Toddlers’ Tales Entwined in My Mind
Tales told often, and many quite old,
can readily soften the sorrows we hold
when it seems times are rife, full of troubles and strife,
but we find hope and comfort through sharing our life.
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe;
her cupboard was bare and her children were, too,
except for knit gowns from a woolly black sheep
who said, “I’ll share mine, for it’s warm and it’s deep.”
Her cupboard was empty; just seven starved flies.
When opened, she swallowed one—what a surprise!
Since that didn’t kill her, she thought, “I’ll be fine.
Perhaps there’s a spider on which I can dine.”
Her skinny old cow had jumped over the moon
so she worried they’d run out of milk very soon.
Her poor, hungry cat, nearly out of his mind,
ran off with the fiddle—his grin stayed behind.
She had an old lodger, a crookedy man
who sold pies at the fair—apple, cherry, pecan.
On his way he met Simon who traded three beans
for the lodger’s last pie (Simon had simple means).
Since the path to the fair was a long, twisty mile,
he stopped by a brook where he rested a while.
A troll ’neath the bridge shouted “Answer all three
of my questions, old man, or you can’t pass by me!”
But he, in good wisdom, returned to his lodging,
not waiting to answer the questions, but dodging.
The woods he traversed on the way were quite deep
yet he scurried along with a promise to keep.
On arriving, he opened his pack and he said,
“It’s time for bean stew, even though we’ve no bread,”
but the first bean fell out and it dropped on the floor
where it rolled and it rolled till it rolled out the door.
That moment, a peddler arrived with two sacks
full of tin pans and candles and other knickknacks.
Before every sale he’d regale with some tricks,
so he lit and jumped over two tall candlesticks
as his wife, lovely Jill, who returned from the hill
where she’d taken a bucket they needed to fill
from the well at the top, and she walked very still
taking care not to fall or the bucket would spill.
Although not a liar, Jack’s his pants caught on fire!
Jill soused them and doused them before it was dire
but some of the water drained out the front door
and moistened the bean that had rolled there before.
The seed quickly grew till its stalk reached the sky
where it broke through the clouds drifting hazily by.
Growing fast as could be, first two miles, then three—
Jack said, “That’s a sign of adventure for me!”
His pants were still steaming when he grabbed the creeper.
’Twas quite a hard climb and it couldn’t be steeper,
but quickly he flew like the down of a thistle
and reaching the top, he let out a loud whistle.
The Jabberwock guarded a great castle gate,
but Jack was excited and just couldn’t wait.
From his pack he pulled out the renowned Vorpal sword
and jabbed the Jab-Jab like a butternut gourd.
As fast as he could, through the entrance he ran
stopping dead in his tracks when he saw a huge man
who was snoring like thunder to waken the dawn!
This rousted Jack’s courage, and so he moved on
through a hall full of riches too great to behold:
in the corner, a cage made of silver and gold;
inside it, a shoe which was carved out of wood;
inside that were three boys in a trance where they stood.
Winken and Blinken and Nod manned the boat
which they’d sailed in a dream when it started to float,
flying up through the sky past the eye of the giant
who caught them and caged them, though they were suppliant.
Their pitiful pleas brought no ease to his ear
for the giant liked crying—it brought him good cheer—
and though they stayed quiet while Jack slashed the cage,
the noise woke the giant who yelled out in rage!
Too late—for their boat had reached such a great height
it was well past his grasp though he flailed with his might.
On this dark, stormy night, now released from his plunder,
o’er treetops they sailed in a great clap of thunder.
The bow of their ship held a marvellous sight
which Jack hadn’t seen in the darkness of night,
for hidden away was a sight to behold—
a goose in a nest laying eggs of pure gold!
While soaring, their path crossed a trulio dragon
named Custard, who said he would pull their shoe-wagon.
No coward was he (once the billows had passed),
though when danger appeared, he was brave, first to last.
Far off in the distance they saw Peter Pan,
John, Wendy, and Michael who crossed the sky’s span
on their first trip to Neverland, floating with ease
as if they’d been tossed from a flying trapeze.
At last homeward bound, as they passed the full moon
came an owl, cats, and cow, and a runcible spoon.
One cat was singing, another played fiddle;
two hitchhikers joined them, brers -Dee and -Dum Diddle.
On landing, they saw the vine’s flowers had bloomed
sprouting food of all sorts—hunger no longer loomed!
Gold petals and eggs were passed throughout the land,
now freed from the greed of the giant’s fierce hand.
The giant was angry! The vine was too small
and he couldn’t climb down to take vengeance on all
so instead, in a violent rage he jumped down
but fell through the Earth a short distance from town.
And now they’re all happy, their lives full of laughter
with love, hope, and joy in their dreams ever after.
These journeys we’ve taken, like many before,
still help us believe there is more hope in store.
The Sound of Wisdom
The Wise Old Owl ~
A wise old owl
once sat in an Oak.
