The beauty of patience is in letting the sun
rise when it rises and shutting our eyes
when the dusk dawns believing the secrets
of life will come in the wake amidst the
crowing of the roosters.

No eyes will parse
My squiggled lines,
With meaning clear
Enough to slap your face.

Their joy is in the search-
The digging out of what
Is longed for, in the
Most obscurant phrases.

No hand will tousle
Rumpled hair
On recognizing that
Another saw the selfsame bud

And helped unfold it
To a bloom, so
Those in later times
Can share the fragrance.

No lips will purse
On being told
With unmistaken
Clarity what is,

For that's a lesson
Not adventure
And the readers
Have dressed up for the hunt.
                    ljm

You spilled my half full glass of living.
You clumsied it onto it's side
And everything poured out.
Now how am I supposed to play
The game that says it's half way full
Not half way empty?

Any fool can plainly see
This glass has nothing in it,
Even if I Pollyanna up a smile
And spell out all it used to hold,
It's absolutely empty now
And nothing I can say will fill it.
                    ljm

Do we simulate or
emulate?
Stimulate?
These similes
we toss out so
cleverly.

To rhyme or not isn’t
the real question.

Down deep in our
inner being
is empathy.
Capture or
don’t make a point.

What are the lines
and spaces?
Do they look at
or peer about
a soul, a brain?

The emphasis must
really be
******-fiction or
nothingness.

A vacuum or perhaps
a void,
the truth or hurtful
lies.

Are lines and syllables
written, etched
out for us or them?

We live by poetic
license, using
a photo ID or a
nom de plume.



But here is the final
secret: our
lines are emotion,
or just an
echo?  

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

For all the saints…

Softly across the stone rectangles
Her hands lingered –
Palms and index pointed
At names and dates.

who from their labors rest,…

As if those behind the
Stones could feel her there;
As if the sainthood were
Rubbing off, a soulful osmosis.

who thee by faith
before the world confessed,…

The book was not unnoticed,
And she opened it slowly,
Unsure of what she might find –
Names, dates, scripture, loved ones.

thy name, O Jesus,
be forever blessed.

The baptismal font stands
Here, guarding its kin –
A promise from long ago;
A trust, a hope, faithfulness.

Alleluia!  Allelulia!


©  Lewis Bosworth, 2015

don’t flip me the bird
if I want your life erased
it’s a magic trick
points of contact between us
are sketchy and full of shame

tickling someone hard
as to discover their roots
brain coiled like a fist
as to maintain discomfort
keeping peace in the bedroom

guzzling beer or gin
of manic necessity
cryptic politics
planting **** in the basement
harmless binging on popcorn

charity for all
insomnia for no one
candidly speaking
triumph of simplicity
social media be ******

an octave above
the gift of tongues forgiven
coming out to god
the second amendment rights
a warming inundation

leading an army
sophomoric sergeant’s guilty
round peg in square hole
suspicion is the ground rule
round up the usual suspects

  
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

Service to others is the
rent you pay for your
room here on earth.
—Muhammad Ali

She talks of change, of
Back to neighborhoods
Which were comfortable.

Of underground parking,
Of walkable, convenient
Distances to work.

Oh, how nice to wish
For change, to want to
Go forward by backing up.

Or, to make sense from
It, plunge right in and
Join the dance.

I dread the thought of
Driving for fear of putting
My foot on the wrong pedal.

As a perfectly flawed man,
I live alone with a cat and
Shelves hosting 6K books.

Should she change?  Must
I?  Which of us has the
More restless heart?

Life is for living, it is
Said, so perhaps we can
Stick it out for a year.

Stick it out until you can
Prove that love is not a
Swollen mass of flesh.


Or change, change, and
Pretend you are different
From a new car in the driveway.

Or another K of paperbacks,
Or a new litter of kittens
Grazing in the kitchen.

If you change, hide all the
Evidence and be humble
As the crippled or the blind.

Share your legacy before
Someone else interprets
It for you.

And live every day slowly
While looking in the mirror
Saying “Progress, not perfection.”


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

We build a city of memories together
We leave a piece of us
In everything we touch
The night is ours
And we'll conquer this place together
Take my hand
And I'll lead through this darkness
I'll show you the salvation of our souls
Take my hand, hold my heart
And let's be the heroes of the world.