Best Buffoon Poems
Donald Trump, that disgusting buffoon,
Grimaces and gestures like a demented baboon.
Liar and con man,
A friend of the Klansman,
As well as of Putin and his KGB goons.
A Buffoon Of A Tune
My boyfriend looks like a buffoon
He thought he could sing a great tune
Couldn't hold a note
Was holding a tote
Instead he flew right to the moon.
Written: Jan. 1, 2016
Sherri White
Although aging may not be a present thing to experience
it is a great blessing. No matter how hard he tries to understand
old age, the youth will never be able to conceive the meaning of aging,
nor can taste the fruits of real human pathos that come only with age.
Listen, therefore, to this old buffoon, you the loafers who filled
this square; hear, therefore, what this shabby old man says,
you the vigorous young people who want to go a step ahead
the currents of time, rejecting traditions and resisting all orders.
If this old one’s appearance offends you, though I was wishing
to age myself in the way that is tolerable to others’ eyes,
please accept my apology.
If my conduct and behavior displeases you,
why not suffer with me for a moment
because I and myself cry over my own clumsy body
and limbs that won’t move as I wish any more.
If my voice is harsh and unpleasant,
why not let it be deaf to your ears
because all I wanted was to
clear my phlegm obstructed throat
and sing my favorite song that I sung once proudly.
If my laughter echoes hollowly in air,
why not laugh with me, because if not laughing,
this old one lives in tears for the rest of his remaining life,
because if they take laughter away from me, though it may sound hollow and self-contemptuous, only tears would fill my broken heart.
You should watch how you treat me
Or you will end up in a poem - believe me
I heard every snide thing you said
I saw every shake of your head
Your body language told more than you wanted said
The senses of a writer are well tuned
Easily spotting the buffoon
So take back what you said
Or you will be reading with dread
Your behavior of this afternoon
So there it was nigh on high noon
In the heat of summer's day,
When down the street walked the buffoon
While the town folk were napping away.
No one took much notice at first
Of the buffoon out on the street;
They'd not recognize his mighty thirst
While dozing there half asleep.
But into the sheriff's office he strode,
This buffoon once the laughing stock
And with his six shooter to unload,
The town folk woke to an awful shock.
Now the keys are his, the perfect trap,
Where once there was but a buffoon;
These town folk who too long to nap,
Will follow on the road to ruin.
So I had an appointment today to inspect a motorcycle in Stevenson. I pulled up to the house and walked to the front door then knocked. A woman opens the door and I say, I'm here to inspect the motorcycle for the insurance company. We're eye to eye contact for about 10 silent awkward seconds and out of nowhere she just starts talking about something and I have no idea what she means. She mentions something about a check being deposited into her account....so I say no ma'am. I don't write the insurance checks. I just assess the damage to the bike and pass the estimate and photos along to the insurance company. The insurance company will have to issue you the check. She's starts talking again and gave me her full name, social security number and date of birth. The entire time she's looking at me like I'm crazy and I'm looking at her like she's crazy then she holds her index finger up ??so I look up ??Nothing there. I begin to think I'm dealing with a schizophrenic and slowly back away. All of a sudden she says thank you..goodbye and brushes her hair back to turn off a hidden Bluetooth earpiece. I stood there for 5 minuets trying to carry on a conversation with a woman who was on the phone with her bank. Each time she would hold up her index finger??and gesture for me to 'hold on' I would look up like some kind of paranoid squirrel waiting on a hawk to swoop down and carry me away. Long story short I'm an idiot....again.
On these lonely and forlorn days,
the word past,
more than the word future,
grew and piled high as the castle wall.
I acquired a tendency to measure my future
from the length of the setting sun on other side of
this view obstructing wall.
As the wall becomes higher,
the sunset rays become shorter,
and in time of this last part of downing sun,
I wonder how far did I come.
Though I roamed in this town and that village
as a lonely shadow without company.
I was visited this theatre and that stage
with no ardent audience to watch my performance,
before knowing,
I found myself, shabby and run-down,
standing on an other side of thickened wall.
For the wall stands there all the time nonetheless
to intimidate this old grumbling buffoon,
stepping on the shattered sun rays
that crashed to the wall and fell on the ground,
I am gathering the antics and jokes
I have left on the other side of the wall.
