Five Poems by Ken Gosse

 

Unlikely Companions of Like Minds (100 words)

 

The carpenter’s tongue was among the Carpenth

and the walrus spoke fluent Walrussian,

so at their first texting in social absenth,

both feared from their firstly imprussion

that they’d never wander together to ponder

great wonders in fondest discussion,

nor travel the gravel of shores far beyonder

in deep philosophic concussion,

and not sharing oysters they’d miss how that boisters

relationships, making them fonder.

They’d never be roisters but each from their cloisters

of language, a pen-corresponder.

 

Then spell-check recovered an err which uncovered

their eloquence also flowed British,

and fingertips hovered o’er keys soon discovered

a converse remarkably wittish.

 

The Silent Ease of “Tae a Moose”

 

You can’t hear it in “tae,”

but the “e” had its way

with the very first “a”

and it changed it from “ah”

so that “tae” rhymes with “say”

but it won’t with “ta-ta.”

 

And there’s one hid away

where it plays the caboose,

so rather than “moosey,”

we simply say “moos”

even though ’twas a mouse

who had lost its dear house

 

(and you’ll read but not hear

letters “e” at the rear

of each word, never heard,

like when mimes say a word)

when their plans went agley—

Look! That “y” makes “e” “a.”

 

 

Paved Woods on a Dreary Evening

 

Whose woods were here so long ago

where broken pavement grieves us so,

its potholes edged with tarry smear

while litter tarries down below?

 

A settler found this land so dear

he banned all those who once lived here

and wrote a deed by which he’d take

their rights away from year to year.

 

A farmer bought it, for its lake

would water crops which he could take

to market for a profit steep.

By selling trees, the more he’d make.

 

The county found that they could reap

more taxes and condemned it cheap

then built a mall that filled with sheep.

Its failure caused them all to weep.

 

 

I Can’t Believe It’s Artificial!

(a 100-syllable reversing Fibonacci poem)

 

Artificial intelligence, regardless of its whence, always has as its defence

that its origin, being man-made, means it has paid

a price for lack of common sense,

but, in deference

to mankind,

doesn’t mind

and won’t take offense—

nor seek from us fair recompense—

for though it’s often been played, its own nature is staid,

and since the expense of righting our wrongs would be immense, it forbears, sans reticence.

 

 

The Night-Night Knock-Knocker

 

’Twas nihilisticly begun,

a never-answered joke for fun:

 

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

Thus ends Part One.

 

“Nothing.”

Now Part Two was done.

 

“Nothing who?”

The pause would stun—

 

because, for answer,

came there none.

 

The Reaper's joke,

again, had won.

Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humour in traditional meters. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, he has also been published by Pure Slush, 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, for over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.