You may not want me to tell you about
The Galilean thermometer,
But I’m going to tell you anyway:
[It will improve your life!]

The GT is colorful – its rainbow
Of glass bubbles sparkle
Slowly as they sink and swim
Buoyantly in liquid.

Signor Galileo was savvy for his age
[Late Elizabethan],
Even though he didn’t shoot an
Apple off anybody’s head.

GG was one step ahead of Einstein
[Alphabetically]
As his popular theorem posited that
If  D↓, T↑.

This can be seen by ogling the GT
[Note the dog tags]
And checking to see if the blues
Are higher than the reds.

In Galilean terms the colors of the
Glass bulbs are unimportant
Since D is a function of the dog tags,
[Ma Nature dictates the T].

GG invented the GT because he had
A dream one day that
The climate in Pisa was warming up
[The tower began to lean].

Rising and falling as a result of density
Isn’t new to science:
[Jump in the neighborhood pool].
Ethanol in water.

GG’s heirs haven’t profited much from
the GT, nor has it been widely
copied by entrepreneurs of note:
[“slow and lazy”].

The verdict on the GT is still out, but
Early reports suggest it won’t
Exceed the popularity of the Chia Pet
As the holidays approach.


©  Lewis Bosworth, 6-2016

Let my prayer be counted as incense before you,
    And the lifting up of my hands as an evening sacrifice.
—Psalm 141


I am prayer,
I am a room without walls,
a Rubix Cube,
the Rubicon.

I am the parting of the
Red Sea,
the brass ring,
the gold at the
end of the rainbow.

I am prayer,
I am mysterious,
the five senses
without sight.

I am a broken relationship
repaired,
loneliness
beyond tears.

I am prayer,
the upper room,
Do this for the
the remembrance
of me.*

I am a child with
Down Syndrome,
I am cared for,
loved, nurtured,
and I can sing.

I am prayer,
the road less traveled,
the road home,
this is the way
the night passes.

My hands are folded,
lifted up and away
there is light,
music, hope
and grace.

I am prayer,
I am a room without walls,
the five senses,
especially touch.

My words are gentle,
I can be whispered
or sung,
or shouted
from the rooftops.


© Lewis Bosworth, 1-2017

Being black
did not make him successful.
Being a scholar of the US constitution
did not make him successful.
Being the author of health care
legislation,
appointing female Supreme Court justices
and standing up for the rights
of LGBTQ people
did not make him successful.

These were all accomplishments
to be thankful for
but were part of the job
for a man whose devotion
to his constituents
and country was beyond measure.

His successes are due to a life-mate
who shined when she looked at you;
to a way with words that caused
both intellect and emotion
to stand on end;
to a stable and loving personality;
to a cooperative style
that belied scorn and impatience;
to a sense of humor
and of compassion;
to a stage presence
that might have earned a Tony;
to fairness that transcended gender,
age and credentials.

Thanks,
Mr. President.

*© Lewis Bosworth, 1, 2017

A misty morning
Leaves its dew
On a slab of granite
Facing the back yard,
The names etched
Recently.

Across the roadway,
Facing the asphalt
Sits a bench, its seats
Empty, the names
Obscure.  Children
Play innocently.

Passing away is
Euphemistic, but
The phenomenon
Is not.  Granite and
Urns of dust carry
On and on and on.

Innocence during
Life stops as mind
Becomes attuned
To the slings and
Arrows of decades
Of faulty love.

A long-lost friend
Received a holiday
Letter, years after
No-contact love.
He suffered much,
Died yesterday.

All these years, I
Have strayed, paths
Worn down by
Rain and mud.
Is there a road
Home?

Rebellion begets a
Ton of memories,
Lost kisses, roses dried
And withered, off-key
Music and dead
Teetotalers.

The earth is tired,
So favorite lullabies
Drown in salt and
Ice, alongside dirges
And psalms, just
In time.


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

the day is short
and long
when the sun
seems to
stand still


blink and you’ll
notice a sky
painted in rose
mocha and
gainsboro


the life of a
honey bee is
lengthened by
achromatic
images


stand aside and
smile while
a ****** buzz
attracts you
to life


beyond the pale
insides
of belief lies
the outside
atmosphere


what is short
in the sky
becomes length
in life
and love


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

Rock climbing comes easy to
Anyone who has tried to scale
The face of the H. Building one
Meter at a time.

At dusk, and the electricity is
Out, rain falls lightly behind
You, the single pane of glass
Not quite in reach.

An illusory trance protects one
Hand at a time as it shakes its
Way upward, followed with luck
By one foot.

Wishes aren’t horses or fishes,
And even prayer cannot create
Steel steps or a decent length of
Climbing cord.

Gazing upwards or down is a
Dizzying event, twin spires or
The water towers on a collection
Of rooftops below.

The task was to gain entrance
To the building from which he
Had been banished, although
Dangerous it was.

To grasp and grab and place
And displace, to pull up and
Put down, to gain a quarter
Meter in the process.

Barely a stone’s throw from
His right hand was the edge
Of a windowsill, slippery but
Amenable to a lunge.

Losing a toehold would be
A disaster, so the skid free
Soles on his shoes would ensure
Victory.

A windless, now dry façade
Provided just the surface for
His hand to seize the sill.
Itself a jagged prize.

Here is a case, he thought,
Of mind over mortar, of the
Proof positive that man can
Do without scaffolding.

Even the banished can climb
To heights armed with secret
Weapons and ready to meet
A ☺ at the summit.*


© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

1

Only seventeen,
swings both ways.
Blond, curly short
cropped hair.
Sings body electric,
hums Madonna.
Taps cigarette
against shoe.

2

She won awards,
courted by peers.
Glorious new life.
Sang songs ringing
in new year’s,
inviting boys to
taste new experience,
tunes of the city.

3

He came to ask
about world of
boys and men.
Bold new hormones,
dancing body electric.
Curiosity humming
tunes with antiphons.

4

She came to close
debate, to whine and
moan, pathetic little
tears, wrenching hands.
Her world no longer
awesome, her body
full of spleen,
her mind tired.
Her hum now a dirge.

5

Seventeen years.
He grows yet, sparks
and electricity shine.
New songs, gifts, worlds,
peoples. Life filled
with awe. Body
celebrated. New film
is now. Camera pan to
scene 3.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2013