corona

only days ago – or was it weeks?
I played with my youthful toys
which included a set of boys
who spent hours examining
the ring around the sun.

now it dawns on me – after
breakfast – that my thoughts
have double meanings, two or
three or more daily reminders
of a double-entendre life.

blame these fascinations on
the stories on television – the
guardrail of our society – for
we have the **** tube to
thank for newsworthy truth.

but I digress – a longtime
habit – from the meaning of
the words I have learned,
words that take on novelty
as they meld and mold.

all around me – hill and vale –
schools and churches are closed
to the very folks who support
them, no thanks to money or
needy spirits in want.

and God help us if we stray
from the very lexicon that
brought us here – the dust-
covered tome of a dictionary,
its usefulness never doubted.

it’s almost like pre-school – the
fine lines we read – the words
composed of ancient syllables –
bits and pieces  of chemistry
and high school math.

one has only to watch to
assimilate the warning signs –
travel restrictions during
pregnancy – or myriad signs
warning to wash ones hands.

and so it goes goes – on and
on – the truth has power, and
the words belie all pre-testing
and the failure thereof to
be accurate and useful.

in the final analysis – and there
is always a bit of both  - of dire
and scholarly necessity – a strong
dose of responsibility which
governs our reaction.

one final glance in the mirror
is always called for – for no little
scam can be living in the selfie
behind the proverbial story
of beauty and the beast.


© Lewis Bosworth, 3-2020

You invite them and
They hem and haw
Maybe
Don’t think so
What time again?
Who’s going to be there?
Any singles?
Let you know later

To accept is fearful
Commitment
They’ll have to dress
(As if they don’t usually)
Wonder if she’s coming
(I don’t want to see her)
He quit drinking I heard
Tea is good

You didn’t send a
Holiday card - did you?
How old is their daughter?
Those awkward teens
Bound to run into
Them at church
I’ll tell her then
Or maybe an email

Whitman hears varied carols,
A unified song.

Has the song stopped? Or
Are we tone-deaf?

Building fences to remind
Us of dead kids.

A stone per name, a
Petrified forest family.

The family we know
Is fractured, drained.

Guilt, you say?  Guilt?
The toe-head’s a killer.

Assign a platform to us.
Wooden grief and angst.

Can pistols be bargained
Away?  For an id card?

The father, back from hell,
A be-medaled veteran.

A backyard bee-bee gun
Makes my boy a man.

He shoots with an open
Mouth and cries his song.

The flesh is cold as rock.
It stings like death.

The Mom is absent and
Mute in her glacier.


Our tale’s a mesmerizing
Witness to parental faith.


As much a game as shooting
Gophers in the snow.

the set

upstage center
layer on layer of red brick
one door with screens
three steps in faux cement
bay windows on either side

action stage right
a young girl dances in rain
wearing a fake leopard-skin
     leotard

action stage left
a man builds a garage
from a cardboard box
     plan
wooden boards the
     color of brick

action center stage
a young boy aged ten
     poses proudly in
     cub scout uniform
a woman snaps a pic

downstage center
a man plants a tree
     near the road
he waters the tree
he mows the lawn

stage left
a 1950 Olds cutout
     sits in the driveway

in the pit
the concrete street
     has no sidewalk
a woman rides a bike
     pedaling in rhythm
she waves at the
     neighbors

the boy grows up
this is his fake house
they are his fake family
he waits for his
     curtain call

Kumbaya, O written words, customize your thoughts into bite-sized
Nuggets, and store them in the clouds – in the huge video of the sky.
Always easier to see the movie than to read the book, right?  This isn’t
Being lazy – this is efficiency, this is learning to hear and see quickly.

Emoji-me your innermost feelings – and make it snappy, yet truthful –
Obvious like a pebble gracefully striking the water’s surface.  Forsake
The grimness brought by the news of the day – be not obsessed!
Bow down and worship chirps, tweets and posts, and share them.

In the looking glass you can see diminished contemplations as
They drift into nothingness – even the brightness of a smile is
A smirk turned to stone – our language and our soul are a morbid
Collection of dry bones on a sickly precipice.

