Category Archives: Poems

Poems, Songs

Super Rhyme XLVII

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Here’s a Super Bowl poem from Trail Baboon’s rhyming poet laureate, Schulyer Tyler Wyler.  A common question on the Monday after the world’s largest remaining Roman Numeraled Event is “Did you watch the Super Bowl?”  I suggested that phrase as a title for the poem, and told STW he could come up with the rest as long as it doesn’t go on for too many verses.

STW said he was willing to take on this project under three conditions:

  1. He could base the poem on the rhythm and rhyme scheme of the song “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from Les Miserables. “I just saw the new film version and that stupid song is stuck in my head,” he said. “‘Do You Hear The People Sing’ and ‘Did You Watch The Super Bowl’ have the same number of syllables, so I should be able to do it in ten minutes flat, and maybe this will help me banish the thing from my brain at long last.”
  2. I would not require him to actually watch the game or know anything about it.
  3. I would pay him in advance.

Since I AM interested in watching the game and did not want to have to come up with a blog post for today, and since STW and I always deal in make-believe money,  I agreed to pay him $1,000 pretend dollars and he got to work immediately.

For reference, here’s the original song, from the 1998 film version.

http://youtu.be/FgQgzKVX9jc

Did you watch the Super Bowl?
There was a lot of stuff to see.
There was a ton of advertising
pushing stuff that’s not for me.

There were men who came to play
fighting about an oblong ball
but what they did I cannot say
for I don’t recall.

I saw puppies and a baby.
Sloppy kissing and a car.
Some beer was drunk by people
but don’t ask me who they are.
It all was a blur, and so noisy.
I watched in a bar!

Did you see the Super Bowl?
Yes but it all went by so quick.
There was a time when I blacked out.
I’m sure the nachos made me sick.

There were fortunes that were lost.
There was a bunch of money won.
But it did not appear to me
anyone had fun.

There were folks with painted faces
wearing beads for Mardi Gras.
There were men so overweight
they needed girdles and a bra.
And that was my family, I hope that
nobody else saw!

Did you see the Super Bowl?
Well yes I knew that it was on.
And I suppose I watched a little
bit while stifling a yawn.

I am sure they’ll play again.
Two super teams will get their shot.
And which teams played the game this year
I will have forgot.

I’m pretty sure I did not get my make-believe money’s worth from rhyming poet laureate Schuyler Tyler Wyler, but that’s what the morning after the Super Bowl is for – waking up with the feeling that you’ve just thrown away a bunch of time and money on something meaningless.

And I think he was lying about not watching the game. That line about blacking out is a clear reference to the 3rd quarter power failure at the Super Dome.

What do you do when the electricity goes out?

Poems

Deadline Pressure

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Seeing with considerable satisfaction the way a ticking clock got the deadbeats in the US Congress to finally pass a piece of (imperfect) legislation, I commissioned Schuyler Tyler Wyler, America’s Rhyming Poet Laureate, to write a few lines about the value of time limits.

And of course I told him I needed to have something in hand no later than 20 minutes after the challenge was issued. If he couldn’t deliver, he should just forget it, I said, knowing full well that STW never passes up a commission.

His secret? He becomes a lot less picky as the time grows short.

Many lines will man diminish,
casting shadows o’er his heart.
Like a line emblazoned “finish”
set too far from one marked “start.”

Lengthy lines can form for tickets
Timberlines sit near the tree
Don’t cross lines set up by pickets.
Don’t cross lines prefaced by “fe”.

One line always worth preserving
though he’ll never, ever ask you,
every guy thinks he’s deserving.
it’s the one that follows “mascu”.

An exciting line is “chorus”.
An archaic one is “clothes”.
Lines called “border” can be porous.
Lines with water can get froze.

There are many lines that plague us:
Lines for greeting at a wedding.
And the kind they make in Vegas.
Not for marriage, but for betting.

Tucked behind a velvet curtain
sultry lines designed for “chat”.
In a hospital for certain
please avoid a line that’s “flat”.

One line makes all writers tremble
just one line gets in their head.
Makes their noggins disassemble.
That’s a line that’s clearly “dead”.

