In Praise of Silliness

     A few nights ago, after a trying day, my husband said, "Let's watch something light," so we picked a Jeeves and Wooster DVD.  We'd seen it many times before, but that didn't matter.  There's something about watching deliciously silly characters who have an aura of genuineness that brings you a sense of being among friends and relaxes you.  Listening to the familiar dialogue is like hearing golden oldie tunes that sing in your spirit.  Tension vanishes and all seems right with the world.  And the feeling persists -- if nothing new comes along to shatter it -- for hours afterward.
     To make my own contribution to the silliness in the world, I thought I would include here two poems from my Kindle collection, Spoons on the Moon.  Since publishers and the reading public seem to want categories, I've categorized the poetry as suitable for children 6 to 8, but in reality they're for children of any age.  The first one owes a debt to Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957), whose magnificent mystery, The Nine Tailors, taught me an immense amount about the English practice of ringing church bells.  That was incidental to a completely absorbing story that I wish were better known.  I have read portions of it every years since I first read it over 40 years ago.  Here's the first poem:

A Family Funeral

One day Mr. Rat
lay down in the road
and said, "That's that,"
to a passing toad.

"I've nothing gained,
I'm nothing owed,
I'm free to shed
this mortal load."

His sons-in-law
like pious rats
all crossed themselves
and doffed their hats.

"Dear Father, we
have loved you well.
Now let us ring
the passing bell."

It took eight rats,
it's safe to wager,
to play him out,
Kent Treble Bob Major.

Then at a squeak
from Parson Teasel,
his family sang,
"Pop goes the weasel."


And here's another nonsense rhyme, showing cats at their most solemnly silly:

The Abbey of Cats

Every fine Sunday
on Strawberry Tor,
the abbot of cats
orders, "Open the door."

The brothers will put on
their black velvet hats
and then there's a stately
procession of cats,

Who bury their faces
in little green tins
to lick up some catnip
before singing hymns.

They dance two by two
through the abbey's old walls
and over the meadows
until their lord calls,

"It's Sunday at noon!"

And then at their shout
they toss up their hats
and run shouting about.

    (The end, for now....)