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 2016, his poetry is also online with Academy of the Heart and Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, Impspired, 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.

Playing with Fire

Jack put the cart behind the horse
then led Ed to the water—
accompanied by Jill, of course,
Pandora’s lovely daughter.

They married, but with cupboards bare,
excesses they’d eschew.
The many children they raised there
proved Jill knew what to do.

For many years they had few means;
a hut, a horse, a cow
which their son traded for three beans
as legend will avow.

Jack Junior’s other claim to fame
was jumping over wicks.
A lech and liar, pants caught fire.
Doctors found no fix.

The poor lad never could atone—
a Jack the Third they’d lack.
Alas, no lasses that he’d known
admitted they knew Jack.

Their eldest daughter Mary
kissed a frog who had a throne
and although quite contrary,
Mary never slept alone.

Their castle filled with progeny.
Their goose would lay each egg
of solid gold—autogeny
meant none of them need beg.

“Say hay!” Their talking horse, perforce,
helped promulgate their brand,
and teaching students, “Ed the Horse”
filled coffers on demand.

Thus, haply every after shod,
for years they followed Ed.
They’d smile and wink and blink and nod
in their cart’s trundle bed.

Icarus Landing

He raved about the flying of his kite,
but sadly, Icarus ignored advice
of father Daedalus, renowned bird-wright.

Necessity demanded man’s first flight.
Poor Icarus would try it once, not twice.
He raved about the flying of his kite.

They first considered travelling at night;
far cooler than the day, which would entice
wise father Daedalus, renowned bird-wright.

They’d have to reach a near-celestial height
with care to not endanger each device.
He raved about the flying of his kite.

Soon, Icarus discovered, to his fright,
that he must pay the piper the full price
for disregarding Daedalus, bird-wright.

Young Icarus created his own plight
because he thought escape would not suffice.
He ranted at the landing of the kite
from father Daedalus, bereaved bird-wright.

Poetry Won’t Buy Food for the Brood

Fourteen tons was two tons short to meet his daily quota.
And fourteen syllables? Too long to be a sonnet’s song.
The numbers, mere coincidence, proved that his iota
of work that day to earn his pay meant this career was wrong.

A miner poet, his wife missed the fire in the hole
where he once drilled, which made her thrilled that she had joined the throng
which followed him. Her hopes now dim, for though he once was droll,
the cost of marriage and a carriage soon subdued his schlong.

A poet in his former life, she often paid his debts,
but family proved poetry could not pay for brochettes.

Season’s Seasons

I like pumpkin spice; it’s really quite nice—
except for the flavor, the scent, and the price.