On his next and last voyage he would pay the full fare.
As a passenger now, he found he didn’t care
to chase whales or kowtow to a ship tyrant’s orders
or bunk with the crew down below in close quarters,
nor climb up the mast like he’d done far too often—
the ship far below looking like a small coffin.
Renowned raconteur on the Pequod’s dire fate,
he’d written an epic and married of late.
They said their farewells (she’d be joining him soon)
and kissed “bon voyage” ’neath a chilled autumn moon.
A trip throughout Europe promoting his tale—
a carved coffin lifeboat promoting the sale.
The weather was stormy, northeasterly gales
would batter the ship as they battened down sails.
The treacherous route through Atlantean seas
filled his nightmares with banshees from Ahab’s disease,
then on All Hallow’s Eve even Hell would freeze over—
the Reaper-turned-herdsman would be their new drover.
The three-masted ship became kindling, too frail
when a Halloween iceberg struck like a great whale.
Rescue was vain; none “escaped to tell thee”
but the coffin they found and returned from the sea.
Thus ended their tour. Fate had sealed the deal.
She’d joked, “Call me, Ishmael.”
Now he’s fishmeal.
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 