Four Poems by Ken Gosse

 

College Musicians of Bremen – Four Stages of Life

 

I. Preppies

“I Love You, AB Baby!” (anonymous note in a high school yearbook) ~

The name that he gave her was not shared with nubes

who could blast out a march through a maze of brass tubes

but was whispered (discreetly, at each friend’s demand)

by a senior horn player whose shared music stand

had a freshman, an angel, divine for sight reading—

for hands-on performance, just what he was needing—

and knead her he did; he’s not one of the rubes.

Her nickname soon spread: “AB” (for “Angel Boobs”)

 

II. Undergrads

The Grad Ass’s Magic Wand ~

Performer and player,

a never naysayer

in highest demand,

his baton near at hand

many hands freely waved

and the players all raved

at its length, clear direction,

and firm resurrection

(when one piece would end

it would quickly crescend-

“Oh, my goodness! It’s Baaack!”)

to help keep them on track

in duets or ensembles

in spite of the wambles

from tireless motions

of turbulent oceans

of bodies in sway

while their instruments play—

every tune in conjunction

with its unique function—

sweet musical magic

where nothing is tragic

except for the ending

when all have stopped lending

their parts to each other,

fulfilling each druther.

 

Some soloists, too

(mostly those who are new),

play duets sans regrets

sharing all their assets,

but from solo to group

many need to recoup

a fresh sense of belonging,

the comforts of thronging,

and so his baton

could come down quite hard on

those who need redirection

from slight imperfection.

This called for a mentor

(the best is a centaur—

a strong thoroughbred

with a powerful head)

and in private domains

where it longtime remains

in that warm practice room

it seems right to assume

that the lesson’s collected—

but not unexpected,

though often constrained

it’s not always contained,

hence some lessons might last

till gestation has passed.

 

III. As Time Goes By

A Fool’s Musical Follies ~

Though the gentleman played his finale,

believing the lady was jolly,

she shouted, “By golly,

to you, this is folly.

I’m still in the coda—

you owe me my quota!”

Meanwhile, his iota

approached South Dakota,

considering one final volley.

 

IV. Oxygenarians

The Ancient Musician - Stoned Sober ~

The neck of the bottle held tight

(I think I had too much that night

from a large Captain Morgan),

I turned to my gorgon

and let my muse pour out her spite:

 

She said, “He’s a jealous old fool,

but denying him just isn’t cool!

The girth of his grip

as he guzzles each sip

is the size of the guys

who once savored your prize,

whom you’d grab by the slab

imitating Queen Mab

when you’d tease ’em and seize ’em

and squeeze ’em to please ’em.

In spite of the flair

or your smooth savoir faire,

you’d play each hornpipe

like a French guttersnipe;

you’d lick ’em and stick ’em

or smoke ’em and poke ’em

or suck ’em and tuck ’em—

but then you would chuck ’em,

because they were only a tool

when you were musicians in school.”

 

Mydusa’s snakes glared in delight.

My muse and me? Stoned one more night.

 

 

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.