Blandness Poems | Examples

By The Streetlamp

the saltiness of my tears
drips upon my lips and tongue
after rolling down my face
from the blandness of our love
that was a savored passion
until the dawn of heartbreak
when our portions of love changed
and love became spoiled and cold

spring into it

Spring semester has started.
We’re all immersed in the ritual of change
and totally committed to that descent into madness
to the relentless drabness, the flatness, the blandness
for the hours, days and weeks of study
and a bone-deep fatigue that’s actually funny

We’ll live at the edge of intensity
near the the corner of drudging
and gather around the printer
at the media center
like a secular rite of passage

I think I need a daily grind—to keep my mind busy.
What’s wrong with me, that when I’m on vacation, I miss it?
What if work/study is one of my bone-marrow-deep love languages?
.
.
Songs for this:
Happy Dreamer by Laid Back
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
(You're Better) Than Ever by illuminati hotties

Whisper of Youth

Whispers of Youth

Dusty boxes, like forgotten books, Hold chapters of quantum leaps— My first steps, tiny and determined, Leading to a world of wonders.

Goat’s milk, flavored with Grenada nutmeg, A remedy for cow’s blandness, And lactose intolerance—the secret code Of those simpler days.

Cod liver oil, Sunday mornings’ ritual, Bitter drops to ward off unseen foes, Mumps, measles, whooping cough— Childhood’s battles etched in time.

Curiosity fueled my quest: Pebbles, night crickets, butterflies— Each a treasure, carefully collected, One line at a time.

And that snarky bird, Caged, then set free— Freedom’s squeak of happiness, A lesson etched in feathers.

The kitchen window, a gateway, Its slight squeak echoing freedom. The bird, banana thief turned guardian, A debt repaid in whispers.

Childhood memories preserved, Not just atop that distant hill, But in the flutter of wings, And the quiet moments we cherish.

Feel free to add more verses or share more memories—I’m here to listen and weave them into poetry! ??

looking for words

Looking for words.

Pink and blue billows on the poetic sky drip of eager words
Alas, towards dawn, a westerly wind blew cleared the sky
In the morning blank screen lit up when the sun shone.
But the sun passes as it must, the screen greys while waiting
To be written; to be dreamless is a curse, slow death.
Listless looking at the sky, finding blandness but also words
Like other poets, I cannot steal but wish I could.
I end this poem so I can say; that what is written here is mine.

Axe traffic, snails in Wales'

Its ludicrous in wales today, ideology holds the maddest
Sway.' A twenty mile an hour plan, for every motoring
Woman and Man.? And every bus? and taxi too? A lunacy
A type of zoo.' Thats how i view this stupidity, and it can't
Remain..' Twixt you and me' just like a joke, its really bad
Thats plain, which be shared, cause its too sad.' Some scum 
That float
Ideas and division, have slashed and torn, the  soul and fabric
With savage inscisons.' almost un-human, its nearly there'
Cold as ice, devoid of care, Wales needs more optimisam
Less oppression, more hope; and not such blandness and
Nonsense revision, with inverted tropes'  baboons i say could 
do no
Worse, than your so called leaders all davos re-vh-ersed.!

Barren Landscape

The barren landscape it once was
Now has craters and paths
The blandness it once held
Now has colors across the land
The barren landscape it once was
Is not barren anymore

Looking For Words

Looking for words.

Pink and blue billows on the poetic sky drip of eager words
Alas, towards dawn, a westerly wind blew cleared the sky
In the morning blank screen lit up when the sun shone.
But the sun passes as it must, the screen greys while waiting
To be written; to be dreamless is a curse, slow death.
Listless looking at the sky, finding blandness but also words
Like other poets, I cannot steal but wish I could.
I end this poem so I can say; that what is written here is mine.

