He's needed someone to understand him;
I’ve only been trying to fix him.
—Erin Celello, 2013

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,
or even today.  And I’m okay with that.
—James DeVita, 2017


I speak the screeching dialect of remembrance.
And I hear the bursting of bullets,
I smell the fetid stench of ***** blood drying.
My life is a toss-up, a takeaway.

Trauma is, for some, a set of limbs broken
Into scores of pieces and unable to heal.
Thanks be to the great healer for prosthetic
Devices and physical therapy.

For me, trauma is bits of brain, hiding in the
Cerebellum, which cannot speak to me, and
When they do, they are rusted out, and they
Speak to a different drummer.

There is no present, no past, just crumbs
Which lead and follow me, like Sisyphus,
One step forward, two steps back, and
There is no greener grass elsewhere.

I dream the fantasies of a decorated man,
Beribboned and exalted, his thunder claps
Echoing throughout the ward in which he
Sleeps, bottles of pills to guard him.

Such is the world of anxiety, odd breaks to
Touch my loved one, her backstory, as vivid
As mine, is dying on the vine, our fable one
Perverted portrayal of destiny.

We speak the language of a student trying
Out his gap year to avoid the stress of being
Grown up, when the passage of time grants
No favors or refreshment.

Is this act two of my life, and did I skip the
Prologue?  I experience now only daily
Hiccups of fear and loss, and she is trying
To love a touchstone.

I live in multiple dwelling-places, homes, yes,
Some in foreign lands, some upstate local,
Some in safety nets swollen by well-wishers
And methods.

I try to fly away, to invent my own environs,
To stretch out on a cloud or bury my toes
In sand, but to no avail because I keep seeing
My home base, and I must learn to stay.

Sun starts to shine on my tangled world as
An old barn becomes new to me, and a dog,
My service companion, comes to rescue me
From the fields of war.

Leave it to children and four-legged critters
To balance the equation of stress and trauma,
To equal the benefits of modern pharmacy’s
Stratified cocktails.

The canine tongue and wagging tail know
Only love and never ask to be rewarded but
By the same gratitude they give me, a star
Performer of the simplicity agenda.

I close my eyes and imagine a mystical figure
Playing an anthology of applause- generating
Encores, to which I whisper thank-you’s and
Promise to be loyal and true.

You can see a portrait of us: me, my spouse,
My dog, the townsfolk and friends, the
Children and the visiting vets, my comrades,
By glancing at the smiles on the horizon.

It’s a new deployment, unfettered by rules or
Metered regimen, by missions and bombs.
I have good days and bad, but we greet every
New day with confidence.


©   Lewis Bosworth, 4/2017

Boasting coffins thick and cushiony as wombs,
Pay last respects; their waxen image so
Still, reprimands against motion – their tombs.
Pirouette darkly against the moon, on we go.*
Penny Leavitt, 2013

She walked and talked the boards – a gravelly
Voice chasing the arts among the vagaries of
Melody and meter and the colors of balloons.

Penelope Marguerite – seven syllables to sway
The boldest of characters in the most honored
Stories to be seen and heard on stage.

The little Shorewood house – known to groups,
Nay herds of neighborhood critters and their
Off-spring – where Penny dwells.

“I hear the pulse of you,” she wrote, “solemn-
Sweet pipes of the *****” – and abruptly shook
Herself up and got on with it.

That unmistakable pony-tail in strands of gray
Marched with precision through grocery aisles –
Cat food in cart and lottery ticket in hand.

In the class notebook, she penned with care
The tales of a teenaged temptress, “sauntering
Sexily, swinging svelte lissome *****.”

Co-poets often thought her lost – she travelling
Unannounced to Montreal or Chicago – but
She bore the title of grandmother proudly.

Penny gave her heart to whoever needed it –
Not that she lost it – as snippets of amazement
And humility took their places elsewhere.

“This is what grandmas hope for," she wished
For the face of nature to reveal its magical
qualities to her grandson.

Age and its surprises were not immune to
Penny’s pen; she was an uncanny student of
The human story.

“We pass those who have gone before us;”
She wrote. “We become the lassoed souls
Of a younger, more agile dream.”

Pope said to act well our parts; there all the
Honour lies – Penny did so, and then some –
“We hold our faltering shadows high.”

There once was a poet named Benny,
Who could write a limerick like any.
It might have a word,
Unique or absurd,
But could not match those of our Penny!