The new generation is born of a slain, technocratic parent – their
21st birthdays celebrated beneath the fallen soldiers of newsprint –
A new world in which a museum houses the letters and arts of
A coherent paragraph now called a blurb.  Kumbaya.

Every night before bedtime
I read to my son.
Every morning before school
I read to my son.

He loves words, especially
New words and funny words
He can share with his friends
At school.

The stories I read to him
Have good characters
And bad characters,
He lives in a world of
Good and bad.

The world around him
Is a world of storytellers,
Stories of nostalgia,
Stories of love.

But some stories speak
To good people in bad
Ways, these stories teach
Hate and hurt.

Good stories can break
Down walls, singing bold
And powerful songs, sharing
A symphony of sympathy,
A lineage of love.

My son is still young,
He needs to fantasize
And imagine what different
Lives are like.

He is learning to be
Kind to everyone, to
Make art from stone,
To touch and smile.
As we read stories, we
Learn about our shared
Humanity, our proud lexicon,
Our identities, our open
Hearts full of love.

Please read me a story.

Tightrope

I am a man
On a tightrope
Strung dramatically
Between two skyscrapers
Paradoxically above
A sandcastle and
Its moat

I am a man
On three legs
Walking between
Two mountains
Listing in clouds
And rain and
Gulleys

I am a man
On one leg
Airborne
Above peak and
Valley and climbers
Vertiginous vista
Below

I am a drone
A skyward glance
At myself
And the lost
Days of wasted
Journeys and
Folktales

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

I came to church that day.
Not God, not Jesus, not
The spirit was the caller.
His name was Warren.

He lured me to his place
Of worship, a cathedral
Bested only by its music.
I was an easy catch.

My life wasn’t lacking
In pleasantries nor in
Weekend activities.
I was an open book.

Had I been examined
By professionals, I would
Not have been said a “dead
End,” enslaved in emptiness.

No, I came to church as
An absentee who was as
Curious as a cat, and as
A likely disciple.

If one can swoon at hymns
Or wonder at stained glass,
It was I.  These Lutherans
Knew their stuff.

The presentation was
Stunning, the atmosphere
Friendly, the Pastor gracious.
A package to unwrap.

I came back, I learned, I
Joined a membership class.
I wanted to belong.  I did.
Thanks be to God!

© Lewis Bosworth, 7/2018

What is a man?  Is he macho or a bit
sensitive? Or neither?  Does he cry?

Can I see your chromosomes?  Can I
touch them?  Please! I won’t squeeze.

My man is cute.  He wears nail polish
on his toes.  He has red hair and freckles.

He swims naked.  He sings in the shower.
His hands are warm and ****.

Is he for real?  What’s the definition?
He’s a tenor.  I like to kiss him.

Are You a *****?  The letter Y.
Where do you keep your *****?

He’s Xtra sweet.  He dances all over.
He wears a bandana.  Do you like candy?

Is bisexual the same as bilingual?
Will the kids have red hair?

Loving is an art form so practice.
Keep your crayons next to the bed.

Will I run out of chromosomes as
I get older? Can I borrow yours?

My mother-in-law is YY, but she
doesn’t talk about her pills.

I’m normal because my X comes before
my Y.  If yours doesn’t, back up.

It would be simpler if babies started
as ABs rather than XYZs.

Do parents plan their girls and boys?
Can they wish for an athlete or a nun?

What if she wants to be a him? Or a
boy wants to wear pretty dresses?

Why are we ruled by rules?  Can’t
we decide who or what we want to be?

I bet this doesn’t happen to your aunt
or uncle when they are ready to sleep.

The best way to deal with unknowns
is to pretend you have a big *****.

Just don’t let your mom find you ****
because she might be embarrassed.  

My motto is “If you want to be a girl,
go for it.” The ****** will adjust.


