By Ken Gosse
They decided the Reaper was truly a keeper,
his poetry earning their membership’s yearning,
a group which would meet once their days were complete
yet before their last showing, while tears were still flowing.
The prep nearly finished, with hopes undiminished
that they’d read again to a group with a yen
for their poetry’s call which would clearly enthrall
even those who would edit (but ne’er give them credit,
returning submissions with sad admonitions
like “Not a good fit. A near miss. Resubmit.”).
Each group was post-hoc (without need for a clock)
and would savor the flavor—each poetry raver
applauding their own though ignoring unknown
voices who also read, but like them, were now dead.
Their posthumous writing seemed not as inviting
as what they had written before they were smitten
and had to attend this funereal end
then ascend, or descend, or, perhaps, just unwend.
Alas, at this reading, convictions conceding
his poems seemed blithe, but they cut like a scythe.
Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humor with traditional meters. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, his poetry is also in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Writers Club, Spillwords, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, for over twenty-five years.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 