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To The Right Hon. The Earl of Orrery, On His Promise To Sup With The Author.

Tho' the Muse had deny'd me so often before,
I ventur'd this Day to invoke her once more.
She ask'd what I wanted; I said, with Delight,
Your Lordship had promis'd to sup here To--night;
That on an Occasion so much to my Honour,
I hop'd she'd excuse me for calling upon her.

To this she reply'd, with Disdain in her Looks:
If that be the Case, go summon your Cooks.
I told her in Answer, How little you eat;
That in vain I should hope to regale you with Meat;
That she knew, Wit and Humour to you were a Feast,
Who had, tho' no Stomach, an excellent Taste.

This calm'd her Resentment; she paus'd for a while--
Then the Goddess, propitious, reply'd with a Smile:
If with Humour and Wit you would have him delighted.
What need I be call'd?--Let the Dean be invited.
The Bus'ness is done, if with him you prevail;
For a Boyle, and a Swift, will each other regale.

poem by Mary Barber
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Saint Maximus at prayer

Sometimes, it’s all humour –
a divine joke shared between gods and men,
a twinkle in the eye of the Creator…

seeing to it, that the man
named Maximus, one day at prayer,
-his eyes were open, for his soul was still -
should notice the smallest beetle
making its way across the open testament,
minding, in its not so tiny mind, its own business…

and in its minimality, the man named Maximus
observed that it had, within its tiny iridescence, being;
watched his mind, learning of its nature;
felt his own being share its life, its spirit, with that little thing;

and understood – the beetle unconcerned, or so
it might appear, within our tiny world –
that in that moment, he had shared
the very nature of the Holy Trinity…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Loveable Characters

I long for the streets but the Lord knoweth best,
For there I am never a saint;
There are lovable characters out in the West,
With humour heroic and quaint;
And, be it Up Country, or be it Out Back,
When I shall have gone to my Home,
I trust to be buried 'twixt River and Track
Where my lovable characters roam.

There are lovable characters drag through the scrub,
Where the Optimist ever prevails;
There are lovable characters hang round the pub,
There are lovable jokers at sales
Where the auctioneer's one of the lovable wags
(Maybe from his "order" estranged),
And the beer is on tap, and the pigs in the bags
Of the purchasing cockies are changed.

There were lovable characters out in the West,
Of fifty hot summers, or more,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Played-Out Humorist

Quixotic is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is,
Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said.
The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,
And every joke that's possible has long ago been made.
I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness,
But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse;
For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the
business
No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.
And if anybody choose
He may circulate the news
That no reasonable offer I'm likely to refuse.

Oh happy was that humorist - the first that made a pun at all -
Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,
Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all -
How popular at dinners must that humorist have been!

Oh the days when some stepfather for the query held a handle out,
The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Family Fool

Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he's so joyous and bright,
And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
Must observe, if they love their profession.
There are one or two rules,
Half-a-dozen, maybe,
That all family fools,
Of whatever degree,
Must observe if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need
To consider each person's auricular:
What is all right for B would quite scandalise C
(For C is so very particular);
And D may be dull, and E's very thick skull
Is as empty of brains as a ladle;

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Horace, Epist. I, VII Imitation Of Horace To Lord Oxford

Harley, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show'd some humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord, (who, if a man may say't,
Loves mischief better than his meat),
Was now disposed to crack a jest
And bid friend Lewis go in quest.
(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley's favour)—
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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The Rape of the Lock: Canto 5

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears,
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan;
Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.
"Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux,
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
That men may say, when we the front-box grace:
'Behold the first in virtue, as in face!'
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away;

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poem by Alexander Pope
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Double Helix Abecedarian - 1859 - Xylophonic Resonance

All fizzle, finish frazzled, launched with fizZ.
Zero dreams teem when spirit seems at seA
Because most adepts of philosophY
Yearn for zenith seldom dwell on ebB,
Carpe diem value, seeking sea, sun, seX.
Xylem tree of life's cannibalistiC
Desires corrupt deeds most men seW,
With survival's urge soon lost indeeD.
Events churn causal patterns, AsimoV
Viewed clearly, took as starship journey cuE
Finding worlds which may appeal to yoU,
Unknown reader from beyond Time's gulF -
Great divide between those past, those lefT -
Time travellers peruse these lines to sinG
High praise of poets who'll know no more springS.
Spontaneousl prose poem picks pensive patH
In patter pattern, feet dance to empoweR.
Rhythm harmonious, need no alibI,
Joins sense, style versatile, from mind's H.Q.,
Questions seeks, finds answers. Soujourn's hadJ

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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EPISTLE II: TO A LADY (Of the Characters of Women )

NOTHING so true as what you once let fall,
"Most Women have no Characters at all."
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.

How many pictures of one Nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's Countess, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is, there, Pastora by a fountain side.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a Swan.
Let then the Fair one beautifully cry,
In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye,
Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
With simpering Angels, Palms, and Harps divine;
Whether the Charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If Folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!
Dip in the Rainbow, trick her off in Air;

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poem by Alexander Pope
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Bell's Palsy I Penned stroke on stroke penned - Optimistic In...Sight

Bell's Palsy I

December turns November's page.
Assumptions artificial,
priorities age must regauge
of ease so superficial
the tenets, try to disengage
from palsy interstitial,
periphery extend sans rage
ineptly hit-and-missile.
Paralysis as passing stage
perceived though prejudicial
as challenge met we trust will wage
war on clock lock official,
ensuring both for sot and sage
return to strength initial...

II

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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