The Time Was Right and Other Poems

By Ken Gosse

The Time Was Right

a pastiche on Dylan Thomas’ poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

He’ll rage against the dying of my light
but old age took its toll along the way.
He doesn’t know I think the time is right.

Much wiser than he knows, I welcome night.
My words, well-spent, have said all I could say.
He’ll rage against the dying of my light.

I still affirm my life’s spark has been bright
yet never caused the path of man to sway.
He doesn’t know, for me, the time is right.

I’ve known despair and also known delight
but as my time unravels in a fray,
he’ll rage against the dying of my light.

My visions haven’t faded from my sight;
I don’t regret that each day isn’t gay.
He doesn’t know, at last, the time is right.

I’ve pledged obeisance to death’s greater might;
his heart will understand in time, I pray.
He’ll rage against the dying of my light
until he finds I knew the time was right.

The Latitudes of Platitudes

Though you can’t see your end,
it’s just ’round the bend—
the place we all wend
after failures to mend.
You sense that your tunnel
is starting to funnel
and hard as you stare
the light gets dimmer there.

Once you’ve pulled his finger
he’ll no longer linger,
for though he looked grim,
the bell tolled not for him.
Though you were condemning,
you followed each lemming
beyond the Earth’s edge
off the world’s highest ledge
to the final frontier
screaming “Who put that here!”

Let go of your rope
when you’ll notice all hope
is a wick that’s on fire,
each end drawing nigher.
You’ll be laid to rest
with your hands ’cross your chest,
when your last curtain call
is a bow from your pall
resting high on each shoulder
of those growing older;
a ride to the sunset
’cause you lost your last bet
and no longer hold ’em,
so you chose to fold ’em.

Catch up on your sleep
in the dark of the deep.
Do the math—you’re deep sixed,
nevermore to be fixed.
Your final hoorah
as you leave this life’s spa
(goodbye women and wine!)
is the song, “Auld lang syne”
or the dolphin’s last wish,
“Thanks for all the fish!

Your fire in the hole
up in smoke, like burned coal;
you’ve scored your last goal
and you’re flushed down the bowl;
your plans for the day
one last time gang agley;
the judge banged your gavel—
the road that you’ll travel
will empty the list
of your bucket’s last gist.
In fresh-cut smooth boards
you will pine for the fjords
while you’re hoping for peace
at the end of your lease
(though you fear just rewards
from your life-long discords).

Your plot, now finis,
will be filled with debris
(or cremains will be urned
if you yearned to be burned)
for the ump said “Strike Three!”
to whom you used to be.
Fare thee well.
Your road’s been
paved to Hell.

Entreaty from Anothernon

Dear editors, please be so kind
to find submissions I’ve assigned
to your good graces for the spaces
that you’ll fill with words that thrill,
but if you’re disinclined to find
my prodding keeps me on your mind
and feeling rushed, you want me hushed,
avoid the reading that it’s needing,
toss it in the slush pile bin
awaiting canned replies so thin
that I’ll lose heart right from the start
and tell myself that it’s not art—
if that’s the case, please take your time;
first read it loud, then like a mime,
but don’t forget I’m waiting here
and like as not I’ll bug your ear
until I hear that lovely tune,
“It thrills us like a harvest moon.”
Of course, if your reply’s adverse,
may you regret my silent curse.

The Beat of a Different Pen

Some poets dismay me
(the ones who use slant)
but maybe the truth is
what they write, I can’t.

In humble reflection
(which I often don’t),
perhaps it’s more likely
what I write, they won’t.