One-Hundred-Words, No More, No Less
One-hundred-word stories for me are
just fine.
Some are aesthetic and many divine,
but some have been poured from a
bullfrog’s fine wine:
the results an emetic, progressive
decline.
My best are ekphrastic, where words
will entwine
with the artwork of others which help
to refine
many visions fantastic, though not
only mine;
some iconoclastic—not meant to
malign;
and sometimes synclastic, where all
sides align;
but mostly gelatsic with wavering design.
But now the end nears and so I must
resign.
This is not allegory as one might
define.
Not yet a full story, it ends with
this line.
The Noir Clown Tavern (Three Limericks in 100 Words)
For a clown, she was dainty, not
burly,
but her smile hid a streak very
surly.
The first one who spoke
was the butt of their joke
though she warned the fool, “Don’t
call me Shirley!”
The next clown was roly and poly.
The third one was masked like a
goalie.
Shot one, ate some sweets,
then they sent a few tweets.
Left the body but took his cannoli.
Even noir clowns can have a bad day,
often needing of a fast get-away
but a dozen per car
means you can’t travel far—
with twelve bladders, gang plans gang
agley.
Ménage à Few, a Sonnet in 100 words
Whenever interfused in twos or
threes,
or four, five, six, upright or on
bent knees,
reclined or on all fours, in front,
behind,
above, beneath, the posturing
designed
with rhythm tempoed for a pas de deux
(trois, quatre, cinq, or six,
exceeding teux),
each voice appended to this
sing-along,
cacophony creates a raucous song.
Few words, incessant panting, grunts,
and groans,
the F word consummating shouts and
moans
as Musketeers shoot muskets, all for
one,
and damsels in undress enjoy the fun.
That’s what most movies show us that
they do.
But me? I’d rather we be me and you.
Over the Edge of the Final Frontier (100 Single-Syllable Words)
At the edge of the Earth there’s a
wall
marked by kelp, trash, and spray
paint’s rich scrawl.
Most say it’s a hoax—
it’s the edge to some folks.
One man chose this search for his
call.
He crossed every pool of the deep.
He swore that he would not sleep
in calm or storm.
He found this norm—
land, rock, or sand were its keep.
’Twas then he made his last pledge:
he’d search from a home made space
sledge
which he’d tie to a loon
and he’d fly to the moon.
One step sent him over the edge.
The Giant Plastic Crystal Ball Candy Dispenser (A 100-Word Fantasy)
A great plastic spaceship in
wonderland
with goodies and wantums in high
demand
exists in a world beyond all your
dreams
and yet you can’t get there, at least
so it seems,
for the aisles are a maze all
intended to daze
an intrepid explorer or treasure
adorer
with miles of aisles where each turn
beguiles—
all road signs encrypted, each
pathway unscripted.
You wonder if Santa must guard the
North Pole
with similar measures, the way a
black hole
keeps astronomers guessing what lies
deep inside
because, perhaps, that’s where our
dreams all reside.
And then you wake up.
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.
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