By Ken Gosse
Whose Time Is It, Anyway?
I stared at its face and I dared it to grace me an hour of time, either way; one before or one after, for sadness or laughter (as if time is under our sway). A move into the future means now would be past and an hour is lost (may it not be our last), else return to an earlier time, though that clime has moved on and is gone, as if nature’s a pawn we can change at our pleasure without giving measure to moon, sun, and stars as if power is ours to advance or delay any night and its day at the whim of our laws as if we have just cause. Reality beckons and timeliness reckons that Now must be Now after all, yet we take up the cause to renew our faux pas as if nature must bend to our call. By adjusting our clocks, putting time in a box till we need it next time that the sun doesn’t rhyme with our rhythms and needs and our business proceeds, or the daylight we crave for the hours we slave just to make our ends meet, often facing defeat, for in winter, short days often mean that we phase into work before dawn, staying till the sun’s gone as the night takes domain of our toil and pain. But the clock stared right back, telling me that I lack any power to send any hour to the future or past and that time will outlast the brief moments which I may devour.
Bluebirds and Greenbacks
Somewhere, over the rainbow, in the Cloud, you’ll find money in strangers’ pockets if you Source Crowd. Entrepreneurs have mined there; each must vie. Kings and scammers have dined there grabbing their piece of pie. Someday I’ll wish upon a star and won’t find money very far beyond me. I’ll dance beneath a faerie moon, but when I hear the piper’s tune— will they have conned me? Somewhere, over the rainbow, money flows. Pots of gold at the end all beckon as my debt grows.
Going Out On a Limerick
One marvel of limericks is that they can change like a Cheshiry cat, but this might leave unease like a viral disease or intestinal quease when you’re on the high seas, so if you think that you smell a rat, let tradition be what swings your bat, although Bartleby’s cat, found in Schrödinger’s hat wasn’t where it was at when he told it to scat! That’s why Bart preferred not to do that.
Oh- nomatopoetry, doubledacwannabe, soon failed noisily— one vowel too long. A- hem, bang, growl, thump, honk, whee! Winslow, Michael Leslie (Police Academy) made noise a song. Er- go may we always be everaft’happily all a capellaly singing along.
Well, Who Wrote That?
Although my words are authorized, sometimes I find I’m quite surprised!
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.
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