exotic.

Signs of terrible poetry?  Stretching the rules of challenges and literary decency. At least I’m not trying to rhyme “collagen” with “apologin” (or name you a direction, Cookie).

I think there’s part of this process where I’m supposed to nominate others to share my pain in trying to compose bad poetry, in the spirit of those fun 90’s emails that promised me that Bill Gates would personally give me a jet and ten million dollars if I forwarded the thing to ten people.  I’m not going to nominate anyone.  You’re welcome.  And you’d better be appreciative, too –I’m giving up a private jet and ten million dollars so that you don’t have to relive terrible moments of middle school English class.

That Is Not What the Cry Room Is For, But They’re Definitely Crying Now

Cookie, as a baby, you rarely cried in church.  Instead, you’d do… other things.  At just under a year old, you had the comedic timing and the premeditation to wait until the entire church was silent before ripping off a monstrous fart, followed by a loud giggle.


Another loud giggle.  I tried to shush you, but I gagged on the smell.  A demon brew of rotten eggs, limburger, feet, durian, and sulfur left to marinate in a sweaty gym bag would have smelled better.  My eyes were watering, but I was kept focused on that moment by your loud voice echoing in the stunned silence.


By this time, I was halfway down the aisle with you, but your farts didn’t stop, and the more you farted, the harder you giggled.  Where most new parents carry a crying baby to the cry room, I carried a gassy, giggling baby, trailing a cloud of toxic fumes in our wake, with the entire nave echoing from your thunderous farts and louder giggles. The only good news was that instead of annoyed faces, I walked out to the suppressed grins from the other parents and the scattered laughter of the other kids.

The other babies and parents in the cry room were not quite as pleased.