Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity. ~ Samuel Beckett
Line of enquiry: Newton’s First Law of Motion (Inertia): An object at rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an external force.
love is contagious
fall in love
and many suitors will crawl out of the worn woodwork
a plethora of choices
confusing and so tempting
their motivation puzzling
spurred on by the common herd mentality
similar to following the politician who embraces pseudo-science
they do not have brakes
if you do not love
everything
and everyone seem hostile
escaping to your private abditory
might protect you from hurtful experience
but like a mixed metaphor
an implicature will lead to a pratfall
requiring others to mop up after you
your inertia inevitably noted
interaction with others
forms groundwork
for relationships
the external stimuli
essential for the development of empathy
open heart and mind
as a stagnant entity just cannot grow
but happily balter through the cobbled streets of life
validate your existence
Richard Michael Mayall
On June 9, 2014 took his last pratfall,
Noted for his energetic “post-punk” style
The English comedic actor elicited many a smile.
FOURTH PLACE WINNER
Written September 7, 2022
Submitted to “Tragi Comedy” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick
COVID is here again, perhaps in a more virulent form,
Dealing with the day-by-day stresses is now the norm
Still, so many continue to make this a political football,
When it is definitely not a comedian’s clumsy pratfall
How foolish are they who ignore the call to vaccinate,
Frequenting dangerous places where it can replicate
Denying the efficacy of the currently-approved shot--
So far, the only effective deterrent to COVID we’ve got.
It saddens me that some folks are simply being stupid,
When we have opportunity to see this virus booted.
written July 31, 2021
IF LOVERS WE
(To Julia)
`` If lovers we, you and I, who would we be?
W0uld we be William Powell and Myrna Loy,
sophisticates, trading alcoholic quips across the dining room?
Would we be Abelard and Heloise,
lovers doomed, she to a nunnery, and he,
his castrati voice intoning high prayers through the fog
of winter afternoons
Would we be Tom and Valerie Elliott
plunging into a cold madness?
Would we be Bonnie and Clyde,
outlaw lovers, running down country roads
to meet violent death?
Would we be Buster Keaton and the heroine,
he taking a pratfall towards her heart?
Or an average couple, maybe, growing old before the fire,
watching the last dying coals go out?
No, I would be your Robert Browning
and you would be my ‘Lizbeth Barrett--:
you are my poetry, the rhythm and metre of my soul,
you are my painting, the portrait in my mind,
you are my music, my perfect pitch.
It is through you I speak.
Regarding Humor!
I savor a hardy laugh. a Guffaw or a Gaff
It truly doesn't matter to me.
I shan't deliberate on it, but I surely cherish a sharp wit.
One that leaves me amused.
An elementary pratfall, it doesn't matter at all.
It's forever hilarious to me.
Maybe a limerick or Pun.
It's all fabulous fun, agreed
But I'm rapidly subdued when humor turns crude.
I never comprehend what society classify s as humor
Don't put your guard down.
You'll never know where humor is found.
But it's at your own behalf
You will enshrine your most precious laughs.
The world a stage,
Shakespeare noted.
And we the imposter,
in our final call.
A few catch our last show.
Unwitting, they s on cue,
our fatal prelude,
our convulsive caricature,
our final self-deprecation.
A clown milking our last mockery,
our closing burlesque pratfall,
our irrevocable tremor,
our departure in floodlights.
The guffaws intend no harm.
No one knows our real name.
We are just the familiar disguise
of impulsive chuckles.
Yes, the stage is our world,
where we regale in our farcical regalia,
where we playact the death we die,
defined abruptly only by the privation of others,
their season of grieving like elephants.
Perhaps it’s better this way,
decomposing, never to be recovered,
just the sound of laughter lost,
or the fading fragment in someone’s
sleepless night.
Published The Magnolia Review 03/2020
Laughter's healthy, contagious, and brightens your day.
It's pun that's a groaner or joke that's risque.
It's a belly laugh, horse laugh, or laugh like a loon
At a comic strip. slapstick or clown or cartoon.
Laughter's chuckles and chortles, a snicker or snort.
It's a humorist's quip or a jester at court.
It's amusement that's droll or the last laugh that's best
Or a rib-tickler, knee-slapper, jape, or a jest.
Laughter's mirth and hilarity, wisecracks or wags.
It's a yuk or a cackle and zingers and gags.
You can giggle, guffaw, or can laugh up your sleeve,
Bust a gut, or with levity tension relieve.
Laughter's wit that's impromptu or monologue planned.
Its a sitcom with punchlines and laughter that's canned.
It's a pie in the face or a pratfall or prank
And comedian's laugh all the way to the bank.
You are the ball,
Reach for that goal;
Never let opposition control,
If they do, you’ll have a pratfall.
OH BROTHER
mom mends over skirt
pratfall split in Bob’s britches
Betty’s witty finger
5/7/2017
Senryu
the staff here at lim’rik flats
has noticed a shortage of laughs
poetry soupers
need some whoopers
Please double your sillies by halfs
And just so you will not get bored
the staff here will give an award
“giggle-of-the-day”
is easy to play
(and playing is half the reward!)
There on your tongue, on the tip,
is a jest, a joke or a quip
turn it loose, silly
it might be a dilly
Don’t be roosting aloof with tight lip
Not everyone is a clown
but better a groaner than frown
an addle pratfall
just may be your call
you might even light up the town
Lim’rik Flats is, of course, biased
We will pick the one which laughs highest
we are subjectives
but give no invectives
and we’ll praise everyone for their tryest!
*if you see “GOTD!” under your sillies, you have won!
Stanleys' plane circles wild, fro and aft.
Ollie screamed up: " Throw me a raft!" Oh Ho Oh Ho Oh Ho Oh Ho.
with gathering gators
I won't be here later
One just gave my drawers a big draft. OhhhOhhh....
When they opened the gator to see
which intestine poor Ollie might be.
He plops out pratfall
then looks at us all
and smiles: " hm hm hm, I'm still me."
Stanley: " But I thought.. I thought you were eaten..oo whooo whoo whoo..."
Oliver looks at us, shrugs and throws his arms up.
( Cue music.)
Coo Coo Coo Coo, Coo Coo
THE END.
This is inspired by Miss Carrie Richards, one of the best.
This Is Another Fine Mess You've Gotten ME Into, Stanley...
Tripping the light fantastic in army surplus boots;
trench warfare becomes a paintball pratfall frenzy
every weekend when the rigid carapace of pin-striped suits
is merrily discarded.
Live ammunition you would die for, laser sights and mortar;
your very own Tiger Tank parked in the driveway;
the sweetest dreams of glory, guts and slaughter
cradle you in sleep.
A wife who would wait like a frightened lamb;
bloodless fingers twisting tear stained tissue, face taut with stress;
waiting the lonely potential widow’s wait for the dreadful telegram
to dead-fall on the mat.
Keeping the death-watch vigil for the cemetery team;
ribbons and chunks of meaningless metal pinned to a hero’s still chest;
a Union Jack draped on the casket; dear God in Heaven,
what sort of man are you to dream
of things such as these?