The Ides of March

Upon a sullied slate sky
of alabaster and aquamarine,
floats a formidable flotilla
of charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day;
they dawdle, dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
Winter's white wonderland
seasonally salted with brindled blotches,
magically melts away;
revealing rough-woven, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way,
bulbs freed from frosty tombs;
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap,
of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway,
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips
suddenly start sprouting;
simultaneously sending shoots skyward.
Color taunts the blandness of this dull day
as a robin redbreast abruptly appears;
defying drizzling drops of grey
with its crimson chest, 
ornately on display.

Enigmatic Bruise

In your eyes
           huge vacuum 
                  sleazy
                       step forward, says.
                                 implore forgiveness

You strive for blandness.
                        better way
                                       endears 
                                              sightless saw
                                                           a speck

Fear query
           hold you in shackles      
                       horrifyingly bruised
                               him
                                    as haystack needle.



                                             (Yalto)


"Yalto" is a form invented Edward Ibah
Line 1-15:  3,4,2,4,5,3,2,3,2,3,3,5,6,1,5 syllables
Date written: 03/27/2021

Marvelous Herbs

"In all things of nature there is somethings of the marvelous."  Aristotle


Marvelous Herbs

Herbs -
Nature’s
Marvelous
Gift of flavor -
Brightens the blandness
Of the ordinary -
Savory gracing tasteless -
Zest to nondescript dreariness -
Herbal wonders – healing remedies –
Seasoning’s magic to flavorless salt.

5-21-20

No Purpose Pulses

My flesh is flush with inadequacy each day
for no purpose pulses inspiration my way

No motivation shows to validate
	that my energy even palpitates -
I am a daytime deficiency breathing.
All things seem possible before I sleep
 	then night’s energy sun fades into lethargy:
I rise to flounder, flail and fail to move so never do I see the
me that my prayers and hopes wish new days would promote.
	Has karma woven my desires revoked
	or am I now a bad aging type of joke?
I cannot grope life’s enthusiasm
	nor can I fathom what has happened,
		but I am sad that my self-esteem’s armor
			has been pierced by darkness infused drama …

home clocks loud mock me
as moments find me unchanged
just aged within ticks
tocking my stopped impetus
in passion’s puddled blandness

Fire and Ice

Fire
Hot
orange

reddish mama
sassed with pinkness
sensualness
enticing my sexy self
marvelous!

cold
ice
blue

blandness of sky
natural calm
surely slowing me down
stripping me of desire
frozen now.

I Have Plenty As the Alpha

I am howling my wolf howl
Thrilled that I have it
At last!
I had begged to become one
And now I am not only one,
I am The one, the alpha

No one dares to defy me
They run in my pack,
succumbing to my wishes
All fear me

I never had that as a social studies teacher
The 7th graders used to laugh at me
Make fun of my blandness, my ineffective words
And my unenthusiastic teaching

No one is laughing now
If I could find the witch who turned
me I would bring her a bit of dinner
I have plenty now that I am the alpha

Middle Age Cocktail

blandness of stories, the lines memorized.
fallen lashes thin my mind
bereft of stimulants.

2/6/2019

Mama's Diary, Part Ii

Disappointed that most of the things
she kept contained
on a daily basis
were far too banal to entertain
memories of sad things
over the years
ho-hum anxieties, insipid fears
rather mundane
and not even interesting
unlikely worries
like being kidnapped by pirates
or eaten by a polar bear-
but worries like her favorite dress
being ruined by the cleaners
and not having anything decent to wear
or getting a bad permanent in her hair

Disgusted by the
blandness
of my Mama's secret life
I flipped and skipped ahead
to after she and Papa wed
but it was no better
just drab descriptions
of her experience as a housewife
and lists of petty irritations
things he did that annoyed her
but she hollered those out
in screams and shouts
so even those were no great surprise
'cause it didn't take much
to 'get a rise' out of my Mama...

Eventually I learned
that people will answer
those questions every day
in the way they live their life
in the things they say
for there's a pattern to everything
and ultimately we each reveal
all we try to conceal
whether in our work or in our play
...and my Mama spoke volumes
in her diary
in all the things she
didn't say

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