A Chorus Of Chortle

Irony stings,

but the jester makes it a feather,

physicians of the heart

who sewn stitches of smiles,

weave golden sunlight

into the dark crevices inside.

 

It is the clown who thrives

when life turns ashen

and ones pallor is stained by a hollowness,

that can dredge up a whoopie cushion

if face with sitting in a torturer’s chair.

 

What bears a better breeze unto the soul

than a chorus of chortle,

summoned by the giddiness,

which awakens the practical joker

and rewrites some sadness

as a stress relief parody.

 

So if grins and snickers

were not truly our intended legacy

wouldn’t God have avoided

the many times of revealing

how we are truly ripe

for becoming the source of satire

when pride hoists us onto some place

we love to see as a throne?

 

To find the therapeutic joy of silliness

in the midst of somber shadows

is to hear the voices of angels

who giggle at our plans.