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
the din of one thousand plus
audience members is displaced
as the concertmaster clip-clops
from stage right to center

a fusion of brass and strings
begins its call-to-order by
the woman charged with
bringing chaos to hundreds

of orchestral voices -
a boisterous parade of
timpani vs. flute vs.
bassoon vs. viola

then - silence - then
a moment of expectation -
she enters smiling with
baton under her arm

applause from the low
seats of the orchestra to
the heights of the highest

she mounts the rostrum -
a penguinesque black-
striped uniform topped
by a bob of dark curls

a moment of silence from
the musicians - her hand
points the baton to the
sky - and strikes the air

with the sweep of authority -
a blend of sounds causing
heartbeats to still -
allegro ma non troppo

© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,
So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.
Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

But choir’s five songs are causing my descent.
Their off-key pitch a momentary slide;
So harmful do I find it to my pride
That autoharp and banjo I will rent.

If music I don’t wish to circumvent
And tracks or melodies to take in stride,
Then practice every day til I’m bug-eyed!
Perfection is the prize self-evident.

No tuba player’s yawn will stop the train,
Nor second movement snores encores abate!
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,

So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.

Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
My mother-in-law turns 100 in November.
My partner died over twenty years ago.
I miss them.
I am a widower.

Some days I am sad.
Others I give thanks for their love.

One day we’ll see each other again.
We’ll be in the same niche.
Folks will sing to us:

For all the saints
Who from their labors rest.

We will be very happy.

© Lewis Bosworth, 7/2018
In the age of aquarius I saw
In a tank of caged creatures
A pair of little seahorses.
They aren’t like in the movies,
You know.  They’re really in love.
You can tell by their tails
Which are helpfully and carefully
Joined gently as they lead and
Follow each other around the
Little space they have to share.

They say that these horses are
Both the same.  They’re male or
Female or female or male or
Maybe even just two of them.

In the room outside my doctor’s
Office, I saw a birthing seahorse.  In
Their tail, now only a pair of arms and
A warm, sleeping lap, a baby cradle
Or a breast made of prehensile love,
Was a baby horse, gasping while
Its other one was finding out their
Role.  In the cubic inches of a
Cage, it would be so simple.

They say that these horses are
Both the same.  They’re male or
Female or female or male or
Maybe even just one of them.

© Lewis Bosworth, 7/2018, revised
I came to church that day.
Not ***, not Jesus, not
The spirit was the caller.
His name was Warren.

He lured me to his place
Of worship, a cathedral
Bested only by its music.
I was an easy catch.

My life wasn’t lacking
In pleasantries nor in
Weekend activities.
I was an open book.

Had I been examined
By professionals, I would
Not have been said a “dead
End,” enslaved in emptiness.

No, I came to church as
An absentee who was as
Curious as a cat, and as
A likely disciple.

If one can swoon at hymns
Or wonder at stained glass,
It was I.  These Lutherans
Knew their stuff.

The presentation was
Stunning, the atmosphere
Friendly, the Pastor gracious.
A package to unwrap.

I came back, I learned, I
Joined a membership class.
I wanted to belong.  I did.
Thanks be to ***!

© Lewis Bosworth, 7/2018
What is a man?  Is he macho or a bit
sensitive? Or neither?  Does he cry?

Can I see your chromosomes?  Can I
touch them?  Please! I won’t squeeze.

My man is cute.  He wears nail polish
on his toes.  He has red hair and freckles.

He swims *****.  He sings in the shower.
His hands are warm and ****.

Is he for real?  What’s the definition?
He’s a tenor.  I like to kiss him.

Are You a *****?  The letter Y.
Where do you keep your *****?

He’s Xtra sweet.  He dances all over.
He wears a bandana.  Do you like candy?

Is bisexual the same as bilingual?
Will the kids have red hair?

Loving is an art form so practice.
Keep your crayons next to the bed.

Will I run out of chromosomes as
I get older? Can I borrow yours?

My mother-in-law is YY, but she
doesn’t talk about her pills.

I’m normal because my X comes before
my Y.  If yours doesn’t, back up.

It would be simpler if babies started
as ABs rather than XYZs.

Do parents plan their girls and boys?
Can they wish for an athlete or a nun?

What if she wants to be a him? Or a
boy wants to wear pretty dresses?

Why are we ruled by rules?  Can’t
we decide who or what we want to be?

I bet this doesn’t happen to your aunt
or uncle when they are ready to sleep.

The best way to deal with unknowns
is to pretend you have a big *****.

Just don’t let your mom find you ****
because she might be embarrassed.  

My motto is “If you want to be a girl,
go for it.” The ****** will adjust.

© Lewis Bosworth, 6/2018
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