© Lewis Bosworth, April 2017

L'amour est à réinventer, on le sait.
‒Rimbaud

Pauvres amants
se croient pour toujours
et à jamais.
Se mêlent dans l’extase;
s’embrassent;
Claire de lune,
Beethoven et bougies.
S’enfichent de l’avenir.
Ombres pourpres
et vagues mélodies
font tomber des larmes
de tristesse, de bonheur,
d’absurdes épanouissements
qui vont hiberner
jusqu’au printemps nouveau.
Mêmes marins incessants –
travaux mutuels,
divertissements corporels,
nuls rapports d’esprit
sauf les jeux éternels
qui se jouent.


© Lewis Bosworth,
    Aix-en-Provence,
    1963

the dentists’ waiting room is
fitted with earthen clay tiles,
two coats of wax,  shiny
and slippery, protected with
twisted ragstock throw rugs.

in the middle, next to
the plastic rubber plants
stands an aquarium
filled two thirds up with
murky water.

an old rusty pump shoots
sprinkles of liquid starved
by oxygen debt, dying
globules joining  mother
pool, stagnant, deep.

glass walls covered with
little snails barely mobile,
hitched a ride with
yellow plants, gasping
for air, decaying.

the bottom is slimy, its
polished pebbles now
colorless, pasty with a
carpet of algae and
piscine ****.
  
a little boy approaches
and taps the glass,
unaware of underwater
waves.  no matter.
plecostomus feeds.

still alive, yet almost inert
are a large silver dollar,
two kissing gouramis,
some lemon tetras and
one lonely bloated carp.


Lewis Bosworth, 2006

Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving;  let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!*       —Psalm 95:2

Giving thanks after a “Hail Mary” touchdown
or before downing a meal of turkey and all the
fixin’s ‒ not what the psalmist had in mind when
writing about being in His presence.

Here we are – days from the cross – not much
time to rejoice and give thanks for the real story,
the passion play to end all spectacles, worldly
narratives or daily newscasts.

It’s time to set the stage – polish the bells and
warm up the recorders, get out the metronome
and clear your throats – the opening chords of
St. Matthew’s Passion are in the air still.

The celestial chorus has no patent on singing –
the angel choirs we hear on high every Christmas
do accept new members – and going solo on
timpani or viola is pleasing to God.

Many of us – largely children – agree that when
making noise, we should be joyful, loud and
yes, not be afraid to do it in public:  sometimes
gangs even march on their way to forgiveness.

As we look around in the confusion of our
world – have you looked lately? – it’s very
helpful to read the psalms, the songs of David,
it is said, can be of comfort and enlightening.

Close your eyes and imagine a mystical figure
playing the lyre and singing the words of this
psalm – give thanks, sing, praise – the words
call us, an invite to worship.

This is the liturgy you can have every waking hour
– in the house of the LORD and in yours:  you can
praise the LORD in any key – anywhere – as long as
you practice the steps of faithful allegiance to the one
who gave himself for us.  Amen.  


  Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017

Cain slew Abel –
Thus began the parade of
Characters whose dynasties
We remember, who decorate
Our memories.

Abraham –
He gave us all the stars
In the sky, a greater lineage
Than the grains of sand
Slapped by seas.

Moses –
The babe in the bulrushes,
The prince turned traitor
Whose whiplashed back
Parted the Red Sea.

Tempus fugit –

Geo Washington, Thos
Jefferson, Alex Hamilton –
Madison, Adams, Franklin –
Minds who created, who
Dreamed, who begat.

How many names we find
In those first tumultuous
Years – warfare and love,
Duels and decadence,
Politics and party.

Scant years later, across
The pond – revolution is
Catching on – les français
Waged a ****** scene,
Ousting the régime.

What would become a
Baby democracy – birthed
More than one new flag
And song – yet lived to
Fight again and bleed.

History is ours to hear –
We respect the honorable,
Honor the drama, revere
The prudent and refight
The battles.

The District of Columbia
Paints a new canvas – she
Sings off key, her promises
Begging for whitewash, her
Patrons vice and folly.

What offspring will such as
These sire?  Are they fathers
To found a new nation – to
Garner worldwide pride, or
To slay the abled?

Let the wings of victory
Carry us back to the days
Of greatness – let us exceed
In probity and virtue – let
Freedom succeed again.


*©  Lewis Bosworth, 3-2017

Toccata and toast
Tuesdays at the Bach café
Tonal illusion
A cheese omelet in two sharps
Black coffee in recital



© Lewis Bosworth, 3-2017