For a deadline makes them humble.
Whether genius or a jerk.
It’s the deadline makes them crumble.
Sets them free to do their work.

When have you been assisted by an inflexible deadline?

Poems

‘Twas A Miscalculation

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A snowstorm has now moved out of the midwest but what it dumped on the Great Plains is nothing compared to the amount of scorn being heaped on those who insisted an ancient calendar foretold the end of the world – yesterday.

I have yet to hear someone elegantly walk it back after declaring the end is nigh and being proven wrong. Though I do feel some sympathy because we all make mistakes. And in a cynical world there is something to admire in a person who has sufficient faith to accept a fantastic story without much proof.

Storytellers, at least, should not be so critical of the gullible. That’s your audience, my friends.

‘Twas the night of the solstice they gave him the word
that the Mayan Apocalypse hadn’t occurred.
Poor Santa. A workhorse, not really a thinker
had bought the whole fantasy. Hook, line and sinker.

He’d fired the elves. The reindeer, he ate.
He divorced Mrs. Claus. He went out on a date.
And did many bad things. With no need to pretend,
he had ceased to be decent. He welcomed the end.

For the world was too big. It was too far around.
There were too many people, and way too much ground
for one man and a sleigh to fly past in one night.
So catastrophe sounded, to Santa, just right.

But of course all that changed when it didn’t pan out.
And with three days remaining, he harbored some doubt
He could put things back right and deliver the goods.
And re-hire those elves and get out of the woods

with the people around him he’d hurt to the core.
He would probably purchase some toys at the store
to replace all the ones that the elves couldn’t make
in a weekend of work. And yes, some might be fake

But that still was less awkward than what he’d just done.
He had dined on his reindeer, gone out chasing fun
just to find that it wasn’t as great as they said.
He was old, fat and bald. A disgrace dressed in red.

Who’d embraced armageddon. He’d acted acted the dope
He’d imbibed all of Blitzen. He only could hope.
That redemption is something a man can achieve.
And such things may come true if you truly believe.

When have you been obviously, spectacularly wrong?

Poems

Happy Dozens Day!

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We are in a pivotal time for humankind – the era of paranoid obsession over the numbers that appear on our calendar.

Oh, wait a minute. That’s every era.

So far, the way the numbers roll up in the date line on your checks has had nothing to do with the fate of the planet or the civilization, but we can’t help but notice when the lineup appears portentous. In nine days the frenzy will peak with the arrival of the utterly meaningless 12-21-12.

I find today more interesting anyway – more orderly and beautiful somehow.

The challenge for 12-12-12 is to write a twelve line poem with twelve syllables in each line. And you get 12 bonus points if it rhymes!

There’s nothing to keep you from telling your cousins.
The month, year and day for today are all dozens.
But why would you make it a point to be geeky?
They already think that you’re thoroughly freaky.

These digits don’t indicate anything scary.
You shouldn’t be frightened, perplexed or be wary.
Each day is a day that arrives unencumbered.
It’s people that name them and make them all numbered.

While the ones and the twos might seem key to our plot
What our calendar calls today signifies squat.
When setting the time of our big closing rally
The mind of the cosmos won’t look to our tally.

Not feeling poetical? Tell us how (or if) you’ll observe Dozens Day!

Poems

Power Ball Prayer

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A strong argument can be made that winning a huge lottery jackpot is much more damaging than not winning one.

If, in fact, that’s true, then the losers are the winners and the poor saps who wound up with the choice tickets in the recent Powerball drawing are mere weeks, or even just hours away from being rewarded with the total destruction of their once-happy lives.

We have already met the earnest unfortunates who bought a winning ticket in Missouri. The soon-to-be tragic sufferer who bought a similar ticket in Arizona is still unknown, but we might have video of him celebrating in Maryland.

There are numerous examples of the sort of mayhem the sudden addition of mega millions can bring to an ordinary family. We already know gambling can become addictive and prolonged losing ruins good people. It appears winning can, too.

And yet folks continue to buy tickets, hoping that they will walk away with the most outrageous possible prize. Perhaps for those compelled to play, a short, expectation adjusting prayer is in order.

