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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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