The more he saw,
the less he spoke.
The less he spoke,
the more he heard,
but when he asked “Who?”
he sounded absurd.
Fishing for an Answer ~
A wise old fish,
once swam in a pond
and spoke not a word
till a hook from beyond
flew out from a wand,
then he shouted “Who’s there …”
but he was cut short
when he snapped at the snare.
Brazen Wisdom ~
An old wise ass
once stood in the way
for he thought everybody
should hear what he’d say.
So loudly he’d bray
to expound every word
that the noises he made
always sounded absurd.
Silence is Olden ~
A wise old man
once sat in an oak.
Some thought he was wise
because he never spoke.
Some said, “It’s a joke—
he’s a looney old bird,”
and when the tree fell,
alas, nobody heard.
The Peaceful Pair Who Rested There
A moose on the loose by the name of Tonoose
(like the Lebanese uncle who had a screw loose)
loved to rest on the ground thinking thoughts most profound
(as did Burns on the day that his plans went agley)—
of the humdrum of tundrum, a puzzling conundrum
(no riddle-wrapped mystery in an enigma,
a phrase which, to him, wasn’t even a figma)
for his hapless thoughts were a series of naughts
(not the ones and the zeros of geeky-brained Neroes
whose reign on the plain in the cloud was arcane);
and without plan or palindrome, his mind would roam.
And so rested he, although no Tumtum tree
would provide useless shade in his cold, northern glade—
tit-willows weren’t heard from some sad dickybird
to guide his direction to gentle affection—
when what to his wandering eyes should appear
but a Canada goose with a honk loud and clear
as it flew through the air with the greatest of ease
as if flung with full flair from a flying trapeze.
Its down had the grace of fine Chantilly lace
as that cute long-necked goose came to rest its caboose
of top of the moose head he used as a bed.
This tale of two friends without need for amends
calmed each dark, stormy night, and each day gave delight
to the pair and to all come to watch them rest there:
an odd couple, mismatched, although none were dispatched
to say “please, move along” to the curious throng
who found they enjoyed the view filling the void
of the chilled, endless plain, which became their domain.
So full speed ahead, any difference be damned,
no intent of pretense therefore neither was shammed.
May this friendship of two without further ado
lend us courage and hope to find peace for us, too.
Odd Couples
Walruses and carpenters aren’t singular but plural;
each word means that there’s more than one
though one of each beneath the sun
oft’ walk the shores and have much fun
(for walruses, of course, can’t run),
while ponderings unfurl.
And whether beaches they traverse are urban or are rural,
the sand will show their recent trod,
their footprints being rather odd
since both of them are not bipod
and one must waddle on a quad
of fins and flippers as he’ll plod
while dragging an enormous bod
which he can deftly hurl.
A walrus and a carpenter may walk along the Ural,
(and when they do, though they are two
yet each is singular, still you
know one of each makes two, not few)
for this is what they like to do
and countless oysters will accrue
(they’ve never eaten too beaucoup)
although their small friends should eschew
their company and their fondue,
they’ll join the dance and twirl.
Do pairs of these odd couples ever join to knit and purl?
Do they amass with others in a congo line to curl
along the shores where they’ll eat s’mores and talk about the girl
that they once knew (a date or two, who thought they were a churl,
although, sweet thing, they gave her bling and told her she’s a pearl.
She wouldn’t prance their highland dance—she loathed the bagpipe’s skirl!)?
They may partay but dancing? Nay, for walruses can’t whirl.
The Brew Wasn’t True
You knew that it
was serious
when she said
“sweetest dearious”
and you felt most
sincerious
that she’s the
girl for you.
You must have been
delirious
to cook a meal
mysterious
(though somewhat
deleterious)
to prove your love
was true,
for suddenly some
hottentot
that sizzled in
your dinner pot
began to say,
“Forget me not!”
before your final
chew,
and although you
were both besot—
for love and
liquor hit the spot—
you saw that this
would twist the plot,
so, wondering what
to do,
you found you must
abbreviate
your meal and
somehow deviate
from hopeful
plans, then intimate
your rendezvous
was through,
full knowing this
would aggravate
the lady fair you chose
to date;
it seemed most
likely she’d berate
sans mercy, full
beaucoup,
not the kindness
of your soul
nor fullness of
the dinner bowl,
but call you a
despisèd troll
for serving
poisoned stew,
and knowing that
you’d lost control—
and there was
naught which might console—
at last you saw,
upon the whole,
it’s best if you
withdrew.
Her faded love for
you now gone,
the time has
come—you must move on—
your bound’ries
once again redrawn
another time or
two.
And there you
stand, your hopes withdrawn.
Excitement slowly
yields to yawn.
There’ll be no
thunder ’fore the dawn
nor drop of any
shoe.
Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humour in traditional meters. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, Sparks of Calliope, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.