© Lewis Bosworth, 6/2018

down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora

a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign

an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions

a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine

a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky

the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie

burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not

cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty

the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask

a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

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 Reverend ‒
“If we celebrate ourselves as
Black saviors, we’ll 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

̶  After J. L. Storie

Remembering the joys of motherhood –
Putting on pajamas, picking up clothes,
Brushing teeth, bedtime drink of water.

They’re on a sugar high, giggles, night
Time hassles, hamming it up, stories –
Grade school delirium and horseplay.

Two little girls about to fall asleep, but
Full of joy and a day’s activities to tell
Whoever will listen – important stories.

Even boys are part of the drama – love,
Marriage, movies, lords and ladies –
The stuff girls talk about with grandma.

Breakfast time comes soon, and planning
For the day begins – rain prevents going
For a swim – let’s pretend suffices.

Building forts using blankets and pillows,
Playing doctor with grandma’s cat – its
Willingness to play in doubt.

Imagination is soon drained, and real
Play intercedes – grandma’s dresser the
Home of props for growing up.

Jewelry, half-slip, *******, socks stuffed
In bra to simulate ******* – dress-up is
Fun, but like in all games, interest wanes.

The sun comes out, and two young
“Aquabats” squeal with delight –
Grandma is coaxed into water-sliding.

Three female bodies slide quickly into
A few feet of water and dog paddle
To nearby poolside safety.

Grandma is reminded of her days – fifty
Years ago – when she and her own sister
Played at Esther Williams swim routines.

These dances, which enliven, rejuvenate,
And bond – stories of family evolution –
Bring treasured hours of utter joy.


© Lewis Bosworth, 4/2018

I am unconventional
You are ingenious
We are a pivotal moment’s
Away from a dream

Two voices times four eyes
Breathtaking precision
Imagined connection’s
Celebration

Blue eyes spell a
Mysterious intersection
They are empathy’s
Treasure

Passion and animus
In cartoon captions
The fleeting magic’s
Downfall

My features loath to
Penetrate the depths
Of your memory’s
Leftovers

I can see your love
In seclusion while your
Eyes tempt the pawn’s
Move

The miracle of love
Is in the visage of
The open portrait’s
story

© Lewis Bosworth, 12-2017

The alleyways of Ann’s arbor – a
reminiscence of myriad trips from
Lisboa to Cascais with stops at
the green lawns of the palace of
a desceased Portuguese nobleman.

Nine trips to the same country –
a welcome yearly journey to a
welcoming country – Portugal –
my gift to him, for his gift of
love to me, obrigado, T.

A bell tower decorating the campus
sky – under the stately protection of
a graduate universe – was home to
languages sought and tended to
reverently in their own building.

Across the diagonal heart of the
sunstruck pagan centerpiece –
libraries and hothouses cast their
shadows on the pedestal of the
flagpole, in its trite austerity.

The halls of the new residence
greeted a swarm of newly coined
experiments – immune from the
15 credits of drills visited on the
typical first-year initiates.

The typical pie chart had three
pieces – logic & language, frosh
seminar and foreign language –
a fourth piece could be elected,
and was, from a vast menu.

It was I, the almost doctoral kid,
who swept up the remnants of
French vocab and grammar for
the required classes needed to
be proficient by college rules.

I, who lamented his freedom, yet
came to classes – more than one –
fettered by guilt, if not burdened
with book-writing and admin tasks
which violated the Ph.D. goal.

That first class was a thrill per
conjugation and realia – nothing
was too much for the college –
and my recollection is of
a no-holds-barred classroom.

Only once before had I broken
a rule that then wasn’t even of
consequence – the post-grades-
turned-in frivolous date with
an ex-student, a male.

Language classes were not graded
in the college – so there was little
to dissuade the profs from an
up-front, public display of college
camaraderie – call it tutorials.

She was the perfect fit – a well-
educated daughter of a diplomatic
family – with manners, looks and
wit – and no apparent frosh
baggage to taint our time.

I think back, those fifty years ago,
of her as an exceptional friend, a
lovely, soft and caring woman –
a female who actually cared what
I thought, and liked my friends.

