By Ken Gosse
The Great Gingerbread Rescue
It happened in Maine at the Gingerbread Fest where the “World’s Best Cookie” is made. A deer got ensnared in the “Dough That’s The Best” when it wandered away from its glade. Though I wasn’t near, I did overhear what a lovely young lass told her beau: “Did you see how he saved the dear deer, Dear? The brave man threw the doe through the dough.”
All the Clonely People
If everyone agreed with me, with what I say, with how I see the world, the stars, the universe, the hearts of others, so diverse, then that would mean what they would see are others who are just like me in which case, I would rather leave; for joie de vivre we’d have to grieve. Our differences make life worth while— they bring both anger and a smile. At my departure, none would grieve until the last of me would leave but then, there would be no one left to disagree or feel bereft; so if I die before I wake I beg of you, for goodness sake, of differences, don’t be bereft— make life worth while, while life is left
Casey’s Downward Spiral
(a reverse Fibonacci) The day began when sun arose and soon his team put on their hose to make sure everybody knows that their home team would win without a doubt. The bull at bat steamed from his spout, raised a dust cloud all about, then swung and heard fans shout. When the umpire said, “Strike two!” He turned and thumbed his snout because his bat still had its clout. It wasn’t a rout. One last pitch and he struck out.
Master and Mat
My kitten has opposable claws— two left, two right, to wake me at night when dreaming must come to a pause. My kitten has composable claws— they score my chest when I’m at rest, the musical purring of paws. My kitten has exposable jaws— only a dummy would dare touch her tummy. Why? Just try. Because! And so, I have disposable gauze within close reach to cover each of the patches she scratches and gnaws.
A Cheer for Lear Who Forgot Not Swat
When I read Edward Lear, I always find cheer in a rhythm of verse that my heart finds most dear. The cunningness of his manipulation of logic and words, his sensiblation of reason and rhyme, so soothing through time makes me glad to think I’m of a similar clime, at least in my writing, although less inviting than his always shall be for readers who, like me, would not have heard squat of the Akond of Swat, of that very small spot on the map—just a dot— had it not been for Lear; yes indeed, this I fear, for no one knows where, and perhaps we don’t care— not anyone here, and maybe none there— but had that odd lad (the old Akond of Swat), whether mighty or bad, whether icy or hot, crossed his i’s and anointed his t’s with a DOT, his writings would all have been plagued with a SPLOT from the pen of the Akond of SWAT— though, if that was the case, we know not.
Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humor 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.