It snowed today and yesterday
And the day before

Is there anything in the world
That resembles snow when

It becomes a threat and
Stops being pretty?

When it takes over the
Skies, the driveways, the

Edges of the forest and
The paths to everywhere?

Even the children aren’t
Immune when they fall

Down trying to make a
Snowman, his charcoal

Eyes and carrot nose, and
Worship the sun hoping

For a day of melting and
Even rain to make their

Time inside only a part-time
Joke, with daisies and roses

To celebrate the greenness
Of the absentee landlord

God’s Gifts to Us

I’ve been reading them for days now –
A group of sad or angry, dark or humorous
LGBT poets who – despite the fact that
My middle initial is “G” – outshine me
In every way.

Not because they’re L, G, B or T, mind you,
Nor because they’re Christians.  Because they’re
**** Good!

I’ve described a mentor of mine thus:
She taught me “X,” but she really taught
Me to teach.

So when I read these men and women, I
Could say they’ve taught me to write,
And mean it!  

To borrow the title of another poet,
If Jesus were gay – thank you,
Emanuel Xavier, I think our savior
Would approve.

Since I’ve borrowed from Mr. Xavier,
I guess it’s legal to borrow from a poem
I wrote, Coloring Kids.  Color is a
Favorite theme of mine, be it
Crayons, skin, purple or artist’s blotches.

/Teachers may have red pens which can
Strip away the dreams of a child holding
A bigger-than-life yellow magic wand
In his fingers.  

Priests, exacting confessions prematurely,
Wear collar and stole, no matter the sin,
To blanch milk-chocolate souls, prescribing
Fiddling with rosary beads.

Nuns, black and white, decked out in
Paisley prints these days, follow suit./

My colors and Mister’s crayolas are
Kindred spirits.  When I read many of
The startling poems of these LGBT poets,
I smiled out loud, or giggled softly.
In some of their work I could hear

Them speed up:  Giving a reading,
Perhaps – my heart fluttered hearing
In my mind the words of Mr. Holyoake’s
The Thief  - and I think yours would

Skip a beat or two if you read the poem.
I also recommend the poem of Ms.
Heidenreich, not because she shares her
Name with my Junior High reading teacher,

But because of the awesome words in
I wanna be like Jesus:  then surely Jesus
Loves the little homos or at least is
In touch with “the little gay man in
All of us.”

I suppose one might consider this a
Rave review of my Christian brothers’
And sisters’ work:  I give thanks to Him
For giving it to us.

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
balconies

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

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