-1-

“Listen up,” says the dependent
Conch lying in the shallows of home.

“I am full of cold air and hot waves;
Hold me up, and we will vibrate!”

-2-

The sand palace above provides a
Beneficent confessional for bivalves.

In the distance, but not far, are the
remnants of rusty pails and shovels.

-3-

A drone flies over, dropping its cargo
Of earthworms for the hungry snails.

There is little sound at all, even the
Habitat of the birds has been silenced.

-4-

The conch is aware of its potential,
Its nacreous offspring are valued.

If its luster fails to please, it can be
Traded as Triton’s magic trumpet.

-5-

Up and down the dunes, as far as
The eye can bear, lie the moribund.

Once the mayor and prophet to
Sea creatures, the conch now dies.

-6-

Flash forward, the anthropologist digs
Up deflated volley *****, snow-cone

Wrappers, ragged beach towels and
Half-empty bottles of sunscreen.

-7-

The morning newspaper reads:
“President declares state of emergency.

“Marine life biologists meet at Harvard,
Price of fish increases 50 percent.


©  Lewis Bosworth, 3, 2017

—For my brothers in cabins, in hiding, out-of-this-world.

I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny *****, the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.

These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me.  But
I look again.  These are photos of posing and
***** boys.

They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’

So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.


© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980

See 100 people class-shopping
In a round-robin cafeteria of
Color-coded day-of-the-week
Selection of 21st-century choices.

Watch and listen as they stock
Up on a one-of-a-kind plan to
Take up hour-after-hour of
A busy, too crowded week.

“Can’t take any orange classes
‘cuz I work on Thursdays,”
“What time do the green courses
Meet?”  “Homework?”

The pink class on catharsis and
Empathy is filled so there goes
The pseudo-psychological vein
To fill up a well-rounded agenda.

Classes are filled-to-the-brim as
The shoppers round the last
Curve to check out Friday’s blue-
Plate, end-of-the-week fare.

The crowd thins as the few
Remaining cookies on the
Refreshment tables are snapped
Up greedily.

It’s a good thing there are few
Requirements except lazy-boy
Memories of forgotten high
School dreams.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017

You are part of the beautiful whole.*
           — Joanne Storlie

The dark night of the soul meets
The coming of the dawn.

The agony of declaration a mere
Glimpse into the truth.

The spirit, so powerful and full
Of promise and beauty.

The testimony, reaching your
Heart with boundless joy.

The trust, beyond words, a gift
Abundantly given.

The strength to succeed in life
And recognize its value.

The constancy of faith, its face
An artistic canvass.

The search for humility in all
Your endeavors.

The recognition of fledgling
Relationships.

The forgiveness through, with
And in the great I Am.

The authorship of another
Loving generation.

We light here to grasp
Less of what we think

We are, and more of, in
Straight-speak, what
We truly are.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017

Religion is an experience ‒
Don’t forget to pay attention
To the road signs and orange
Cones – stations of life.

The dried putty surrounding
The stained glass shards is
A template for countercultural
Beliefs – fidelity.

Pick a denomination and take
A number – investigate the
Universe – celebrate via Billy
Graham or Timothy Leary.

Turn to the pages in the
Geodesic south Indian sub-
Continent – pray to a Hindu
Shrine or dine with a Swami.

Hail the Krishna highs – close
Your eyes and be transcendental
As often as you breathe – but
Do not divulge your mantra.

Heed the children as they climb
And play – drooling on the statues
Of Buddha and his goddesses
At the corner of rebirth.

Monastic discipline is for the
Elderly – after they reach the
New liberation – in tune with
Their pure souls.

Be pragmatic if you must –
Choose therapy, shock waves
Of the brain – or bow down
Before B. F. Skinner.

Start and nurture your own
Beat generation camp – be
****, be alien, be aware of
The invisible lights.

Go west to “EST,” and train
Followers to process bits of
History – couple that with an
Out-of-body jaunt.

The je-ne-sais-quoi of ends
Is approaching – embrace a
Chapter on thanatology, and
Share the culture of after.

There are alternatives – try
Gnosticism or Scientology –
Be the man who won’t believe,
And reach your potential.

The final analysis is to find
Your eternal family – they can
Be anything – beings with which
You will piously be born again.

Give each their name – 2nd Eve,
Zen the little, Erhard, Wymyn,
Pope ***** III, Bogie – and call
Them your disciples.


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

maple leaf ragtime
dancing around the maypole
tap the tree at dusk
when dancers are sugar sweet
syrup is very sticky