After 9/11, there was the "War on Terror",
a conflict with a lot of trial and (mostly) error,
and few of us asked during all that commotion
"How can you declare war on an emotion?"
Well, now in America, there is a "War on Laughter".
The POTUS - "His MAGA-sty" - is going after
any and all of those pundit folks
who like to make him the butt of jokes.
(And, sadly for him, he can't call it a hoax
as he sits in his tacky Oval Office and mopes.)
Dozy Don, with the cheesy orange hair,
thinks he has beaten Stephen Colbert
and will try again to get Kimmel banned
but "Against the assault on laughter, nothing can stand." *
He can try to cancel all the critics he wants
in a pathetic display of impuissance,
but his prospects will be nothing but grim
because we will always keep laughing at him.
(* A quote from America's greatest humorist, Mark Twain.)
American humorist and writer, Mark Twain
born as Samuel Clemens, his name in history does not wane.
He attacked Big Business with “The Gilded Age.”
An observant journalist as well, Twain was very sage.
Tried writing stuff of a serious nature
Just knew it wasn't for me
Dabbled a bit but I just couldn't hack it
A humorist is all I'll be
It's not exclusive, still write about love
Some about conflict and war
But I'd rather write about a sorry dude
Slipped on a banana peel and swore
Don't call me Burns or Shelley or Keats
Prefer ones that make me cackle
Guess you could call me low brow poet
Causing one's tail to waggle
Was born with a silver spoon in my mouth
Fortunate when so many struggle
Don't call me down, it wasn't a choice
Much like the law of the jungle
The luck of the draw, whatever you call it
Really didn't have much of a say
I was truly a product of World War II years
Still happy to this very day
You don’t call him Terrorist’
Who can’t dislocate a wrist:
Whose speeches do the plain harm
While he might not waste a farm.
His palms like ancestors bares,
Ancient styles promotes like wares;
He’d forgotten worldly cares,
Save open taunts of false heirs…
Less Terrorist Humorist
To whom East West is West East
And A K 47
Kills just 47…
He is no more terrorist
As the clothed is Nudist:
In speeches sues not for peace
And cares not when faces crease
Fears food cooked by his niece
And wife first asks to taste hers
In case Eater ends in hearse…
Strange ways of prizing his fame:
Free to Holy wedlock shame:
The marching to marriage lame;
Juliet’s love for Romeo tame.
Suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Some said he’d been a preacher
He could certainly hold a crowd
Teasing them and pleasing them
As he spoke his words aloud
A painter of word pictures
Spoken with verve and style
With asides and interjections
Every random once in a while
A spoken word performer
One of that select band
Who could hold an audience
In the palm of his hand
A raconteur and humorist
A veritable bright spark
Love his work or loathe it
But he certainly left his mark
Now suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Rest In Peace
This poem is not a Black Lives Matter hashtag
That it will seek justice for George Floyd
It is not a racial stereotype
Or a free the back hype
This poem is not to seek bail
For the black in jail
It will not in anyway
Bring back Khalili to life
This poem is not for the *****
Or for the pale blonde general
It`s content is not to make
A turn into a slinger
This poem is not a humanist
That it will bring back humanity
It is not a humorist
That it will amuse your eternity
This poem is a plea to the racist
To stop racism
For humanity is lost in materiality
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
grinning mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami and mon amie
that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night bus rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing windows,
as London transports them
even to far off Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
a last goodbye or maybe just trying
to cadge another tenner.
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~~~~~~~
Pals
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
to other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
Tribute to our limerick humorist, Tom Cunningham.
This poem written as response to his poem: WINTER’S END HUMOR
DEFAMATION OF CHARACTERS AT WINTER’S END
This Tom is a son of a gun, “Oh shoot!”
Exclamation blunt as this poet coot
Defames one more fellow,
With ink makes him bellow.
Another slipknot, “Oh shoot!”
2/26/2020
A Rhyme on a Free Verse Poet
Her poetry has brevity and also clarity.
I really like her free verse done that way.
Like miniature free verse too are her haiku.
Often so amazing are they!
From “Kisses” to “Wishes” to “One Serene Morning;”
From “New Year” to “Afternoon Fun,”
The poems of this poet from Canada flow. . .
May Line’s work here never be done!
A Limerick for a Humorist
A fun gal from the Isle of Man
writes “naughty” whenever she can.
For her limerick fame
I should like to rename
her small country the Isle of Jan!
Me
I
write in
many forms -
from classic to
newer invented
one like this: etheree.
Preferring rhythm and rhymes,
I don’t write free verse as often.
But I’ll try my hand at anything
at least once! I’d call my style eclectic.
Jan. 14, 2020 for Line Gauthier's You've Got Style contest
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
from other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
~~~~~~~
Authors Note: "nicker' and 'quid' are Brit/cockney terms for
pounds sterling - money. "Cadge" as in - scrounge.
She is most like her age
Time having eroded some of her natural beauty
A few warts have appeared here and there in spots
Yet there is this blend of young and old alike melded into one
She has transformed herself from bilingual to multi-lingual
Despite this her character has little changed over a long existence
The night life she relishes still as vibrant as ever
If she was a building one would say she had age and charm
Her busyness belies her serenity
Blessed with a deep history she exudes confidence
Allowing her to grow and prosper
Into whom she is today
Nothing can dampen her spirit it seems
Though sometimes turbulent periods have been had
Through it all a humorist slant developed and enjoyed by many
Her name Montreal
Andreas Simic©
Innocence has its travails of
Losing the true identity of
Being touchy versus being sensitive.
I ruined many beautiful moments
Forsook my joys to reel in entanglements
Of lively public bantering as being abusive
A mild joke was a jab of cold heartedness
Brooding for days over the other's rudeness
Undervaluing true love by being hyperreactive
I left old love for foreign shores
Not on basis of personal wars
But reasons much more elaborative
Long distances and free of heart
I downsized my kiddish touchiness as advert
My heart became ruminatively introspective
I realised no man could live up to his demeanour and heart
A reversal of attitude transformed me with better art
I pined for his undemanding nature, now so laudative
I returned with a list of do's and dont's in my small fist
Loaded with more love for my compulsive humorist
Being a little calmative, relationships become more attractive
April 22, 2016
Sponsor: Cyndi MacMillan
There once was a chef named Lew
who swore Samuel's words were true
that Sacred cows make
a great tasting steak
and the best hamburgers too.
Sacred cows make the best hamburger.
Quote by Samuel Clemens (A.K.A. Mark Twain)
(1835-1910) U.S. humorist, writer, and lecturer.
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