Long Blah blah blah Poems
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“Whatever you say, Dear”,
Seemed like a safe thing to say;
It’s a harmless enough little line.
“Whatever you say, Dear”;
I was repeating every day;
Got me out of trouble all of the time.
It didn’t even matter that I never heard a word
Or even knew what the topic might be;
“Whatever you say, Dear”
Never sounded too absurd
And I could still concentrate on TV.
Blah, blah, blah,
“Whatever you say”;
Blab, blab, blab,
“Whatever’s okay”;
Yak, yak, yak,
“Whatever, is fine”;
Yip, yip, yip,
Worked every time.
Next thing I know,
She had a new car,
And throughout the whole house
New carpeting installed;
She had a diamond ring;
A new wardrobe too;
She bought some mink thing,
And a dozen new shoes.
“Thank you, Sweetie, for being so kind
And saying I can buy all these things.
Maybe next time I talk you will listen to me;
For I’m not as dumb as it seems.”
Blah blah blah, opinions from the ditch.
These unwanted comments really make my backside itch.
So many point their fingers without knowing, all of the facts.
Such ignorance and stupidity, is really lacking tact.
Arrogance and politics will always bring about a tear.
People like George Soros can kiss my big white rear.
Foreign intervention is not in our needs.
Wake up America and stop these dirty deeds.
Here is your conspiracy theory, brought forth in black and white.
There is another group that’s causing us all to fight.
Has common sense now left us?
Why throw others under the bus?
The cops are here to help us they don’t always cuff and bust.
We need to deal with facts and start building up our trust.
Can you imagine where we would be, if not for our brothers in blue?
Society would crash and burn and we would all be screwed.
There's a grocery chain in Canada
Known by the name of Loblaw's
That in itself isn't anything special
Till owners named their son after grandpa
Their poor son was blessed by his parents
Didn't think very hard these Loblaws
Baptized their son Robert that's silly
Bob Loblaw, blah blah blah!
Like someone is incessantly babbling on
Making absolutely totally no sense
Bob Loblaw is quite an intelligent man
Bob Loblaw, blah blah blah!
His name makes him sound like an idiot
When introducing himself to a newbie
Hard as he tries to pronounce each syllable
Can't say it without sounding goofy
Poor Bob will take his name to the grave
Can you see the inscription on his headstone?
How can anyone be sombre while visiting
Imagine how it sounds on the telephone...
Hello, this is Bob Loblaw, blah blah blah!
*Image of Tony Dow by News.
AUDIO
VIDEO of 500 Miles by Peter, Paul & Mary
Take Care Wally Cleaver
Wally: Watch the hair!
My faculties are under arrest!
I have been subpoenaed by a Board of Inquiry!
Namely, Mr. & Mrs. Parents of OMgoodness Boy!
Begins the questioning! (blah, blah, blah)
Ward: WHY!
Retorts!
Wally: But dad (blah, blah, blah)
Empathetic.
June: Well, why not?
In-kind.
Wally: Well, mom (blah, blah, blah)
Backroom deliberations begin!
Ward: Ohh! Don't give me that look!
June: But my dear he's just a kid?
Ward: I'll even accept the concept of a Billy the outlaw
as there is some hopeful measure of action,
good or bad, but that's not the conclusion you're
drawing is it, sweetheart?
June: I know I've been turning my back on this, and
once I've turned around, there you are, not a
happy camper, our families, friends, and
neighbors, are all staring back at me, so I've
decided to let you deal with him and I'll stand
by whatever the ruling you decide to enact.
Ward: Well, Mr. OMgoodness, we hereby sentence you
to collect all of your electronic devices and game
cartridges and put them in a large box, then
you're going to clean your room, the garage,
and the yard, then mow the lawn, rake the yard,
then water the plants, after you're done, take a
shower and come down for dinner.
Wally: Wow, that's what an execution feels like.
Ward: No, think of it as a life sentence.
Wally: (sigh!)
June: We love you, honey.
Wally: I know that mom.
Ward: Oh, and by the way, I want to see your computer
keyboard in that box and I'll come around when
you're showering to lock it up in the attic.
(Later that night)
Ward: Good night son.
Wally: Good night dad.
June: Good night honey.
Wally: Good night mom.
(Bedroom doors close, and a computer light comes
on as a young MIT wannabe, clicks on settings and
presses "Online Keyboard")
Whatta day! Brutal, just ... brutal!
It'll be a long night ...
Good night Beav!
2022 July 27
On a journey down the mile
A priest knelt down in prayer
“Our father help me guide this lost soul
To your loving embrace
That you may be his last judge
His stain of death will mark him
So that you might welcome him
his return home imminent …….Amen”
The priest continued on his way
Heavy of heart ..
his horror of what lay ahead marking his face
nearing the cell He pauses
The hardest part lay before him
The warden appearing pulls him aside …
” Keep him calm with your gibberish father
We’ll do the rest “
Cold Grey walls surround him
silver bars
The only splash of light or shine
Prison a hellish place to live
Let alone die
Blah blah blah the warden
rambling on his voice fading
Nothing of the tragedy
The Killing time to come
Oh the horror in the knowing
The hour of our death
Arriving at their destination
The warden steps back
wanting no part of what was next
Metal bars swing back
revealing a man of mammoth proportions
needle worn skin a moving picture of colour
“Hello Brother “
The priest freezes in time
before him a brother lost
found Oh Lord only to loose him again
Desperation horror madness
All cross the priest’s face
“Why ?” says the priest
“Though we don’t share belief or lifestyle
I love you brother ..
