The Literary Review
Itchy and Scratchy and Bitey all Nighty
While sleeping a bit, a bug bugged me a bit
and I woke when the buggy bug bit me a bit.
The bite itched a bit, so I scratched it a bit,
but scratching the itch also bugged it a bit.
The scratch bugged a bit ’cause the scratch itched a bit
but I didn’t dare scratch any more at that patch
or I might scratch the scratch which would bug me a bit
and might itch a bit more—I feared that was in store.
And then, for a bit, sound asleep without hitch
but so itchy and scratchy and all-over patchy
I woke and I scratched all my patches of scratches—
the itches in niches, in singles and batches.
The bug found my ear and it buzzled, “I’m here!”
having bit my derrière then returning from there
where it bugged me anew—I knew not what to do!
It didn’t seem fair as it crawled through my hair
taking bits of new bites, unrestrained appetites,
all my tasty hors d’oeuvres jangling ever more nerves
till exhausted at last, when my eyes closed a bit,
I slept while it crept where it laid a new nit—
but while sleeping it hatched and it bugged me a bit.
- Ken Gosse
Flights of Fancy
(a 50-word ekphrastic poem)
The three kings traveled far
as they followed their star
and they seemed very wise
as they surveyed the skies,
but their fine-feathered friend
would soon come to his end—
they saw Icarus land
but not where he planned,
so they stopped at an inn
where their story would begin.
- Ken Gosse
When to Fold ’Em
I was.
I’m not.
That’s life’s
Jackpot.
- Ken Gosse
Here I Sit and Wait a Bit - Morning Irreveries Number Two
Arm & Hammer Clump & Seal
describes exactly how I feel
while upon this throne I sit
and stare at my cats’ gravel pit.
Are bagels, lox, or toxic phlox
intestionally causing blocks?
Perhaps I have some kind of pox
that wandered up from fungal socks—
or is the cause that late-night tox,
a quaff that filled my head with rocks.
This, too, shall pass! My soul, be still—
though if it doesn’t, then I will
and ne’er again write flow’ry verse
(please don’t “Hurrah!”), but I know worse
has happened in my meager life,
such as the time I took a wife
who wasn’t mine, but all seemed fine
until her husband crossed the line
and asked my wife to join the throng.
She said, “What feels right can’t be wrong,”
and chimed in with a joyful song!
[Dear friends, ignore those last retorts—
recurrent fever-dreams of sorts
when spirits plague my aching head
and nightmares thrash me in my bed.]
But soft, methinks I hear a tune!
A symphony of fork and spoon
accompanied by fart’s bassoon
vouchsafe a movement may start soon.
- Ken Gosse
Que Será, Fair Prince (a Fibonacci poem)
To
be
or not,
the question
central to the plot,
is answered by the suggestion
that the Prince, by indecision, decided his lot—
but had he lived, would
Hamlet have traversed the
ramparts at midnight, shouting “Out, damned
spot!”?