Best Jon Poems
Garfield, a loveable famous, lazy cat,
Who likes to eat and eat, that’s why he’s fat,
Jon his companion, Garfield’s friend or foe dude,
On call twenty four seven, to give Garfield food!
The world knows their love hate relationship
And of course Garfield's innermost thoughts,
Each an amusing quip!
He is the cleverest, wittiest cat, he’s a star,
His charm, and fertile mind reaches afar,
He loves to eat, sleep and then to repeat,
His sarcasm no other cat could ever beat.
Garfield regards Jon as his permanent box changer,
Perhaps Jon should give Garfield a thought pager!
Garfield, shouts Jon, why do you everything scratch,
Don’t shout, you silly human, give me a scratch patch!
John emphasises, Garfield you’re lucky, you have
A teddy, a dog called Odie and a loving companion, me
What else could you want, a bowl of lasagne says he!
A mouse runs by, Jon says Garfield catch it, but
Garfield doesn’t like hurting mice,
And so says Garfield’s thought quip,
Will I ever get that through your thick skull,
Or do I always have to give you an earful!
Garfield teases big angry looking dogs, makes
Faces at them, and when they chase him,
Runs to Jon who picks him up and then Garfield takes
Advantage as he sticks his tongue out,
So the dogs attack them both, Jon
Scolds Garfield who looks at Jon, with a pout!
Garfield cartons were recognised and awarded
Top honours and were rewarded
With accolades, in the Guinness Book of Records
Congratulations to the author the late Jim Davis,
Who made billions and achieved worldwide status,
And who created these wonderful characters,
Manipulative and coffee dependant Garfield,
Not forgetting Odie and Jon,
All of who brought us laughs by the ton!
Garfield was an era, a striped, intelligent thinking cat,
Who refused to ever hurt a mouse, that’s a fact,
But who could eat lasagne every day of his life
As his greed for this meal was truly rife!
I could carry on forever, but will end with what
I think is a laugh,
Jon asks Garfield why he has got such a lot of
Junk in his bed,
Oh this, Garfield grins, it’s a whack bonk, with which
I am about to hit your head,
Our furry friend sarcastically said,
Rather, thought in the quip,
It’s a wonder that Jon didn’t chase him with the
Scissors, and go snip, snip!
Your love is
quite sensational –
Your laughter tastes
like spring-time rain
Your tears smell
like sweet lemon flower petals
Your voice looks
so
deeply
majestic
Your heart sounds
like exquisite violin and harp concertos
And your eyes!
Your eyes feel
like early autumn sunset’s amber-gold lengthening glow
Oh, my love, your love
is entirely, completely,
embracingly
Sen-sational!
RARELY
I WRITE MY NAME IN FULL
IT WOULD APPEAR
OF ME
TO BE
POMPOUS AND PRETENTIOUS
TO DO SO
FOR THEN WHEN YOUNG
I SAW
MY NAME IN PRINT
RUDOLPH JON RINALDI
HAD THE SYMMETRY AND POWER
Of A NEW SHINNY AIRPLANE PROPELLER PROP
BUT THAT WAS THEN
WHEN I WAS YOUNG
AND NOW IN AGE
IT SEEMS
TO BE
OF ME
TO HAVE
THE BEAUTY AND SOLIDITY
OF AN OLD ASS
TV Land won’t be the same
Without Jon Stewart’s face,
For he’s the one man on the air
That no one can replace.
With other newsmen slinking off
Because they’ve lost our trust,
“The Daily Show’s” lead anchor
Leaves all others in the dust.
When even those who’ve winced at jokes
He’s made at their expense
Express remorse at his departure,
Sadness must commence.
They’ll fill his seat and surely
He’ll do something else real soon,
But his announcement stuck a pin
In everyone’s balloon.
Found a new friend, his name is Jon
Asked him, 'where the heck is your H?'
He tried to recall and seemed to remember
There was a shortage in 1938
Parents failed to put their order in on time
So Jon was basically out of luck
His H has been missing ever since then
Poor guy it really must suck
Imagine all the times people have asked him
Likely driving him out of his beano
Certainly can't be blamed for a tirade or two
Heard he's heavily into the vino
Strange how a small thing like a missing H
Can affect one's psyche to the core
If you happen to have an extra H lying around
He'll pay a big bunch of moolah I'm sure
Found a new friend, his name is Jon...
© Jack Ellison 2012
(For a blind man…)
Sighted vision is a mystery.
Whether sitting on the divan,
Busily washing a dishpan,
Or sitting outside getting a tan.
Jon, them thin hands see.
Whether using salt and not cayenne,
I declare you amaze me, man.
You work and live industriously.
I remain your biggest fan.
Jon, them thin hands see.
Whether riding in a sedan
Or walking on the street,
You always greet the folks you meet.
Friendship never does retreat.
Independently living my dear friend.
Jon, them thin hands see.
© April 11, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for PS Member Congest: Anagrammatically Speaking
Sponsored by: nikko palmario
Garfield and Jon, were sitting on the lawn. Waiting for their pizza to arrive, the delivery guy said you are sitting under a beehive.
Garfield and Jon, took the pizza and were gone. They left smoke in their wake, dinner was pizza and steak.
