Dead Man’s Jamboree

rattle me bones and shiver me timbers
it’s a dead man’s jamboree
from dusk till dawn
around the graves
a dancing they will be
a raspy throated woodwind howls
as drums are banged with bones
and out there in the mist somewhere-
another dead man moans
with but one night, the whole year thru
this gay thread to weave
they dance the jig, and tip the jug
in gleeful toast to moon above-
‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..

This is my offering for Chelsea Ann Owen’s Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest‘s call for Halloween Poetry. Boo!


Hiram slipped his elbow
then his forearm
then his wrist
from the swollen vulva
of the poor heifer
whose calf he’d had to twist
to get it to emerge all aglow-
first the legs, and then the torso.

“Delivering poorly
presented calves
can be some tedious work.”
Hiram stated
as he brought the calf
with one final tug n’ jerk,
“It’s a stress on the calf- and brother-
a right pain in the ars for the mother.”

“T’isn’t exactly painless
for a poor farmer
either, now don’t ya see
I’ll have to sell
off this wee little calf
if I’m ta cover yer fee.”
Farmer Ed countered, and so it began-
the necessary haggle-an…

Written for Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest topic: Unusual ways to make money.


‘Farmer Vincent’s Smoked Meats’ the billboard did proclaim.
“Where our smoking process, is our claim to fame!”
Little Willie, ever curious, set off one day to see
exactly what’s so special about Farmer Vincent’s recipe.
Little Willie never did discover Farmer Vincent’s smoking secret.
Farmer Vincent smoked him out. Then ground him into a tasty tid-bit!

This is the first time I combined Terrible Poetry and Six Sentence Stories.. What can I say.. I’ll try anything once.. Special nod to the movie, Motel Hell as anyone can see it was my real inspiration…

The Terrible Poetry prompt was a Little Willie poem, see the link for details, and the word of the week on SSS was: Process….

I am posting this from my phone, so I’ll have to link to the inspiring posts next time I have connectivity.


you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms


in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me

Posted for Chelsea Ann Owens’ Terrible Poetry Contest. This week we could the subject was open, so I found this rather absurd subject in my …why paisley?? archives and decided to go with it.

Anatomical Mars vs Venus

Courtesy of

purported as divine creation
supposedly perfect in every way
I have reason to believe, the plans were drafted
on the of’t disputed creators, off day.

with the parts over here
being just enough off
from the parts they’re
to connect with over there

practice and patience
are often required-
which could take till long after
the ‘use by date’ had expired

so ‘creation one’ took the problem in hand
and after a hormonal cocktail or two
one upped creation with video porn, so now we look good-
doing what we still can’t figure out, how to do.

Written for Chelsea Ann Owens Terrible Poetry Contest’s call for a poem about a prolific engineering fail.