This is a thread for posting poems that might make Dale cringe. They need not be your own.
Roses are red
Violets are purple
Sugar is sweet
And so is syr’ple.
–author unknown
Go ahead. Have your fun. But, remember, I edit poetry as a pastime. I have a steady supply of poems that make me cringe.
Love is like a door hinge
Flexible yet binding
Love is like an orange
Its juice is sweet yet blinding
Wow!
I’m a poet and didn’t even think it
I make a rhyme any day!
snip and a hair cut
the wind carries golden locks
twenty five pennies
Futility Closet only seems to print cringeworthy poems.
Here are two of the most recent.
I lately lost a preposition;
It hid, I thought, beneath my chair
And angrily I cried, “Perdition!
Up from out of under there.”
Correctness is my vade mecum,
And straggling phrases I abhor,
And yet I wondered, “What should he come
Up from out of under for?”
– Morris Bishop
I have tried a hundred times, I guess,
To find a rhyme for month;
I have failed a hundred times, I know,
But succeeded the hundred and one-th.
There were two men a training went.
It was in December month;
One had his bayonet thrown away,
The other had his gun th-
rown away.
I am a poet
My feet show it
They’re Longfellows
djm
My Cat Is So Cute
My cat is so cute,
She jumps and plays, T-boot.
Endless fascination, the furry rabbit,
She bites it incessantly, crazy cat.
My cat is so cute,
Unfortunately she hates my flute.
Tearing through the house she goes,
Hiding in the closet, poor cat.
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Dorothy Parker
Chicken mitten
Yellow daisy
Snakebite
Infected cat
My Muse
came to
my room
last night
and told
me I
couldn’t write
so with
pencil and
paper in
hand
I wrote
her out
of my
room again.
While reading the Lords literary regalia,
I found written in the marginalia,
I’ve a pain in me bum
me thumb is gone numb,
When’s the next Crusade to Australia?
Sorry,
D. 
Cabbages, cabbages
Yum yum yum
Cabbages, cabbages
Gimme some!
A rhyme for “Orange”
My coworker sought.
Our job, being boring,
Gave him time for such thought.
He realized that rhymes
Don’t have to end lines
So he infixed some phrases
And pondered for dayses
And just as Friday nears,
A quaint phrase hits our ears:
He yells, “Four engineers
Wear orange brassiers!”
As I am sure you are not surprised to learn there is a nearly endless supply of perfectly horrid cat poetry on the internet. These are just the first two that came up.
Cat Kisses
Sandpaper kisses
on a cheek or a chin-
that is the way
for a day to begin!
Sandpaper kisses-
a cuddle and a purr.
I have an alarm clock
that’s covered in fur!
~ Bobbi Katz ~
Thomas o’ Malley
Thomas o’ Malley is a ginger tabby
with sleek body that’s not flabby
He was somehow, by persons unknown,
discarded, but with us found a home.
He has lazy green eyes and pink nose
always sitting in comfortable pose.
Thomas is not just an ordinary good cat,
at times he’s worse than a stinking rat.
He talks to his human in various sounds
as they, in the garden, do their rounds.
He has his comments and criticisms
of the layout, watering and schisms.
Thomas is a connoiseur* and taster of food
as he’ll not eat if not in the right mood.
He looks with disdain on the other cats
as they scramble for cookie rats.
He’ll have fish biscuits, if you please,
not on the floor in the dirt and fleas.
~ Dr. J A Vorster ~
- sic
This pleases me.
The editor’s challenge
The editor said "Make me cringe!
Try to rhyme the word orange
Make poem to painful to read
Earn your pay! That’s what I need”
How could we, the staff compete
With years of submissions?
Just last month he answered the phone
To hear a voice “how’s my poem?”
A knot formed inside the editor
We wanted to sink into the floor
Tell him that his labor of love
Was trite for rhyming above and dove?
That his passion yielded not one good syllable?
That nothing was redeemable?
Looking at his career track
He’d written poems he’d now attack
His oldest work made him cringe
and annoyed his ear like a squeaky door hinge
How could we, the staff compete
With years of submissions?
We had the skills to write poorly
We could make mistakes intentionally
We could pen things that were cliché
We could destroy the meter in every way
In youth my girlfriend (an innocent lass)
And wanted to show she had class
And placed a doily under a glass
That was a mason jar
The extra effort showed in contrast
The effort showed what lacked
I drank the Beam and tea
And kept the memory
How could we, the staff compete
With years of submissions?
When we have the talent
And lack the passion.
My cats are Mo-Tzu and Sung-Tzu, if you please.
Neither from China, for they are Siamese
Mo-Tzu’s judgmental and wants everything just right.
Sung-Tzu, the chicken, spends his time out of sight.
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Exhibit/2762/vogons.htm
Oh freddled gruntbuggley, thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee
Groop I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles, or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!
Owen
Orange Cat
by Steve Olivera
I wish I were an orange cat
Smashed upon the pavement, flat
My guts all frozen to that cold, hard place
Greyhound bus tracks across my face
Oh, that I were that melancholy kitty
Greeting traffic in the cold, dark city
Not moving 'til from the pavement I am pried
All cold and dead and satisfied