In memory of Chris O’Carroll (1951- 2026)
Winging It
by Frank Osen
I’ve lost a friend—a gentle jester-bard
Whose wit fizzed on, joy-buzzingly electric
Until the end—and found his leaving hard,
Since he so far surpassed our passing metric
That I’m confounded by a quirky notion:
When I intend to read him and to mourn,
I find instead, as though preserved in potion,
He’s left me laughter waiting to be born.
I Wish Chris Had Written This
by Jean L. Kreiling
I wish Chris had written this; bad news could lead
to a laugh in his poems, and that’s what we need.
He shouldn’t be gone; he’s too clever to go
as duller men do. He should prove it’s not so
in some winkingly, winningly smart line or two—
he’s so skilled at distinguishing true from less true!
A riotous rhymester, a brilliant observer,
he skewers ridiculous news with great fervor
and greater intelligence. Why won’t he tell us
that this terrible news is a prank that befell us?
Past tense is all wrong for this generous friend—
and I already miss those sweet emails he’d send
to tell me he’d seen work of mine and he thought it
outstanding. (His praise was specific—I bought it!)
His readings revealed a skilled man of the stage—
but he also conveyed ardent life on the page.
If he’d written this, it would be so damned clever
it would undo his death, and he’d write on, forever.
High Spirits
by Julia Griffin
November 4, 2026
Come raise a toast, and make it huge—
Roll out a festive barrel:
See, over snarling Donald Scrooge,
A soaring Chris O’Carroll.
He calls: “The future looks de-perved!
At least the work’s begun;
And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
God bless us, everyone.”
Some Couplets for Chris O’Carroll
by Gail White
When Chris discovered he was facing cancer,
Questions arose, but light verse held an answer.
He turned his wit to matters anatomic
And found that even chemo could be comic.
Thus he could give the hardest news a meaning.
I thought I’d cry, but smiles kept intervening.
Death takes us down. But we’re to know hereafter
How much they won who held the fort with laughter.
Triple Play
by Thomas DeFreitas
1.
Craftily, laughtily,
poet O’Carroll lived
threescore fourteen on this
wacky old earth
putting some zing! in his
epigrammatical
verse which unfailingly
summoned our mirth.
2.
His verse was polished. So say ear and eye.
Prosodical? Indeed! But formal? Fie!
Each poem had a justified left column
But rarely left a reader feeling solemn.
3.
Now, heed our panegyric
For one who’d launch a lyric
Both snappy and satiric!
This poet, deft and witty,
Made every quip and ditty
Damn good (and more than “pretty”!).
Last Email
by Al Basile
His tone was chipper, words looking ahead:
“Hope to see you once I’m back in action.”
Did he know how soon he would be dead?
Was he thinking of his own subtraction,
but unwilling to refer to it
and call too much attention to himself,
yet hoping I might offer words to fit
his need, and not resort to off-the-shelf
and sentimental gestures? Now I scroll
to see what I wrote back, all unaware.
I’m relieved to find my answer droll,
sincere, acknowledging his native flair
for giving us the grins we really need
in times like these—and free! A balm indeed.
A Fellow of Infinite Jest
by Susan McLean
A jester, yes, but no one’s fool,
more Feste than Mercutio,
his wry wit was his chosen tool
to parry Death’s “It’s time to go.”
He saw the skull beneath the skin
and yet he sought to make us grin.
“You don’t have liver cancer,” said
his doctor. “We can clearly see
it’s colon cancer there instead.”
Chris quipped, “How lucky can I be?”
Life’s ironies could make him chortle
even when its jests were mortal.
Imagining a med-school slab
where students might lightheartedly
dissect his parts and mock his flab,
he wrote, “Laugh on. The joke’s on me.”
Still sparking laughter when he’s gone
is no small thing. His wit lives on.