Four Poems by Ken Gosse

 

A Cold Death Came on Raven’s Wings

(a 100-syllable Fibonacci tale for Halloween)

 

On that night,

error caused terror.

Refrigerator repairer,

although a maven, became frightened by a raven

perched upon his head, tap-tapping til his pate was red, dripping on the floor, then rapping,

“You must come here nevermore, as I warned you once before when you cheated poor Lenore:

once chilled—twice billed!” Roughly shaven, features now graven,

didn’t know he’d reversed the flow

and with his last breath,

froze to death. 

 

Foul Fowl (100 syllables)

 

Once a wise man in a tree

spoke some unkind words to me

because I used a stick to poke him,

hoping that this might provoke him

from his quiet revery—

but this invoked brusque repartee.

 

As he thundered, wisdom faded.

Vitriolic threats persuaded

me to leave his arbored throne

before his scepter broke a bone.

 

Still, I wonder, why would he,

if he were wise, live in a tree?

The answer has illuded me. 

 

Water, Water Everywhere, but Nary a Coffin Afloat

 

On his next and last voyage he would pay the full fare.

As a passenger now, he found he didn’t care

to chase whales or kowtow to a ship tyrant’s orders

or bunk with the crew down below in close quarters,

nor climb up the mast like done he’d far too often—

the ship far below looking like a small coffin.

 

A renowned raconteur on the Pequod’s dire fate,

he’d written an epic and married of late.

They said their farewells (she’d be joining him soon)

and kissed “bon voyage” ’neath the chilled autumn moon,

but an iceberg one night would soon seal the deal.

She joked, “Call me, Ishmael.”

Now he’s fishmeal. 

 

Trickery-Dickery Doc

 

The nursery rhyme verse—is there anything worse?

All that tickery-tockery—is it all mockery?

Can we find hope in the words which elope

with the rhythm and rhyme which we learned before time

took its toll of our soul, played its very droll role

in the deafening roar stopping hearts from their soar

o’er the darkness of life, through its troubles and strife,

which were drowned in the sound of the noise all around

as our tongues became glib, were persuaded adlib

should be used to satire both the seller and buyer

of values we learned and the lessons we’ve spurned

from the nonsense and truth of words learned in our youth?

  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 Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.