Now I buy me one more chance
I pray these numbers make me dance
Though not so much I play the fool
But just enough to keep me cool
With modest winnings I can spend
On things I won’t need to defend
Too small to get me on the news
But just enough for food and shoes
and something special for my spouse
and maybe to fix up the house.
I’ll dream of mega millions, Lord,
Though that’s more than I can afford.

When have you been better off to lose?

Poems, The Baboon Congress

tim’s turkey verse

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in the name of virtual family values and holiday togetherness, today’s guest post is, of course, by tim

Its thanksgiving week here on the trail
were doing guest blogs in the absence of dale.
the week should be 7 days same as before
but without dales guidance
we could have crap blogs galore.

will jacque be sticking here head in?
will clyde show us that hes alive?
I love it when hes feeling chatty
but sad when its all before five

we all have some family to gather with
my wifes got to gather with mine.
last year we did it with her family
and other than that twitch im just fine

what im thankful for after watching the dust bowl
is for friends who will stick it out here
we miss the old days and we do all remember
and sometimes it does bring a tear.

this trail is the center of mornings for us
and the crew digs in deeper it seems.
we loose one and then two and then add a couple
wwhile dale cooks up stuff behind the scenes.

word press is a challenge for steve the blue doily
pj keeps us from going off track
renee is the foreigner among us
from dakota so cut her some slack

linda and ben offer baboon stability
sherrilee anna and krista our soul
we miss mig bib and allanna, hope someday they come back
jim has taken first to blogs daily role.

its an odd clan our internet family
who meet here each day on the trail.
news from space are our cranberries
and or politicic gravey prevails

discussions replaced the good music
obamas the turkey we share
dr baboon and bubby and old captn billy
cover topics about which we all care.

thanks to chidrader, the guy in the hat
and regulars who are not daily
we really enjoy the participation
and love it when you come in and playly

with donna we pass through school season
with holly we pull it together
and summarize days conversation
with a song that is true as the weather.

Ffod, books and politics theater arts
solar news and the state of the state
the baboon trail moniker touches our hearts
and makes us look forward to wait

the next days blog topic is always a treat
it’s a great way to start out anew
you have to react to the sideways end question
realizing someone is messing with you

its an odd way of life that weve grown to depend on
heart string tied to typewritten keys
with the people you list as your friends on
the place where the aim is to please

id like to say that it is you all im here for
im such a giving kind of guy
but the truth is that i do it all just for me
this blog daily fix makes my spirits fly high

so thank you to each and every baboon
who share the light of the new day
and all of the thoughts weve shared on the trail
and the things that you’ve all had to say

lets not forget lisa on edith or robin
cb bill and all of the newbies we’ve gained
ba’s back of late love to have her drop in
without them were only half brained

together we are better than we all are apart.
the power in numbers baboon
so along with the stuffing and pies this good season
thank the trail now please holly a tune….

What groups, clubs or organizations claim you as a member?                              Are you proud to belong?

Poems

Pumpkin Patch? No, Poetry Pods!

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Photo from the BBC

This is the time of year when my eye is easily drawn to an orange glow in the early evening’s darkness. So I really couldn’t help following this photo to the BBC’s website. I thought perhaps it was a story about a Stonehenge replica made out of Halloween Pumpkins.

But no! The treats here are all literary. You’re looking at a cluster of illuminated tents that speak recorded poetry to passers by – a collection of old and familiar works mixed with lesser known poems – all about love, enhanced by a soundscape and a variety of physical locations along the coastline of the U.K.

The idea is that visitors will walk among the tents and overhear the poetry fragments coming from inside the mysterious, glowing enclosures.

If you watch the video you’ll hear Irish actress Fiona Shaw, a collaborator on the project, say that she hopes people will come “with a bottle of beer in their hand” and “not speak too much to their mates – just listen.”

What are the chances that people will just listen to words coming from an invisible voice if they are in the company of others they can see and talk to directly? In my experience, it’s not likely – the pressure to carry on a conversation is too great. The one exception would be if you and your friend think you’re hearing something that was not meant for you, and if you speak you might give yourselves away.

That would be the one thing I’d change about this poetry pod project – if you speak, the recording goes quiet and then gradually returns to full volume only if you remain silent.

A reward for eavesdropping!

http://youtu.be/-d7yWspPE7A

What is the most memorable thing you’ve overheard?

