lewis-bosworth
Madison, WI USA
I realized I wanted to be a writer only in the last five years. I‘d been writing poetry since high school. Since then I’ve been writing in fits and starts; my most fertile periods were in the 60s – my college years – the 70s, 90s and recently. As a linguist by training I thrive on language – from bits like sounds to syllables to words to sentences and more complex structures. I write in English most of the time, but also in French and Portuguese. Poetry renders me a happy – or happier – person. Teaching and learning are in my blood. I’m a graduate of the Universities of Wisconsin-Madison and Michigan; I also taught French and linguistics and was an assistant dean at Wesleyan University in CT. A mid-western man at heart, my interests include LGBT studies, musical theatre, disability issues, art, travel, church work and fine food. I write because I strongly believe that words reflect the diversity, culture and spirit of world peoples.
corona
only days ago – or was it weeks?
I played with my youthful toys
which included a set of boys
who spent hours examining
the ring around the sun.
now it dawns on me – after
breakfast – that my thoughts
have double meanings, two or
three or more daily reminders
of a double-entendre life.
blame these fascinations on
the stories on television – the
guardrail of our society – for
we have the **** tube to
thank for newsworthy truth.
but I digress – a longtime
habit – from the meaning of
the words I have learned,
words that take on novelty
as they meld and mold.
all around me – hill and vale –
schools and churches are closed
to the very folks who support
them, no thanks to money or
needy spirits in want.
and God help us if we stray
from the very lexicon that
brought us here – the dust-
covered tome of a dictionary,
its usefulness never doubted.
it’s almost like pre-school – the
fine lines we read – the words
composed of ancient syllables –
bits and pieces of chemistry
and high school math.
one has only to watch to
assimilate the warning signs –
travel restrictions during
pregnancy – or myriad signs
warning to wash ones hands.
and so it goes goes – on and
on – the truth has power, and
the words belie all pre-testing
and the failure thereof to
be accurate and useful.
in the final analysis – and there
is always a bit of both - of dire
and scholarly necessity – a strong
dose of responsibility which
governs our reaction.
one final glance in the mirror
is always called for – for no little
scam can be living in the selfie
behind the proverbial story
of beauty and the beast.
© Lewis Bosworth, 3-2020
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 7:44 PM UTC
You invite them and
They hem and haw
Maybe
Don’t think so
What time again?
Who’s going to be there?
Any singles?
Let you know later
To accept is fearful
Commitment
They’ll have to dress
(As if they don’t usually)
Wonder if she’s coming
(I don’t want to see her)
He quit drinking I heard
Tea is good
You didn’t send a
Holiday card - did you?
How old is their daughter?
Those awkward teens
Bound to run into
Them at church
I’ll tell her then
Or maybe an email
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:47 PM UTC
Whitman hears varied carols,
A unified song.
Has the song stopped? Or
Are we tone-deaf?
Building fences to remind
Us of dead kids.
A stone per name, a
Petrified forest family.
The family we know
Is fractured, drained.
Guilt, you say? Guilt?
The toe-head’s a killer.
Assign a platform to us.
Wooden grief and angst.
Can pistols be bargained
Away? For an id card?
The father, back from hell,
A be-medaled veteran.
A backyard bee-bee gun
Makes my boy a man.
He shoots with an open
Mouth and cries his song.
The flesh is cold as rock.
It stings like death.
The Mom is absent and
Mute in her glacier.
Our tale’s a mesmerizing
Witness to parental faith.
As much a game as shooting
Gophers in the snow.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
the set
upstage center
layer on layer of red brick
one door with screens
three steps in faux cement
bay windows on either side
action stage right
a young girl dances in rain
wearing a fake leopard-skin
leotard
action stage left
a man builds a garage
from a cardboard box
plan
wooden boards the
color of brick
action center stage
a young boy aged ten
poses proudly in
cub scout uniform
a woman snaps a pic
downstage center
a man plants a tree
near the road
he waters the tree
he mows the lawn
stage left
a 1950 Olds cutout
sits in the driveway
in the pit
the concrete street
has no sidewalk
a woman rides a bike
pedaling in rhythm
she waves at the
neighbors
the boy grows up
this is his fake house
they are his fake family
he waits for his
curtain call
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
Kumbaya, O written words, customize your thoughts into bite-sized
Nuggets, and store them in the clouds – in the huge video of the sky.
Always easier to see the movie than to read the book, right? This isn’t
Being lazy – this is efficiency, this is learning to hear and see quickly.
Emoji-me your innermost feelings – and make it snappy, yet truthful –
Obvious like a pebble gracefully striking the water’s surface. Forsake
The grimness brought by the news of the day – be not obsessed!
Bow down and worship chirps, tweets and posts, and share them.
In the looking glass you can see diminished contemplations as
They drift into nothingness – even the brightness of a smile is
A smirk turned to stone – our language and our soul are a morbid
Collection of dry bones on a sickly precipice.
