All are invited to taste-test a French meal, free-of-charge, at the
Table of near west side Chef Louis.  The first course will be a
Salade Niçoise, prepared the usual way – vegetables, salad greens
From the Periwinkle family, des oeufs durs et des olives ‒ Flavored with a pinch of myrtle.  Those so inclined may have escargots instead.  Louis will pop the cork on a vintage vin rouge.

The main course:  canard à l’orange, spécialité de la maison.  
Known far and wide as the best duck in town, it has a secret sauce
Including the bird’s bone marrow, and is a favorite of Paul Soglin;
Hizzoner has been showing up brandishing a “ditch Walker” sign.

While the cuisine is incomparable, the dinner music, too, is
Délicieuse.  In town for only a week is the diva, Renée Fleming,
Accompanied by the virtuoso cellist, Yo-Yo Ma.  To forestall the
Entry of hordes of fans, Louis will have the louvers closed.

The wait staff will be in the wings with the dessert du jour, Crêpes
Suzette – using the best Orange Curaçao ‒ before a small frigate
Is unmoored for return to the Lesser Antilles to pick up a new
Stash.  Louis is a total service restauranteur, and he has vowed to
Let all his guests take a selfie, with him, Yo-Yo and Renée, in the
Private chef’s booth, in just a glimmer of the day’s remaining light.

Though he’s unbearded, Louis uses Brilliantine regularly to help
Him attract the most voluptuous of available dates.  Mais, prenez
Garde, mes demoiselles, Louis est français, après tout….  


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

Here’s the thing,
Scaredy-cat poet ‒
Only so many lines to use.

For or against?  Support
Or disdain?  Good or evil?

What are your sources?
Are you credible?

How about Marian Anderson
Singing at the Lincoln Memorial?

Maybe Gabby Giffords as she
Still recovers?  The NRA.

Or the rhetoric of “Four Score,”
Lincoln’s famous speech?

The macho American dad’s way
Of bringing up son ‒ Teach him
To use a BB gun in the back yard;
Make a man out of him?

Quote James Baldwin maybe?
“I am not your *****.”

Closer to home is the “justified
Anger” of the Rev. Alex Gee ‒
“If we celebrate ourselves as
Black saviors, we’d be crucified.”

Harry Truman and Hiroshima?
Will history repeat itself?
Start of war of the words.

Quoting the Bible makes too
Many folks mad, and leads to
Religious fervor.

Quoting the Constitution is
Complicated and requires too
Much interpretation.

The protest march has gained
Popularity; why not march?
The “march of words.”

If you’re a man, can you
Take up the cause of women?
For women? Legitimately?

If you’re white, can you
Take up the cause of Black
America?  All of it?

You, poet, can you write
About the killing of scores
Of gay men in a bar in Florida
With integrity and understanding?

Perhaps all readers need
A docile approach; soft and
Unassuming words?

In the long run, maybe poems
Should be limited to love,
Flowers and beauty?

Yes, that’s it!  Be a scaredy-cat.
Don’t take chances; Better safe
Than sorry….


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

The carillon bells
Ring to celebrate a man
The tower is strong
The music ethereal
The metal clappers striking

Four bells become three
Each tolls a biography
Catholic Central High
Carroll College French classes
Manhattan Paris Lisbon

Three chords one chorus
Many banjo strings twanging
To honor one man
A lovely still life hanging
A note in perfect cursive

Two bells together
Laughing singing travelling lots
Two souls two hearts one
A home full of love and cats
A home of ringing bell chimes

Looking forward back
Eyes opening to the other
Ears awake and true
They dedicate an album
A domestic partnership

Music and flowers
To honor the resting man
In a niche that loves
Where family sings and prays
Where two are one together


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

Mr. P subs as Ms. B is ill
P is a retired white-haired grade school principal

B’s classroom has globes and pull-down maps
The 7th grade world has seven well-known continents

But B stresses South America
Its countries, capitals, wars, heros and languages

Today there’s a paper-pencil quiz
Students have to write in the names of every country

“I don’t understand,” whines young Jack D
His classmates giggle ‘cause Jack’s the class trouble-maker

“Here,” says P, pulling down the large map
As he pronounces and points to very large Brazil

There is almost silence in the room
As many pencils copy the word “Venezuela”


© Lewis Bosworth, 6-2017

The rainy pathway to my door
Is traveled seldom by love.
Yet when I wake up suddenly
And deeply seek one true friend,
He breaks the knot of silence,
Leaving me behind his stare,
Making no sound.

This life-long journey’s just begun,
A three act play on justice.
And when I’m asked for action bold,
My haunting spirit dries up,
And some spiteful, savage dreams
Concocted by a puzzled brain  
Take me over.

The distant torments weigh me down,
So I begin a letter
To myself in silent focus,
A jumble of mixed-up words,
Of wounds, of wonder meeting
A patch of juxtaposed doorways
Closed fast to me.

Erstwhile egocentric leaders,
Boasting childish rightful goals,
Preach democratic relations
Which, by cheating the ballots,
Become valid through heinous
And popular, unsuspecting
Loyal households.

Sometimes we hope for miracles,
Or anything to mend us
And make our lives less sorrowful.
The bitter tastes and weirdness,
Which color our existence,
Re-educate our resistance
In sane motifs.


Spotting the detours of our world,
In advance of setting forth,
Will buoy the dangers only some.
And then our soul’s résumé
May howl and regurgitate,
In front of witnesses galore,
Its cruel intent.

I play at a game of pretend,
But only win in time to
Scare a hill of ants to submit.
If belief in twitter’s true,
My score is less than zero,
But my ladder of life is full
Of gratitude.


© Lewis Bosworth, 5/2017

The basement compound is full of stacks.
Six thousand plus books in alpha order.

Welcome, bibliophiles and novice poets.
The lighting is courtesy of a three-bulb tree.

A balanced diet of tomes, sonnets &
Limericks, prose poems in tongues.

A cheval glass mirror sees Wendell Berry.
The room under the stairs has anthologies.

Each volume is part of a collective whole.
Vendler on Dickinson & New York Haiku.

This one-time coal-bin has a dehumidifier
To keep it alive & free of mold.

The poets are unaware of the visits of
A baby raccoon who almost ate Auden.

They are sleeping soundly, immune to
Dog-eared magazines in the reject corner.

Lorca himself rests just above the sump
Pump & Yeats across from the water heater.

The furnace keeps Frost warm in winter
& The Lady of the Lake dry.

Come & check out the underground home
Of Thomas’ and Plath’s villanelles.

No photo ID card needed here, just a
Healthy, insatiable appetite for metaphor.

There is one requirement:  patrons must
Leave cell phones at the top of the stairs.

& they must have a love-affair with the real
Thing, a desire to touch a book.

Yes, all six thousand plus volumes are, or
Were, in print – made of paper and glue.


©  Lewis Bosworth, 4-2017

The Auction Block

I don’t belong here.
Why am I here?
I wore a shirt.
Where is my shirt?
My hands are bound.
Why?  Why?
I fear I’ll be sold.
What is my price?
I can’t be sold.
Where is my family?
I am not for sale!
Who will take me?
I work hard, I am strong.
Why is my stomach in
        knots?
The Lord, my God, is good.
Will He protect me?
Yes. Yes. Yes.


© Lewis Bosworth, 4-2017