Consensus for the Census
(Why we’re here in 100 words.)
We know Adam and Eve
had been made to conceive—
that’s a fact which stands out in
plain view.
It wasn’t the apple
that caused them to grapple,
but Adam’s spare rib as it grew.
Their desire to garden
meant there’d be no pardon,
though that’s all they knew how
to do.
And yet, had they stayed
and Eve hadn’t been laid,
the census would still total two.
However, the need
had demanded the deed
and its doing, they couldn’t
undo,
that’s why, in our day,
things are much the same way
as back then, when they shared
its debut.
Sonnetiquette
The Sonnet, in our day, has been
set free,
released from fetters of
antiquity
as writers who would deign to
take their hand
rack form and function to their
own demand.
Their sinews stretched, sometimes
a bone will snap;
each stanza, in its turn, a
coerced lap
until their weary feet are
bruised then bleed—
the Doctor’s muse, Igor, helps do
the deed.
And yet, each sonnet does its
best to strive
to reach an end where they will
still survive,
in dreadful hope they’ll soon
hear “It’s Alive!”
though form and rhyme and meter
must take five.
Perhaps AI will be their saving
grace
when robots codify their sweet
embrace.
Where Has All the Magic Gone?
When magic words are put to paper
they will prove they’re only
vapor
and when used within a chant,
what you want them to, they
can’t.
Nonetheless, when writ as runes
and sung to ancient, mystic
tunes,
they’ll still do nothing good or
worse
which might affect the universe—
although they may excite some
loons
and harbour humour in cartoons.
A Courtly Gesture
(Inspired by Sylvia Fine’s lyrics
for the 1955 movie “The Court Jester” staring her husband Danny Kaye.)
Another man’s pestle was pounding
her vessel;
the fool found her fickleness
cruel.
He poisoned a pellet for
mademoiselle—
it would prove quite a merciless
tool.
Locked out of the chalice of her
lovely palace,
the jester desired to best her.
He mixed a rich brew which, if
true, they would rue
(a guest jest which he hoped had
impressed her).
Since he knew that his dragon
would ne’er taste her flagon,
the tincture was placed where
they’d nestle.
Despairing the pair and their
cool laissez-faire,
he bequeathed them his farewell
redressal.
Natural Songs
(Thanks to Solomon Linda’s song “Mbube”
later recorded as “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”)
In peaceful prairies,
hear the trill
the whip-poor-wills relay.
In roaring jungles,
lions kill
a wim-o-weh a day.
Ken Gosse usually writes short,
rhymed verse using whimsy and humor 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.
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