Poems

A Donald Trump Why-ku

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TV talk show producers, bloggers and assignment editors are asking themselves today why they continue to pay attention to Donald Trump. His “blockbuster announcement”, promoted for days through various news and entertainment venues, turned out to be an offer to donate 5 million dollars to a charity of President Obama’s choosing if the president releases his academic and passport records.

Ho hum.

I am complicit in this madness. The man needs attention, but I cannot explain why I give it to him. Just days ago I suggested that his cufflinks had been discovered on Mars. I could have assigned those cufflinks to anyone, and I tried. But they were only funny (to me) when they were Trump’s. He is an easy, never-fail punch line.

Dang.

So many things are not worth the energy it takes to think about them. Meanwhile, serious problems go unaddressed. Important information we really ought to have remains secret, and none of it has to do with the President’s upbringing or personal history.

Where are our priorities? What is wrong with our judgment? The world deserves an explanation for this lunacy, but let’s not take a long time with it. Just as we did with our playing-the-lottery apologies, the 5-7-5 syllabic sequence of the haiku allows more than enough to describe why Trump continues to beguile.

1.
It is not the hair
Or the big time blustering.
It’s only money.

2.
Anyone can be
bizzare for a single day.
Forever is hard.

3.
Too many people
need to know someone else is
more ridiculous

Explain Trump’s allure in a haiku.

Poems, Songs

John Barleycorn Must DNA

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Barley made the news yesterday, in part thanks to a Minnesota scientist. Professor Gary Muehlbauer of the Department of Agronomy and Plant Genetics at the University of Minnesota and a cadre of international researchers managed to sequence the genome for barley, said to be “one of the world’s most important and genetically complex cereal crops“. Results were published in the journal Nature. Apparently this work could lead to higher barley yields, better resistance to pests, and enhanced nutritional value. It may also help barley adapt to the stresses of climate change.

You know what that means – we can trash the environment and still have beer!

Congratulations to the researchers. A round for all my genome sequencing friends! It made me think of this old song about barley and its role in the beer and whiskey making process. Sung here by Martin Carthy.

The scientists have done their best
employing all their means
They found out, using every test,
John Barleycorn has genes!

They chopped him up so very small
and put him on display.
Tore him apart to see it all
and mapped his DNA.

If you were him by now you’d know
the sum of all your parts.
What makes you wilt. What helps you grow.
The compounds in your farts.

The sequence tells us who he is,
of what he is composed.
His elements, his spark, his fizz.
John Barleycorn, exposed.

Would you want to have a map of your DNA?

Poems

Today in Sports Names

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I can’t claim to be much of a sports fan.

But I do enjoy reading about interesting personalities, and participating in an organized sport is one way to express your uniqueness. Maybe it’s the pressure of competition that brings interesting qualities to the fore. And for some reason, the sporting world attracts individuals with remarkable names. Especially baseball, where fan and jazz pianist Dave Frishberg was inspired to set to music this list of compelling monikers.

This comes up because I noticed today marks the birthdays of some sports figures from the past who had outstanding names –

All of Lottie Dod’s wins at Wimbledon came against the same player – the imposingly named Blanche Bingley Hillyard.

As an amateur sing-song poet and shameless creator of too many stupid little rhymes, I find this pair irresistible. And of course one of them has a perfect name for this justifiably unappreciated form.

Blanche Bingley Hillyard

Some sports can hinge on state of mind,
like tennis, golf and billiards,
Opponents can get in your head.
ie: Blanche Bingley Hillyard’s.

Though BBH was quite a champ,
(they will not soon forget her),
Each time they played at Wimbledon
Another girl was better.

The focus and the discipline
that Blanche brought to the game
was poised and stately, and it is
reflected in her name.

Lottie Dod

So it’s not fair that winning was
(if tennis has a God)
A major task for BBH.
And fun for Lottie Dod.

For Lottie didn’t practice
or prepare in any way.
She danced around the tennis court
and sang her name all day.

Lottie Dod, Lottie Dod,
Dotty Lottie Dod
Doodly Doodly Doodly dee
Lah dee Lottie Dod.

What sport comes easily to you?