Date Written: 8/29/2021
Here they come the prancing drums and fife
That call the children from their village life
To run with glee and meet with fear horsehead,
Whooping bway or devil costumed in dread
And there pitchy patchy dancing for his fee
I hear the grater still and feel my skinny knee
Knocking while crow head pitches over me
And behind him the cracking whip, devil's misery.
REFRAIN:
dum dudu dup dum dudu dup, dum dudu dup, dum
Form Freeport to Kingston
dum dudu dup dum dudu dup, dum dudu dup, dum
From Exuma to the Carolinas
It is riot in the sun
dum dudu dup dum dudu dup, dum dudu dup, dum
What rite was this? What strange festival came
From the plantation history of laden shame?
Given freedom to be animals, animals we exist
For we had no Saturnalia before in our forest.
Ashanti dance, yes, but assimilation all the rest
Except the costume, mask and colorful dress
These were mere exterior things hiding our pain
Inverted black devil with his merry animal train.
I shall not hear of it, something deeper inside
Scarred us, and we in nursery rhymes would hide
The truth we could not tell without punishment
Our tongues whipped lock our knowledge silent
The Christmas festival was for them, habit instilled
Survived deliverance form husk of foreign will
They come singing to tell children, not again
The whip and shackles, the iron cuffle of pain.
Whilst Jon-Allan was out Iraq to warfare ban,
In 2007 he sustained an injury, rocket attack,
So that doctors had to amputate his left arm,
But after rehab he continued the sport’s crack.
He’d been a weapons technician in the RAF,
At Basra airbase, and before that Afghanistan,
But he was now on a programme so to quaff,
Any idea that he wasn’t good at cycling’s pun.
He took the limelight at the London games,
When he won three silvers for para-cycling:
One for the C5 Individual Pursuit, sole aims,
One for the mixed team sprint very cunning,
And another silver for the C4-5 1km Time Trial!
Then 2016, and he won gold for the mixed team,
And also a silver medal for the C5 kilo Time Trial
In Montichiari, and so made the Rio GB Team.
Lost?
Found.
Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day
Lost-found in a place, living know not.
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless
Youth is but a stage of dying
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience
Youth felt emotion lost through existence
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else
But where time confronts us all.
Dedicated to Jon Meacham and History
History has made things perfectly clear;
Which we read about and want to hear;
With delight will read with great pride;
Create and cause warm feeling inside.
History went from President to President;
Always seeking God and His consent;
Against an enemy we fought and fought;
Often being so sad as well as distraught.
They fought so that freedom could exist;
Had selected a service and into enlist;
After weary war was over and done;
Won and thanked God our Holy One.
Have heard havoc raise its ugly head;
Many survived while others were dead;
History we found again in the making;
To read about our time we were taking.
Dedicated to Jon Meacham and History
There once was a man called Jon
known for spinnin’ a good yarn
He would pitch words with long tongue
Though he wasn’t very young
He danced as Shake 'em up Jon
He would find he cutest photo of cats dressed as Napoleon or Cher
Throwing them into contests that were always judged so fair.
I laughed aloud when I saw Queen Sheba or Astronaut Glenn.
Jon always found the cutest cats, many of them not a sliver thin.
We entered each other’s contests, and took prizes off each other.
Jon was a confidant, a friend, more affectionate than a brother.
His poems often rose to the place of gold, and I would give it a star.
Not knowing until the end that it was from Jon’s sweet poetic guitar.
Jon and I both had an appreciation for humor, and we liked cats a lot.
We put in HMs often, and my poems often slid into a winning spot.
Comments would get crazy as back and forth we would often go.
I really miss this poetic master, this contest holder, my friend Jon Coe.
He is in heaven now, surrounded by his cat, Zeus, the big meow.
He stopped to get him on the rainbow bridge's joyful brow.
He is probably reading these poems and loving them.
This poem is to say thank you Jon, now rest. Amen.
The chittering birds draw his attention.
He sits at the doorway watching them eat
The only thing separating them is a screen
or I am sure those birds would be dead at his feet.
He watches the sky, he watches the food dish,
He's fascinated by all that he sees
and those chittering birds, they have no fear.
They come and they go, just as they please.
He likes the fresh air, he likes the breeze
but mostly he just enjoys the view,
Hummingbirds, juncos, sometimes dragonflies,
every few minutes he spies something new.
He imagines himself to be a great hunter
but of course he isn't , he's just a housecat.
So he's an observer and the birds are all safe
and there's really nothing at all wrong with that.
28/07/2020
Dear Jon
You think too much
Don't worry about the pain
Words are sometimes exaggerated
And if you take it personal
I know it'll drive you insane
Poetry
It's a beautiful way
To speak thoughts to everyone
What sometimes seems applicable
Can be something quite different
So don't take the blame, hun
I know
I'm much too confusing
But remember I'm different now
I have my new life and
When it's hard to cope, I write
Because it's the only way I know how
It's tough
But understand that I have new friends
Whom I love just as much as the old
Not everything involves the truth
And I'm not completely miserable about it
Like I know you're often told
Of course
That's the answer to your question,
I do feel your pain too
I'm glad you still have hope for me
(Secret: I haven't given up completely
I'm just not doing all that I can do)
So there
I know it's kinda cheating
But it's my letter in poetry form
We'll both feel less guilty this way
It's not so direct. But here's the end
So goodnight, and stay warm