Wow! On Day 15, I offered two prompts for Tuesday. And an overwhelming number of you wrote a poem for each prompt. Some of you even went well beyond that. I'm guessing it's because of the prompts themselves: one prompt was to write about taxes (it was Tax Day here in the U.S.); the other prompt was to write an insult poem.
In addition to writing about taxes, I also gave the option of writing about deadlines in general. And as the insult poems came in, a subgenre of Joker-Harley Quinn insults developed (thanks to Kateri Woody). I'm not going to pick favorites, but I have to admit that Bruce Niedt's ROBOT INSULTS had me rolling, especially since I can imagine the synthesized voice of a robot delivering the insults. Very, very funny.
As usual, I'm blown away by the level of participation--both in terms of quantity and quality. After only 15 days of highlighting, I've highlighted more than 100 poets at least once already. My head is spinning at that stat alone. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for making my month by participating in this challenge.
And now, I'll just shut up and provide the day's highlights.
*****
One Sided
You call me to see how I am doing
Or so you say
But then I hear about not only how you’re doing
But how your children are doing
What they’re doing
Why they’re doing it
And how many problems they deal with
And I hear about their children
Your neighbors and their children
The problems with their health
And your health and your medicine
The top twenty reasons why
You’re too busy to see me
On and on it goes
I’m tempted to put the phone down
And finish what I was doing
To see if you’d notice I was missing
If this conversation was a tennis game
I’d be pummeled by all the balls
I’d be a mass of little round bruises
Do you really care how I’m doing?
Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
A Smart Remark
Don't you give me no lip,
Not that you don't have
some to spare.
A clown's got nothing
on you.
Next time you make
a smart-ass remark,
try to live up to
the "smart" part,
since you've got the
"ass " covered.
Something you do best.
Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Belly
Hello Belly in my lap
What are you doing here
At first you looked so big,
I mistook you for my rear
Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu
*****
A Love Letter
This is not meant
as insult, not a smear,
a sneer or a kick,
just the truth
in the way that I see it.
Don't get all bent,
I'll make it unsent,
with any luck
you won't see it.
Your mouth, though cute,
runs off like a shot,
obnoxious and hot,
and your voice
it does grind
an impossible shrill,
it's a wonder to me
I've not reached my fill
of the noise that you spill.
And I've said it before,
I'll say it again,
it's not an insult
but a quaint little truth,
those eyes that you have,
they're as crooked as sin,
I once thought them effectionate,
but that was the gin,
I believe if I look
in just the right light,
I can see how they turn
and cross with each other,
but that's not vanity,
your sorry attempts
to look at yourself,
I call it frustration.
With a nose like a tuba,
there's no way you'll spot
yourself in a crowd
with eyes that won't meet.
But let's not be hasty,
you know I prefer pasty
when searching complexions
you get my affections.
Oh, you know that I'm kind,
and quite crazy for you,
with that little mind,
there's not much you can do
so forgive me my insults
and love me complete,
you're lucky to have me
I'm terribly sweet.
Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
*****
Insult Poem
I love your gown by Vera Wang
But did it only come in blue?
I think your color’s clearly red
The teal looks much too dark on you.
And that new hairstyle’s all the rage
Although it makes your face so thin
The way it curves around your cheeks
It plays up your receding chin.
The shoes are sexy on your feet
I’m glad you didn’t go for flats,
Except the cutouts at the toes
Do make them look so very fat.
The flab that hangs down from your arms
Is really only slightly there,
A jacket would have hidden it,
But never mind, leave your arms bare.
The tan you have, is it for real
Or is it from a tube, or spray?
It really doesn’t matter much,
It’s sort of orangey either way.
You look the height of elegance
No one would guess you’re in your prime
Your party sounds quite lovely, dear
Do go and have a lovely time.
Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
*****
Insult Poem
Wow, an insult poem
that’s just not my style
when someone offends me
I just look at them with a face of stone
then I simply smile
I usually try not to let negativity
control what I have to say
anger clearly has no relativity
to what’s happening in my day
I am sure it’s well known
that when one lets anger in control
even just for a poem
one loses sight of the picture as a whole
and focuses instead on the fury
often by doing things in a hurry
Who to insult
well, I just don’t know
there are many I would not mind to offend
it seems as the world turns, the list will grow
would be nice to put an end
to some of them, and their meaningless show
guess that sounds violent
certainly that’s not how it’s meant
I just want some to learn the err of their ways
so that perhaps we can all have better days. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 4/15/08
Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net
*****
"Mad Love"
It's not that I don't love the way
that your nasally, high pitched
caterwauling of 'Puddin'
greets me everytime you see me.
It's not that I don't love the way
you throw yourself at me at speeds
the freaking Flash would appreciate
whenever I'm not looking.
It's not that I don't love the way
you interrupt my work with propositions
in unflattering nightwear, complete
with 'Harley' sound effects to boot.
It's not that I don't love the way
you hang off of my every last word,
or how easily convinced you are
to do what any peon says.
It's not that I don't love the way,
you so desperately, needily, want me
to love you back - even though
you know that I'm just using you.
It's not that I don't love you,
I just can't.
Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu
*****
Settling the Matter
I think you'll agree that it's useless
to argue about who is the rubber
and who is the glue.
People often point out
my resilient qualities
and my springy disposition.
And your handshake
that one time, if you recall,
was quite sticky.
I know you had just been
kneading fresh bread dough,
but that is beside the point.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
My insult poem (for the youngest among us):
An overcoat spoke to a coat of paint.
He said with conviction and little restraint:
"I cover a woman who wears a nice blouse."
"So what?" cried the paint, "I cover her house!"
(Toad Pizza poem #246 of 1,567)
Bill Toad of Toad Pizza |infoAT NOSPAMtoonutsproductions dot com
*****
Deadlines
make me panic
make me freeze
make me want
to do my laundry
run my dishwasher
count the ceiling tiles
anything but write
deadline pressure
delay and fret
until the
last
possible
moment
and then submit
then there’s
the whole
word count issue
don’t even
get me
started on that
TaunaLen |taunalenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
INSULT POEM
your face is a dry river bed
with furrows wide and deep
your nose is warty and hairy
you snort while others sleep
your hair is sharp and wiry
with barbs made out of nits
your arms are big and saggy
we won’t even mention your …
chest
your intestines growl and grunt
you surely don’t have a heart
your back is pimply and rounded
and your hips are metres apart
your stomach reaches your toes
and your thighs could never part
your bottom’s as big as two mountains
you’re a very ugly old …
woman
Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au
*****
Insulting Sylvia Plath
We teenage girls all loved
a good suicide story. Belt noose,
waterlogged lungs, gas ovens,
The Bell Jar was our how-to
if we should want to push through
and blast a grand exit, though we never
did. We didn’t have to. What counted
was knowing we could have, if we dared,
this one small bit
of self-defeating agency.
But Plath was a poetic copout,
my teacher insisted, playing cheap, the tired
old trope of the lovely girl longing
for daddylove. Enough
with the depression, the pitymongering,
he said, look at Diane Wakowski
who showed us that at least
the world still has oranges in it.
But what teenage girl doesn’t feel
she’s got too little, or worse, too much
from Daddy? He’s an unreachable
shore, and we’re swimming till we drown,
either way. I like oranges, too, but
their sweetness is immaterial
when what you really want is not
daddy’s love so much as his power,
to grasp your tender life in your own hands.
Tria
*****
freshman deadline
date circled
topic chosen
followed by
late nights
researching
at the library
(insert panic attacks here)
piles pile up
notes piled between books
piled between more books
(insert lack of sleep here)
rough draft drafted
revised and cut
then final finalized
tuned in to wait
(insert
dread
regret
and
hours of second guesses)
for a grade
(and wishing
I had used
spell check)
satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
*****
ROBOT INSULTS
He’s as dumb as an Atari 2600.
You couldn’t find your parallel port with both appendages.
She has a sensory receptor panel that could stop a chronometer at 6.75 meters.
The LED’s are on but there’s nothing contained in the housing.
He’s not operating with a full hard drive.