I ask your forgiveness for your compassion
My blood flows through your veins
Much as they say god flows through yours
I only ask for a brothers forgiveness
That i may meet my death
Having made my peace with my blood”
For a time silence
Bile rising in the back of his throat
The priest fighting for composure
Steels himself ..
“As a priest I forgive you
As your brother I grieve for you”
Reaching for his brother
Arms like logs wrap round the priest
Sobbing for what could have beens
The brothers sat like this till …
Time was called
When I came to pick you up
You were a beauty to behold
I walked you out to my Pinto
And even opened up the door
I know your thinking what a gentleman
But alas your thoughts they do escape me
With the creak of my door hinge so loud
I knew I should have WD-40'd
So you wouldn't tear your dress on the seat spring
I covered it with my Mothers favorite towel
I can see by the look that's in your eyes
I've really won you over now
I'm sorry the AC is out
As I spritz cool water in my dash fan
Is that you blinking in Morse code
You da man! You da man! You da man!
I only dine at the finest cuisine
Can't wait till you see what I did
Reservations at Red Lobster babe
I'll even help you put on your lobster bib
I strike up a conversation
Tell you all about my life, my dreams, my job
I continue talking, never mind the food in my mouth
At this point all you here is blah,blah,blah,blah,blah
Laura Mackenzie,
Phillips was checking out while,
Doting fans were near, waiting
For her autograph,
She had a City Ledger
Account, the studio will
Pay, she only needs
To sign it. Constant trouble
Made for the short attention
Span, "Please sign here...", she
cut me off, grabs some hotel
Stationery and proceeds
To autograph it,
"HUGS & KISSES THAT'S FROM THE
MISSES--but before she signs
It,--TO,--looks at me
And says, "Who?", I gave her my
kid sister's name. We are not
Allowed to have one's
Autograph--LISE", I placed
her account in front of her
She gives it the once-
Over, signed it, gave her a
Copy and told her we are
Done, "We at Hilton...,
Blah-blah-blah, Thank you!"--then I
told the doting crowd, "She's yours!"
(Y-E-A-H!)
***ONE DAY AT A TIME, and one such of many tidbits with the stars.
Date: 08/28/2019
howmanysyllables.com
577, 577, 577, 577, 577
577, 577, 577, 577
Paint By Numb -brrs
A picture was there, all cut up with
lines forming strange shapes. I
seldom knew what the picture was
or if it ever became what it was.
“Take the blue pencil and color all
the shapes with the number 5 inside”.
Sort of an artistic “Where’s Waldo” game.
I was never good at “hide and seek”, so
the numbers often escaped me.
Somewhere around, “Take the orange
pencil…blah…blah…..blah……,
I had already left the reservation and
was creating a mosaic of leaves, sort
of a bad day in an autumn alleyway.
Then the voice of the six foot tall
Penguin Lady announced, “Put down
your pencils!” Somehow there was
a warning in that tone meant to alter
my plans for the day. The black and
white shadow loomed over me and
my Autumn Alleyway. The idea that
I was allowing my innate creativity
free expression slunk away like a
cur dog in defeat. Escape into the
colors, the mystery, the joy of
just playing with the colors,
I found, came at a price. This has
been a recurring theme usually
followed by the query: “Was it
worth it?” The answer was, and is,
always the same: “You bet your sweet
ass it was.” This answer was sometimes
less audible than at other times
when it was answered loudly,
confidently, with power and
conviction. With time, came power,
courage, and respect for the colors.
Respect for the invitation they offered
those many years ago, respect for the
lessons they taught me. Respect for the
pencils, the colors, the spaces,
and the numbers that I made my own.
John G. Lawless - 9/19/2014
for PD's - A poem you have not entered in a contest #13
I sit at my bench again,
this whole scene is getting old.
Same old sinners skulking in,
same defense a trillion-fold.
Now the room fills up with steam.
Next, flames shoot up through the grate.
I'm so bored I want to scream!
Here's the part I really hate...
Blah, blah, blah, "I beg you, sir,
this is all one big mistake...!"
Ugh! Stop clutching at my fur!
YOU'LL be burning at the stake.
I've been doing this so long,
I forgot when it began.
Sentencing the endless throng
of the very worst of man.
NEXT...! Let's go - don't hold the line,
I've got legions more to see.
Quicksand... Sharks... Irate canine...
Punishment is up to me.
Used to be I really dug
civic aspects of this job,
now I just want to unplug
from this whole unholy mob.
What if men just acted right?
What if more went UP, than down?
Maybe I'd take off a night...
or perhaps go out of town...
WAIT. Did I just have that thought??
Oh my badness, I'm not well...
Feel my head - am I still hot?!
...Guess there ARE cold days in hell!
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.