It’s nuclear option week!  It’s the possibility of no EPA, no SEC, and Republican Jesus large and in charge!  Oh my!

Well, I for one think it’s time for some laughs.  Last week we had a diary on Michael Lohre, a free verse stylist, and a serious guy, which can be found here.  But this week it time to return to the world of rhyme, and who better to do that with than noted poetic satirist  and funnyman R.S. Gwynn.  

More after the fold . . .
RS Gwynn has been a published poet since the 1970’s.  He’s a native of North Carolina who now lives in Beaumont Texas, but don’t hold that against him.  He’s also one of the best writers of light or humorous verse in America today.  In 2004, he was awarded the Michael Braude award for Light Verse from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.  Without further ado, here are some of his poems.

This first is from his book, No Word of Farewell: Poems 1970-2000 , Story Line Press, (c) 2001 :

A Poem: My Agent Says

My agent says Los Angeles will call.
My broker says to sell without delay.
My doctor says the spot is very small.
My lover says get tested right away.

My congressman says yes, he truly cares.
My bottle says he’ll see me after five.
My mirror says to pluck a few stray hairs.
My mother says that she is still alive.

My leader says we may have seen the worst.
My mistress says her eyes are like the sun.
My bride says that it’s true I’m not the first.
My landlord says he’d think about a gun.

My boss says that I’d better take a chair.
My enemy says turn the other cheek.
My rival says that all in love is fair.
My brother says he’s coming for a week.

My teacher says my work is very neat.
My ex-wife says I haven’t heard the last.
My usher says the big guy’s in my seat.
My captain says to bind him to the mast.

My master says I must be taught my place.
My conscience says my schemes will never fly.
My father says he doesn’t like my face.
My lawyer says I shouldn’t testify.

My buddy says this time I’ve got it bad.
My first love says she can’t recall my name.
My baby says my singing makes her sad.
My dog says that she loves me all the same.

My pastor says to walk the narrow path.
My coach says someone else will get the ball.
My God says I shall bend beneath his wrath.
My agent says Los Angeles may call.

A short poem about the charms of a particular film star:

Upon Demi’s Breasts

Display thy breasts, my Demi, like a bough
Hung with such fruits as only gods enDow,
Upon which I would lie, my lips implanted
Against what looks as succulent as granite.

Everything you need to know about Shakespeare in one singular sonnet:

Shakespearean Sonnet

With a first line taken from the tv listings

A man is haunted by his father’s ghost.
Boy meets girl while feuding families fight.
A Scottish king is murdered by his host.
Two couples get lost on a summer night.
A hunchback murders all who block his way.
A ruler’s rivals plot against his life.
A fat man and a prince make rebels pay.
A noble Moor has doubts about his wife.
An English king decides to conquer France.
A duke learns that his best friend is a she.
A forest sets the scene for this romance.
An old man and his daughters disagree.
A Roman leader makes a big mistake.
A sexy queen is bitten by a snake.

Here’s one on the sorrows of Academia:

The Professor’s Lot

When the student body shuns an education
And would rather sun half-naked on the beach,
Then I sense my academic situation
Is somewhat like a pit without a peach.
Were it just a mid-life crisis, I could bear it
But I fear the currents far more deeply run.
There’s a lesson to be learned here. I can’t         share it.
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.
When there’s academic duty to be done–
                                     to be done–
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.

Once it seemed the case that the high-school diploma
Guaranteed me students primed for a degree.
Now it means they’ve spent their twelve years in a coma,
Barely waking up to take the SAT.
When I give my class a simple Milton sonnet
You would think the Day of Judgment had begun.

We could spend the whole semester’s time upon it.
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.
When there’s academic duty to be done–
                                     to be done–
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.

My medieval seminar keeps getting smaller
While the business classes spill into the halls,
And each year the basketball recruits look taller
But their test scores rise no higher than their balls.
Though I’m at a state-supported school in Texas
I affect the accent of an Oxford don
As I say, “My dear,” to students of both sexes.
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.
When there’s academic duty to be done–
                                     to be done–
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.

In my class there is a woman in a turban
Who displays a tatooed lily on her breast.
I could ask her out for chit-chat over bourbon
And let the course of nature do the rest.
But she’s probably the type whose disposition
Always finds the dissertation “loads of fun.”
Let my sins, Lord, be those mainly of omission.
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.
When there’s academic duty to be done–
                                     to be done–
The Professor’s lot is not a happy one.

On the sad day when I stand before Saint Peter,
He will say, “No extra points. No make-up tests.”
Then he’ll add, “No need for you to pack your heater.
They’ve installed a central furnace for the guests.”
At the moment when the horny demons find me
I can count the futile struggle halfway won
If the whole administration’s right behind me.
The Professor’s lot is now a happy one.
With no academic duty to be done–
                                     to be done–
The Professor’s lot is now a happy one–
                                     a happy one!

And finally, a classic villanelle about Man’s best friend:

Why they love us

Dogs love us uncomplainingly because
They see us in a way we never do.
They dont have sense enough to see our flaws

The way we fear our lovers fangs and claws.
Blondi loved Hitler; Checkers, Nixon too.
They love us uncomplainingly because

When swatted with the news for muddy paws
Or chewing on that Bruno Magli shoe
They dont have sense enough to see our flaws.

We live by common sense and logics laws:
With dogs, forget it. Even if they knew
They love us uncomplainingly because

Theyre idiots, they still wont drop their jaws
And say, Duh, you were mean to me. Were through.
They dont have sense enough to see our flaws.

Thank god for that. A big round of applause
For what can sniff your ass and still love you.
Dogs love us uncomplainingly because
They dont have sense enough to see our flaws

Enjoy your Monday.  See you next week, same time (more or less) same poetic channel.

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