I wouldn’t network with you if you were the last compatible modular unit on the planet.
Go interface yourself.
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
*****
To the Joker, Love Harley
Yes, I hang on your every word,
laugh at your antics, throw myself
at you every chance I get.
And you think it’s all for the
nonexistent promise of your love,
your affection.
You fool.
While you spend your time trying
unsuccessfully to get rid of your worst
nightmare, the dark one, the one who
haunts your world, both waking and
dreaming, I take it all in. I watch and
learn. I know, one day, my chance
will come. What you think is a kiss
of passion, will be a kiss of death. The
death of your world, your mind, you.
I will take over.
It will all be mine.
And I will be so much better,
than you could ever hope to be.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Tax Relief, Tax Return
I'm an accountant's daughter,
so April 15th was always a holiday at my house.
My dad would re-materialize -
he'd stop staying out 'til six in the morning;
he'd stop spending so much time
with those overflowing piles of clients' files
and start challenging me
to Scrabble scrimmages and Monopoly matches,
he'd sit down to read the stories
I typed out for him on our old IBM 386,
and our miniature golf season
would at long last have its opening night.
But even now I'm grown and a hundred miles away,
I still think of Tax Relief as Father's Freedom Day.
Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
*****
Insult:
Two poets met at a pub
and after a ‘few’, their words began to rub
#1: I don’t like your assonance
#2: Well your misuse of tropes is quite flagrant
#1: Why don’t you take your iambic foot out of your mouth
#2: No wonder you can’t make a rhyme, your brain went south
The barkeep slammed down his fist and said, “I’ve heard quite enough”
Then the poets parted wondering why he had to be so gruff
Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com
*****
Mad Love, Part Deux
It's not that I don't feel the pain
when your cackling laughter
goes on and on and on
every time you *think* you’re funny.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
at your pathetic double-crosses
as if green hair and a whoopee cushion
makes you the boss o’ me or somethin’.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
when you ignore all my propositions
to think about how to defeat Bats
without killin’ yourself.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
of you ignorin’ every smart thing I say,
or how stupid you are to think
I’ll come back to feed the hyenas.
It's not that I don't feel the pain
that you can’t stand,
like every other typical guy,
that I can be good as you.
It's not that you don’t love me,
Puddin,
but bein’ great on my own’s the
worst insult I could give.
Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com
*****
Lifelines
These days no one asks for a daily report
to tally my accomplishments,
and I have no targets to hit, no papers due, no deadlines to meet.
There are no diners waiting for eggs-over-easy,
no coffee to pour,
no fish to fry,
no melons on the brink of spoiling in the truck I don’t drive.
There are no toddlers to lead through circle time, no envelopes to stuff,
I don’t have to chair the meetings I don’t attend, and
I am strategically planning for nothing in the coming six months.
I can spend the morning scouting nearby neighborhoods
for blossoming dogwoods and the first of the iris,
or lose an afternoon watching herons return to
their awkward roosts in the tops of tall trees.
Whenever I want, I can learn Italian, read those books piled by the bed,
practice the violin or take up Tai Chi.
And I will.
Just as soon as someone comes along and gives me a deadline.
Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu
*****
Taxing, 1985
It must have been unseasonably warm
in my small midtown room, a year
before I met Howie on Third Street
who wore thick glasses and didn't blink
at last minute taxes. Instead, I spread
numbers out on my bed until they swam
like fish, skittered like the cockroaches
cha-cha-ing in the kitchen. I inflicted
upon myself long division, multiple
multiplications, decimal places proliferating,
always adding up to something different,
always the same: not enough. Hours
after sunset, I came to some truce
of sums, carefully wrote in the boxes,
on the lines, and signed. Then I entered
the evening, went down to the thirties
where the big main branch of the Post Office
bloomed in the darkness, gold light spilling
from its windows and doors like exotic petals,
like portals to some ancient paradise,
and people streamed toward them
from all directions. Swept along in that current,
invited into that bright inside, I handed
over my envelope. Released,
I walked back down the wide stone stairs,
lifting ever lighter with relief, the city
opening into the April night.
Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com