The recently redecorated college
halls greeted us with grace on this,
the fiftieth anniversary of inception –
I recognized my former colleagues
and students, wrinkles and all.

We said our names to each other –
as if they were fake news or as
if we wanted verification of the
physical existence of the elder
person standing face-to-face.

Then I made a necessary walk –
my walker and I – to the couch
in the lounge area, where I could
not resist asking about him – her
erstwhile boyfriend of the 60s.

Names, dates – more or less –
came to both of us – she knew
more than I about many men
who shared our lives – It was
my turn, then hers to recount.

Our college coterie was not
immune to the unacceptable –
there was Jay’s addiction, George B.’s
penchant for boys, my lunchtime
martinis, and bizarre Anita.

My forty-seven years were a
predictable journey – what else
do non-***** French teachers
do? – she a surprise package,
at least to me, a cause for envy.

These two lives joined only by
memories – the symmetry of
years together, and the unknowns
of years apart – except the names:
Chuck, Tom R., Mark, and Tom W.

The agenda called us back to our
raison d’ être – the need to go to
the next session, event, meal, etc.
We met at Stephen’s limnal space
crossing, and I went to hear music.

There were so many college “sardines”
seated at round tables at the festive,
closing dinner, that our meeting up
was almost accidental – she and I
both trying not to waste a moment.

In the days that followed our abrupt
goodbye, I spent trying to relive this
unique couple that she and I were –
student/teacher? Only briefly –
lay minister/clergyperson?  Yes.

But denominationally different and
worlds apart in miles, would a couple
of onetime friends – forget titles –  
now share their lives in a modest way
or drift apart forever?

We are technocrats, so the business
of staying together rests on electronic
mail – or phone numbers scribbled
on a napkin – hence I shudder at the
loss of a treasure such as she.

I cannot know the outcome – the
marriage of minds is complex,
especially for two aging ones –
but I am a hoper who takes his
clues from above.

A favorite author writes of “ghost
spots” –  staring out from my world
to her world – “Remember the way?”
I look her in the face and say:
“Call me by your name.”  Please.

© Lewis Bosworth 12/2017

Kumbaya, O written words, customize your thoughts into bite-sized
Nuggets, and store them in the clouds – in the huge video of the sky.
Always easier to see the movie than to read the book, right?  This isn’t
Being lazy – this is efficiency, this is learning to hear and see quickly.

Emoji-me your innermost feelings – and make it snappy, yet truthful –
Obvious like a pebble gracefully striking the water’s surface.  Forsake
The grimness brought by the news of the day – be not obsessed!
Bow down and worship chirps, tweets and posts, and share them.

In the looking glass you can see diminished contemplations as
They drift into nothingness – even the brightness of a smile is
A smirk turned to stone – our language and our soul are a morbid
Collection of dry bones on a sickly precipice.

The new generation is born of a slain, technocratic parent – their
21st birthdays celebrated beneath the fallen soldiers of newsprint –
A new world in which a museum houses the letters and arts of
A coherent paragraph now called a blurb.  *Kumbaya.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017

Look around you, in the bushes,
up in the clouds, in the cubicle
next to you at the office.

There’s a (wo)man or maybe
a wo(man) ready to save your
life, put out a fire or kiss you.

(S)he is a mother or a father or
a sister or a nephew – and (s)he
is on a “don’t touch me” list.

The evil one has branded “IT”
as inhuman, ugly, *****, canine –
words that hurt deeply, sting.

You see, (s)he used to have a
***** but now does not – or (s)he
didn’t have a *****, but now does.

What makes the evil one sweat
about the pinkness or blueness
of a child’s toy animals?

Is it wearing pants instead of
skirts?  Is it wearing lipstick
instead of a moustache?

In the court of the evil one –
modeled after Renaissance
art and sculpture – is a rule.

Only the descendants of Eve
properly equipped with a ***** –
and born with it – are human.

So, hark, you who believe in
equality, test your chosen ones –
be sure their equipment is valid.

What God has given cannot –
according to the laws of nature –
be changed into fake goods.

