The Alice-Blue Nightie of Sweet Aphrodite
One low of birth but great of girth
loved Aphrodite’s naughty nighty.
Was this any cause for fuss?
I’ll tell you (’tween the two of us,
although I never spread a rumour,
this one puts me in the humour)
for her bloomers’ disappearance
had to do with non-adherence
of two roomers at the inn,
a comic team—one fat, one thin—
when she was ready to begin
her show of skills which always thrills
the audience (which pays her bills),
but these two chaps—by chance, perhaps—
had let their weekly payment lapse
(for once again their fortune flew
on wings of dice beyond the blue);
they had no money for her honey,
nor the nectar for the lector
who would read some nonsense verse
while they mimed long what should be terse.
These very two pantomimists
whose act, next up on stage, consists
of making fun by making faces,
hoping that good humour’s graces
graced their purses, stopped reverses of their fortune,
not requiring some importune
actions to be made on stage
which often caused the crowds to rage
and meant, sometimes, they must abandon
obscure towns before they land in
goaler's care for one more night,
without the fare to have the right
of room and board before the horde
(which follows them, with hand on sword)
delivers them unto their lord—
the sheriff, who must pay a tariff
to his liege should they aggrege
the toll for every road that’s travelled
by each minion, else they’re gavelled
and they’ll spend the night in jail
’lest their wives, who are true-blue,
will “post their bail” a time or two.
So, what became of gown so naughty,
worn by beauty, flaunting, bawdy,
and her retinue (those ladies
whom most wives say come from Hades—
lovely maids of many shades,
from cream to darkest marmalades,
who dance with polka-dots of red
tied to a G-string by a thread,
and sometimes blue, their small tutu
the sheerest for the clearest view)?
Praetorians-R-Us were hired
(they’re the ones she most admired)
as her guard while she’s enchanting
diverse mobs, their raves and ranting
sometimes losing all control,
although that was, in part, her goal,
but when the mimes began Act Two
ahead of when their turn was due,
the crowd, a wild and raving child,
advanced and yelled and nearly felled
the theatre and dressing rooms
so all the ladies and their grooms
made haste to taste the wine then fled
through every door, from every bed:
half-dressed—their costumes so impressed
the town’s men, they snatched off the street
each lass ’fore stones might hurt her feet.
Both hesitant and very flighty,
Aphrodite lost her nighty.
Fearing to entrust the yokels
she sought help from backup vocals
(one she can’t afford to lose,
her countertenor played the blues),
the same, who’d never let her down
ensured they’d both get out of town
and though her nighty stayed behind
she borrowed his—he didn’t mind—
the burly and androgynous
Homogenous Erogenous.
Previously Published in Print by Truth Serum Press 3/08/2020
What If: Close Calls from History
What If, Archimedes?
“Eureka!” Archimedes cried,
but then he slipped, and fell, and died.
The King had hoped that Arch would show—
and put his mind at ease—
the proof his gold was pure as snow,
not carats mixed with peas.
What If, Johannes Gutenberg?
Movable type would have to wait.
While testing his press, John pressed his pate.
Confusion would reign over typing in vain
and our thoughts would lose their place
had majuscules and minuscules
forever lost their case.
What If, Isaac Newton?
Newton watched an apple,
but,
when it fell it cracked his
nut.
Gravity’s hefty mystery
would have plagued us throughout history
had not a fortuitous fall to Earth
one day given rise to wisdom’s birth.
What If, George Washington?
“I didn’t cut he tree down, Dad.”
They’d soon hang that mendacious lad.
Great victory would be denied
old Washington if he had lied.
There’d be no Father of our Nation
without freedom’s procreation.
What If, Thomas Jefferson?
At dawn’s first light Tom’s Briard ate
his Declaration of our Fate.
We would still be very British,
rather droll and quite dry-wittish
had not Thomas kept his promise
with a quick rewrite in Twittish.
What If, Paul Revere?
“They’re getting close—they’re almost here!”
Too late.
The Brits shot Paul Revere.
Our flag would wave red, white, and blue
but ’twould be old and not the new.
The Union Jack which broke our back
would laugh at our miscarried coup.
What If, Abraham Lincoln?
Born, raised, hung in old Kentuck’,
Dishonest Abe ran outta luck.
Slavery might not have died
if our dis-Union was denied
and fifty nations dot our land
instead of one the Founders planned.
What If, Alexander Graham Bell?
Young Watson, nearly bored to death,
remained on hold with bated breath
when from beyond, quite loud and clear,
Bell shouted, “Watson! Please come here!
It seems that you are out of range.
The lady said I need more change.”
What if, Wilbur and Orville?
The brothers’ flights were all in vain
for kitty hawks had downed each plane.
Balloons would be the norm for flight
through enterprising coup d’états
until a wizard’s one-way flight
would fail upon return from Oz.
What if, Alexander Fleming?
He never buttered his own bread
but ate the mould which left him dead.
Back in nineteen forty-two, my father would have died
had not the Army hospital been recently supplied
with magic potions which were made
from penicillin moulds which they’d
been testing, and results displayed a cure when well applied.
What if, Neil Armstrong?
A shoelace, never tightened fast,
meant “One small step” became his last.
Flat Earthers say they have the proof
of all that they allege:
a postcard—flat—blue-marbled Earth,
which Neil dropped off the edge.
Previously Published online by The Writers Club 02/27/21
Long Stories Short: A Baker’s Dozen of Novel Thoughts
Mixed Shortricks and Quickricks: Limericks using syllable counts of 3,3,2,2,3 and 2,2,1,1,2
’Speare’s Fears ~
To be?
Not be?
Hard
Bard
query.
Hells Bells ~
Ed Poe
laid low.
Hell’s
Bells
did so.
Oh, George ~
Which way,
you say?
Man’s
plans?
Agley.
A Far Better Ending ~
Best and worst
interspersed.
The end,
Dear friend?
Not rehearsed.
Lone Survivor ~
Moby Dick?
Devil’s trick.
Ahab’s
last stab
failed. One quick.
Three Teasers ~
Eb'nezer's
night teasers:
Three ghosts
play hosts
to geezers.
Crossfire ~
William Tell
aimed so well:
fruit shot;
son not;
Gessler fell.
The Yank ~
Long tale short:
At Art’s Court,
the Yank
called Hank
did cavort.
The -Apprehentice ~
Sorcerer
told him, “Sir,
Magic?
Tragic
to bestir.”
Bartleby’s Nopes ~
Bartleby,
hired to be
a scrive.
His jive?
“Not for me.”
Gone Like the Wind ~
Scarlet
Upset.
Damn,
M'am.
Lost Rhett.
You Are So Brutiful ~
Ceasar knew
most of you
who threw
his coup—
et tu, Bru.
It’s a Sin to Mock Justice ~
“Atticus,
What’s the fuss?”
“Justice
must miss
None of us.”
Previously Published online by Home Planet News Online 12/29/2017
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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