The new generation is born of a slain, technocratic parent – their
21st birthdays celebrated beneath the fallen soldiers of newsprint –
A new world in which a museum houses the letters and arts of
A coherent paragraph now called a blurb. Kumbaya.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
Every night before bedtime
I read to my son.
Every morning before school
I read to my son.
He loves words, especially
New words and funny words
He can share with his friends
At school.
The stories I read to him
Have good characters
And bad characters,
He lives in a world of
Good and bad.
The world around him
Is a world of storytellers,
Stories of nostalgia,
Stories of love.
But some stories speak
To good people in bad
Ways, these stories teach
Hate and hurt.
Good stories can break
Down walls, singing bold
And powerful songs, sharing
A symphony of sympathy,
A lineage of love.
My son is still young,
He needs to fantasize
And imagine what different
Lives are like.
He is learning to be
Kind to everyone, to
Make art from stone,
To touch and smile.
As we read stories, we
Learn about our shared
Humanity, our proud lexicon,
Our identities, our open
Hearts full of love.
Please read me a story.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
Tightrope
I am a man
On a tightrope
Strung dramatically
Between two skyscrapers
Paradoxically above
A sandcastle and
Its moat
I am a man
On three legs
Walking between
Two mountains
Listing in clouds
And rain and
Gulleys
I am a man
On one leg
Airborne
Above peak and
Valley and climbers
Vertiginous vista
Below
I am a drone
A skyward glance
At myself
And the lost
Days of wasted
Journeys and
Folktales
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
It snowed today and yesterday
And the day before
Is there anything in the world
That resembles snow when
It becomes a threat and
Stops being pretty?
When it takes over the
Skies, the driveways, the
Edges of the forest and
The paths to everywhere?
Even the children aren’t
Immune when they fall
Down trying to make a
Snowman, his charcoal
Eyes and carrot nose, and
Worship the sun hoping
For a day of melting and
Even rain to make their
Time inside only a part-time
Joke, with daisies and roses
To celebrate the greenness
Of the absentee landlord
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
God’s Gifts to Us
I’ve been reading them for days now –
A group of sad or angry, dark or humorous
LGBT poets who – despite the fact that
My middle initial is “G” – outshine me
In every way.
Not because they’re L, G, B or T, mind you,
Nor because they’re Christians. Because they’re
**** Good!
I’ve described a mentor of mine thus:
She taught me “X,” but she really taught
Me to teach.
So when I read these men and women, I
Could say they’ve taught me to write,
And mean it!
To borrow the title of another poet,
If Jesus were gay – thank you,
Emanuel Xavier, I think our savior
Would approve.
Since I’ve borrowed from Mr. Xavier,
I guess it’s legal to borrow from a poem
I wrote, Coloring Kids. Color is a
Favorite theme of mine, be it
Crayons, skin, purple or artist’s blotches.
/Teachers may have red pens which can
Strip away the dreams of a child holding
A bigger-than-life yellow magic wand
In his fingers.
Priests, exacting confessions prematurely,
Wear collar and stole, no matter the sin,
To blanch milk-chocolate souls, prescribing
Fiddling with rosary beads.
Nuns, black and white, decked out in
Paisley prints these days, follow suit./
My colors and Mister’s crayolas are
Kindred spirits. When I read many of
The startling poems of these LGBT poets,
I smiled out loud, or giggled softly.
In some of their work I could hear
Them speed up: Giving a reading,
Perhaps – my heart fluttered hearing
In my mind the words of Mr. Holyoake’s
The Thief - and I think yours would
Skip a beat or two if you read the poem.
I also recommend the poem of Ms.
Heidenreich, not because she shares her
Name with my Junior High reading teacher,
But because of the awesome words in
I wanna be like Jesus: then surely Jesus
Loves the little homos or at least is
In touch with “the little gay man in
All of us.”
I suppose one might consider this a
Rave review of my Christian brothers’
And sisters’ work: I give thanks to Him
For giving it to us.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
His life is like the
Glass – half empty,
Half full.
What sources of
Love are to be
Found lurking therein?
Will they be the
Reruns of “Little
House on the Prairie?”
Or perhaps more
Like daily episodes
Of ****** She Wrote?”
Choices to be made,
Struggles to overcome –
Boys to be heard.
Now the months
Become years – their
Ages marked in tattoos.
Giving up the bottle
And the pack of butts –
A badge of thanks.
A Godly existence
Comes with favors –
Flavors and smells.
Bend down and
Stare at the stream –
Ripples and currents.
No sounds, little to
Lose in the quietude –
Life half empty.
His life is half full
Of regrets and brief,
Tearful canons.
Sudden relief – the
Joy of Mozart and
J. S. Bach.
This fullness a sudden
Surprise awakening –
Emptiness begone!
© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 8:51 PM UTC