Joseph Farley has had 11 books and chapbooks of poetry published including Yellow Brick Pilgrim, Longing For The Mother Tongue, Her Eyes and Suckers.  He is also the author of a novel, Labor Day, and two story collections, For the Birds, and Farts and Daydreams.

Dead Comedians

Watching dead comedians on cable and YouTube,

They still make me laugh.

Were their jokes and routines that good back then,

Or is it something more complex?

Does watching them trigger something inside me,

Make my brain relive a bit of my youth,

Times that once were?

Does my nose smell old scents?

My tongue taste decades old dinners?

I don't know, but I laugh.

I laugh and feel sad at the same time.

Those old comedians are dead.

They won't be coming up with new jokes,

New characters, new skits.

There will be no advertisements 

for any upcoming TV specials.

There will be no tickets for sale

For any future performances

In my hometown or anywhere else.

I think this. I feel this. But I still laugh.

That is until my adult sons enter the room

And start watching with me.

"Can you change the channel Dad?

This guy sucks."

"Yeah, he's not funny at all."

Maybe he never was.

Maybe none of them were.

Maybe you just had to be there.

I change the channel to be polite,

pretending to myself that I am young

and that my taste in everything

has not grown stale.

Final Edits

Some day I will need to learn how to proofread.

Not just because of typos 

And the dreaded hand of auto correct.

It is not nice to punish editors,

And foolish to punish yourself.



I wish I could be good about such things,

But I am always in a rush.

There is so much I hope to do

Before whatever is chasing me

Catches up.



There is no escaping those final edits,

Including the one that will remove you

From the story.

It’s better not to look to close

At what you have typed

Or what is coming after you.

Time To Start Laughing

What is all this sorrow in the air?

Has the world forgotten how to laugh?

So what if scientists and preachers

say the end is near.

So what if the politicians

And the dictators with shiny medals

Declare the end will come,

Not from heat or rising oceans,

But from missiles and swords?

We can still laugh.

We can still love.

We can still believe and hope

Until there is no time left for tears.