Though the antics no one ever delighted for
and the jokes no one ever laughed at,
but was my precious alter ego
I should pick them up and tell the story
by scribbling them on the wall
with a finger tip wet with my tears,
how badly I was treated from my surroundings
and how miserably I led my troubled life,
while I was dwelling on the other side of the wall.
Though my story my be noting but a graffiti
that may be carried away by a tomorrow’s violent wind.
Bit by bit I build my life
But it never becomes a structure
Where I can put my head in rest
Lay down my soul in peace
Neither has it become a calculation
Though I keep adding and subtracting
Till date I did the sum forty times
Nowhere have I seen any perfection
Nor any proper displacement of it has been seen
Only it keeps revolving around
Like a true buffoon
laugh …
please feel free
the fat old man is here for
your entertainment
‘there must be a purpose that we strung
the aged fool along for’ …
right??
it’s not that I feel like an impish idiot
(though I do … completely)
the contrary element is that it’s
not like ME …
I’ve always been in command -
always been the giddy-up in the group
the jump-to-it-and-do-it guy
not the court jester
not the clown
but somehow life has caught
up with my body
(when I wasn’t looking)
and it feels like I’m in alien skin -
like the flesh that hugs my
bones is not mine
and it won’t do what I ask of it -
what I expect it to
what it should …
oh, I’m laughing, too
the thought of how entirely doltish
I must appear …
the bumbling, fumbling boob
as wet as he is sore
bruised and burnt and as old-fartish
as they come …
if only we’d caught it on camera
we could all laugh again
we could roar and tee-hee ‘til
the cows come home -
bells on my hat and shoes
reality like whiteface on my cheeks
dancing a fatuous jig
jiggling and giggling for the
crowd’s amusement
while the man -
the once proud and valiant
gentleman inside …
turns …
to dust.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, June 19, 2024
I met a raccoon with a look so gullible;
Stumbling he came from a jungle called global.
Among the families with a very few high caste,
He lives in the periphery as an utter outcaste.
When asked to describe his present destiny,
He sneered and I said, "For villainy and tyranny".
His well-dressed ancestors lived in a mansion,
When those baboons began their expansion.
Buffoons have no love for incidents of blood,
So I’ll drop here, I’m sorry, just a tear-flood………
Thus, he has lost his wealth not for any thunder,
But for those ruffians’ out and out plunder.
Now baboons are so rich, but raccoon is so poor,
And they can sing songs, yet he mourns every hour.
If you’d get offended for recalling this history,
I’d drink a pot of toddy and munch a plate of pastry.
Feb. 26, 2021
Biting Satire Poetry Contest
What's a buffoon type restaurant
We serve ourselves and eat what we want
Gain humongous pounds
Till we can't walk around
Perhaps I'm thinking of a “buffet” response
Harold died leaving six behind,
Whom few close families might mind
By being to them honestly kind.
They'd cross them in streets like the blind!
Harold's son by slight buffoon,
As he does self in pubs cocoon,
His daughters! 'Yes' to men too soon,
At nights waiting to kiss the moon...
Six left by Dad to face the battle,
The Eldest thinks they're all cattle,
Second, that they simply prattle
While The Last is the most rattled...
The truth: They are embattled!
Big Buffoon With A Balloon
Instead of being a dumb, big buffoon,
Always walking around with a balloon;
Our intuition;
Poor politician
Wish would leave and live in a cocoon.
Sound familiar?
Jim Horn
Write one using hope, dope, and slope.
He is a cowardly buffoon
Less cowboy than poltroon
Cringes in fear at the moon
Afraid of bubbly lagoon
Doesn’t make anyone swoon
Terrified of a small raccoon
Shrieks and hides from a blown-up balloon
A forever alone weird little goon
I knew an old buffoon
quite the gloomy poltroon
who through a stormy monsoon
flew his hot air balloon
and among the Walloon
and Flemish
much to their surprise
did not meet his demise
but with neither a blot
not a jot
nor blemish
at all
on hand
in the small
6-Government
densely populated
parliamentary constitutional monarchy
3-language country of Belgium
safely did crash land