I think President Biden, politically, is as dead as fried chicken. He can now quit, he can be replaced ... Or he can run and lose. You can’t successfully run for president of the United States when your campaign slogan is, ‘I’m only senile some of the time,’ as one commentator pointed out today. ~Senator John Kennedy (R), July 5, 2024
All the donkeys start to bray
Please old Joe you cannot stay
And so we plead
You must concede
And graciously just go away.
I had never met Elizabeth E before today.
She works at a different school.
Another Montessori.
She sat down at our round table.
I could tell by a variety of looks that others at our table knew her.
Almost before the group task was explained EE grabbed the paper.
She confiscated the markers too.
Without any help from the other seven teachers she began to talk.
Telling us why she was doing the group activity.
Because she is brilliant, a member of Mensa, and smarter than us.
We all watched her do the entire group project incorrectly.
None of us commented or suggested.
One young newbie tried to make a few suggestions.
But she soon caught on. We were not bright enough to help.
Elizabeth E’s hand was the first one up. She wanted to share.
She loudly and proudly explained what she had done.
The commentator told her that it was completely wrong.
All of us burst out laughing.
Two of us could not stop.
I have never felt less like an idiot.
Am I a wandering commentator?
Sharing, and enlightening others with my
actual secrets.
They were once held captive and stored away
in my closet comparable to cobwebs.
Now these secrets are released to the surface
and are no longer secrets by someone I'm thinking
I could confide in. Inhale, Exhale release yourself
from these secrets that no longer benefit me.
Yet now I'm aware of who's not real in this show of
sharing secrets.
commentator wrote a critique that was six times longer than the poem itself
He demanded the poet explain her intentions
the critique sounded irritated and annoyed
Frustrated and insane
She laughed when she read it
She had spent six seconds penning her six lines
he had spent possibly an hour rewriting his critique
She stared at the poem
Not remembering it
When had she written it?
She looked at the date
One a.m. this morning.
She laughed even harder.
Her one a.m. self
and her four-thirty in the afternoon self
did not recognize each other.
She wrote back these three words
“get over yourself.”
Thankful for my creator I praise Her nobody's greater,
The hidden denominator a mystical commentator,
I'm wishing to find Her later I'm traveling slowly but surely,
Learning lessons I'm purely a child of God She assured me,
She'll save me from hell's fury Her mercy always prevails,
Vicegerence man's duty I honor people as well,
While hoping to get my blessings I'm washing my inner essence,
Cleanse it til I'm perfected Im serving Divine Perfection,
The Maker of all of this Allah is all It is,
Shaytan will always tempt me but God absolves my fears,
With faith in Her commission I'm trying to be more consistent,
Being still as I listen for inspiration and wisdom,
Cause idol worship's forbidden I'm changing my way of living,
To God my praise given a slave that stay sinning,
But working to earn forgiveness everyday I'm repenting,
Must admit I be slipping but that don't stop my conviction,
All the Prophets exhibit instructions for our upliftment,
Peace to them for existing thanking the All Existing.
What if your new boss were not a woman?
What if she were a zebra?
How would you describe her?
I had to think for a second.
She is flamboyant.
Hears her own melody.
Is more than a little jazzy.
Anything else? the commentator asked me.
It is difficult being caught on the news, live like this.
And she has a big butt.
I was to regret that later…..
Listen to her death certificate’
Who’d fought for life’s duplicate
“Severe Anorexia
Secondary to status asthmaticus”.
Oh! How it had rung worse than Amnesia
And had meant some asthmatic curse.
Several struggle -out “God, Receive my soul’’
As death bell was about to toll
I, to the hilt, a struck-dumb spectator
For the longest seconds, tongue-tied commentator
Soon, rapidly pondering not why she should expire
But why villainous terminator should soon acquire…
At conspiratorial 9:25 pm
Breathing becoming lame,
A kick-started rigor- mortis locking her jaw,
My father striving to restrain a law
My own hand withdrawing from a once-banging heart,
Never wanting a second nearing of what should be soundless.
A new contentment with a mentally arranged cart
That should to a fridge make it noiseless…
A resuming night nurse in a provocative see-through,
Richly delivering part of what Irene had said as true..
A hospital of some ineptitude
For losses borne with fortitude.
On this day, twenty- four years you left
Rock of ages for me cleft.
Limerick: Once a Maneater who ne’er said “No!”
for Ronald W. Hull, the Great Mentor-Commentator
[Made to measure and tailored to a very tight fit]
Once a woman who could ne’er say “No!”
Met Ascetic: “Why?” he wanted to know.
Said she: “I’m no Vegan;
Meat I munch by the dozen.”
Priapic rigor mortis ensued: O! Woe!
(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, September 6, 2021
Limerick: Once a great and wise Commentator
Once a great and wise Commentator
Thought what escaped him escaped Creator
His oeuvre his whole life dreamt
By his comments he meant
The whole world loved him as their Tutor
(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, September 5, 2021
Want Commentator Who Is Greater
What we really want is a commentator,
Compared to current he will be greater;
Our choice;
Great voice;
Would rather have it sooner than later.
Jim Horn
G-reat TV anchor
E-xpounds the issues being
N-eutral broadcaster.
Form: Acrostic Haiku
L-isten to the commentator
E-xposing the corruption;
O-pen your ears to the voice of truth and noble mission.
O-n the twentieth of August,
B-e attentive to the whistle;
L-earn to analyze his criticism,
I-nstead of plotting in huddle.
G-ive him the time slot,
A-llow him to speak with ardor;
R-ead between the lines, listen to the commentator.
I will be the 1st to admit
I am never a Poet
At very best a social commentator
A common, simple, uneducated
Misguided pawn
To a mother born
Like an ear of corn
Willing to learn and explore
Both side's
As i am not judge and jury either
Standing by the rail, watching in anticipation,
Expecting that my knowledge will prevail,
Thirty,one and a half tons of flesh and blood,
All pounding over the divot ground,
Mists Of sweat, exhaled breath hovers in the air,
They get closer, the noise of thumping hooves,
sound of inhaling and exhaling of massive lungs,
sight of all the gleaming coats and ears flickering,
Amazing colours of the jockeys silks all merging into one,
race commentator bellowing out over the tannoy,
Over two miles, twelve fences, undulating ground,
Now entering into the straight, conclusion anticipated,
My selection still in contention, still on the bridle,
High hopes, excitement building, wining post in sight,
Jockeys all out kicking and pushing muscles rippling,
Three horses all in line go past the post as one,
Photo called by the stewards, just a head in it,
Could I have won? will I be collecting my winnings?
Eager to gait they were lined up at the gate
A hoarse commentator announced the favorite horse
The start pistol was fired and the race began
A roaring crowd was known at this racecourse
Time seemed like it just flew by and the race was now over
The commentator realizing he indeed was getting the flu
The crowd favorite was of course the winner
This wasn't the first time as there had been more than a few
A chance to see the winner gait up close
Racing club members were moved to gate four
A replacement arrived and the commentator was relieved
So hoarse was he his voice was no more
A day of racing is just a job for some
But to most that attend it's a great day of fun!
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