Fear not, though, you scaredy-cats,
the evil one now has a solution –
a birth certificate is not enough.

The new proof of citizenship – in
fact the only legal document – is
the ****** passport.

This 20-page, copyrighted, coded
booklet is impervious to forgery –
it explodes if attempted.

The bearer’s birth photo is on
page 1 – containing a ***** or
***** plus an inkblot thereof.

This is proof positive of the
real gender of the owner – *****
anyone with a contrary viewpoint.

The evil one is pleased with their
cunning enforcement of the true
rule of nature:

Only men – natural penises, of
course – may serve as adherents
of “MY” constitution.


© Lewis Bosworth, 8/2017

It wasn’t until my housecleaner,
His insulin pump attached to his black
Stockings – to put him in touch with
His feminine side – handed me the

Orange carton of papers from the
Dusty attic, that I realized that I had
Kept all the letters received in the
Years 1956 to 1974.

I was tempted to pitch the lot of
Them when I saw my own mother’s
Handwriting on a few, and my sister,
Whom I had ignored too much

As older brothers do when they’re
Too busy and too important or too
******* in life’s joys and sorrows,
As if they just won the lottery.

But names kept popping up from
The past – names not to be ignored
Or forgotten – some were on tattered
Pages, others quite legible, all were

Loving memories of not-so-long-ago
Past loves, former friends, frenemies,
Many, alas, deceased – not with us
Now – the list goes on.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017

When what I want is to grasp
The words of a dead writer,
In one-half a column torn apart
By my failing strength.

It’s history or fame or a mix of
Stars on the Hollywood sidewalk
That tear up my collector’s zeal,
Not the celebrity of the goal.

You have only to look at one
Page to see a spirit, a substance,
Which shines so brightly, you
Blink and want to cry.

My reading genes are walking
A tightrope, the right brain is
Laps behind its left-hand cousin,
Rebellion devours my senses.

A dash of ****, a dab of prayer
Are in a crystal container at my
Bedside, their warrantee intact,
Pox on paragraphs unseen.

One last look at the print on
The wall, its ancestor apes staring
In defiant glee, **** sapiens
Will not be retrained.

Cognition, behavior, labels for
The weird act of digestion of
Grammar and words and a dose
Of  heart-managed trust.

What I want is to read, to buy,
Not rent, what was promised,
Yet I am a para-genetic freak
Unable to decipher zip.
  
© Lewis Bosworth, 9/2017

If I could walk, I’d march with
The black and civil rights folk.

If I could walk, I’d carry a baby
On my shoulders to let him see

The evil behind him, in front of
Him, across the street he plays in.

If I could walk, I’d wrap love in
A blanket and give it to an old lady.

I’d sell my car and make a
Bandage out of its metal.

I’d be in a parade right next to the
Pastor from down home.

If I could walk, my tears would
Dry up, and my gut, as tight

As steel, would scream, fighting
Against the hate in the world,

The empty hearts emptier by the
Day, the hopeful souls dried up.

I cannot walk, but I can sing, and
I will sing songs of praise and

Melodies of strength and support
For those who hurt and whose

Eyes and ears are numb with
Grief and pain and chaos.

I cannot walk, but I can protest
Against betrayal and lies and

Corruption and bloodshed,
And protest I will.

© Lewis Bosworth, 8-2017

The circle has no front row,
The circle has no back row.
No standing up, no sitting
Down by rank or class.

Thirty chairs in a circle,
Thirty equal voices, thirty
Pairs of eyes and ears, thirty
Eager minds on alert.

This picture is a learning
Space, a teaching space, a
Safe, sane, willing home
For opening up, for truth.

This circle has few rules,
Its ownership is shared,
No boss, no king, nobody
Wins or loses.

This circle has no colors,
No vibrant palette, no code
Of dress, no pledge of
Allegiance, only the cypher.

Each chair is mobile, it may
Speak, it may be silent.
Each chair faces inward,
Each one opens to the rest.

Fear is absent in this place,
The circle is freedom and
Its cohort sings and dances
The opera of love.

© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

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

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

-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

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