Two Poems by Ken Gosse

 

He Kneads Me

 

My chest is a rest

for a cat who’s a pest

and a comfort and hope

asking me to elope

to his fantasy dream

where his purring would seem

to drown out every fear,

wipe away every tear.

 

Climbing o’er my ab-domen

in order to roam in

my fullest attention

is his way to mention

that he needs my love,

then he’ll give me a shove

knowing that I can’t rest

while he’s kneading my chest.

 

This keeps me alert

but make holes in my shirt

which proceed through my skin

to the nerve cells within

and when he hits a nipple

it causes a ripple

of pain so alarming

he’s no longer charming!

 

To pull him away

would leave scars for a day,

but a quick spritz of water

reminds him he aughter

become a Cheshire,

disappearing in fear

because if he won’t stop

he’ll be hit by a drop!

 

Then he’ll ask, “May I climb

on my perch one more time?”

and in spite of my pain

he’ll remount and remain—

sometimes short, sometimes long,

while he purrs me a song,

for my belly and chest

is the nest he likes best.

Sleepwriting

 

Now and then some thoughts occur

which better judgment should deter

from writing—uninviting verse,

once written which may sound much worse

than sailors who would rhyme a curse.

 

Flowing smoothly through one’s head

while restlessly awake in bed

(as muses call within your dreams—

hydraulic pressures ripping seams),

thoughts stretch from pages into reams

 

and tell a tale, a narrative

that’s truly uncomparative

to epics from the days of yore

(not “days of yours” but long before)

with heroes, battles, love, and gore.

 

Nor do I mean incomparable;

these clearly are demonstrable

as adequate at best, or less,

and lack all hope of some success

(though sometimes published, nonetheless,

 

they’ll sadly cause undue duress

to friends who’d rather curse than bless

the author who caused such distress

with writing reprehensible

and clearly indefensible).

 

But if you write what you deplore,

it seems unlikely what’s in store

is you’ll seek publication for

a work which is declarative

that editing’s imperative

 

and must be taken to extremes;

a mishmash of pathetic memes

that burn your eyes like headlight beams

which blind a deer who stares in dread

at danger on the road ahead ...

 

But edited, it might converse,

and tell its story, kindly terse,

no longer needing to re-verse

because you’ve chosen to defer,

quite wisely, to an editor.

Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humor in traditional meters. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, Sparks of Calliope and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.