Four Poems by Ken Gosse

 

Verbena by Any Other Scent Would Smell as Sweet

(inspired by Guy de Maupassant’s story, “A Bad Error”)

 

The maid of my betrothed stood fully clothed,

her face away from where I entered in

so quietly, not knowing I’d unclothed

her gracious form within my mind—this sin

 

so common to all men who love a lass,

yet love her servants also (none the less!)

who share with him the secrets which surpass

his vain attempts at breaching their mistress.

 

Then lifting up her skirts so I could plant

a loving kiss where gracious limbs converge,

surprised, I heard the rancour of a rant

as mistress would, instead of maid, emerge!

 

Though banished from her presence evermore,

the scent of pumpkin spice I now adore!

 

 

Seasonal Greetings

 

I till a garden every year,

a task resumed with heartfelt cheer;

my hoe was chosen by her show

of hands to tend her furrowed row.

 

We’ve always heeded what is needed,

seeding being superseded

with due caution while delight

entices us throughout the night.

 

In her garden, I find pardon

(not from him, of course—from her)

since my neglect is quite suspect,

not tending whom I should prefer.

 

But since her farmer loves my wife,

it helps reduce the dreadful strife

which jealousy might not deter

while she’s with me and he’s with her.

 

When winter ends, spring comes alive

and we return, each to our hive,

retasting thrills of newlyweds—

old snowbirds nestled in their beds.

 

 

Unsteeling His Nerves

(the balcony scene from the 1978 movie, “Superman”)

 

A lead planter was blocking his view

when Lois asked whether he knew

hidden colours she wore

(which she hoped he’d adore),

but he paused for a moment or two.

 

Embarrassed, she mumbled she’s sorry,

then with glasses removed, his eyes starry,

when she stepped aside

both his eyes opened wide

as they started upon their safari.

 

Not expecting this rapid transition,

she quickly resumed her position.

The planter immured

what had briefly allured—

he said, “Pink!” She voiced no admonition.

 

“But your ankle, it seems, has a spur

causing pain which might often recur.

There’s a clinic nearby,

a short distance to fly—

please allow me to be your chauffeur.”

 

Touching hands, they flew into the night.

Looking down, a spectacular sight,

for his slight ruse had spurred

them to what next occurred

as her fright morphed to warmest delight.

 

 

Oh, Dear Mama (To Me She Is So Wonderful!)

 

I recently had an “Aha!”

that raised me above the bourgeois;

it was not Mardi Gras,

we weren’t at the Casbah

or some decadent spa

in a ménage à trois …

in her patois, she whispered,

“Voilà!”

 

“Let Me hold your beer, dear Papa.

You deserve a hurrah

and to shout ‘sis boom bah!’

so it’s time for mama ...”

[OMG! Blah, blah, blah …]

then, “on Blueberry Hill, tra-la-la …”

as she wriggled and said,

“Hold my bra.”

 

 

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.