Ken Gosse generally writes light poetry using simple language, meter, and rhyme in verses filled with whimsy and humor. First published in The First Literary Review–East in November, 2016, his poetry is also online with Academy of the Heart and Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, Spillwords, and others. He is also in print anthologies from Pure Slush, The Coil, Truth Serum Press, Peking Cat, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, he and his wife have lived in Indiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Germany, Virginia, and now in Mesa, Arizona over twenty years with two or more rescue dogs and cats always underfoot. Their four children and their grandchildren are scattered around the county, mostly at long distances.
The View from the Top
When you scale huge boulders en route to the shoulders of giants to get the best view, don’t tread on their toes, for as everyone knows giving credit where credit is due is the way to achieve the great fame you’ll receive in pursuit of a quest for what’s true. Many Titans, now bone, their thoughts written in stone which you’ve borrowed, don’t claim as your own! Even those extant few must be honored by you: offer credit, for none think alone. Then climb on without fear and we’ll cheer when we hear some new wonder which you have made known.
Spiraling Thoughts on a Dark and Stormy Night
It was a dark and stormy night. There before me, far from trite, the book “Paul Clifford,” whose opening line Edward Bulwer-Lytton would write so melodramatically, “It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—” thirty-seven more words like sheep in herds, oft’ parodied as “purple prose,” which perhaps, “except at occasional intervals,” it warrants.
One Night’s Naughts
A mother taught her daughter ought not toy the boy her brother brought. Her father fought with features fraught, in vain to ’splain the things he thought. Her sister sought to help and bought a thing to bring their night to naught. But he was there: the anxious pair, their game aflame in loveseat’s chair to keep them where they could but stare— one touch too much for this affair! Beneath his glare she chanced to dare one move to prove her tender care— her gift to bare, a sight most rare so he could see her precious ware— and that slight flair and wave of hair would wake him, take him to her lair. It seemed unfair, the price of err; one night’s delights beyond compare! But they were caught, and now, distraught, both heard the word the preacher praught.