Being black
did not make him successful.
Being a scholar of the US constitution
did not make him successful.
Being the author of health care
legislation,
appointing female Supreme Court justices
and standing up for the rights
of LGBTQ people
did not make him successful.

These were all accomplishments
to be thankful for
but were part of the job
for a man whose devotion
to his constituents
and country was beyond measure.

His successes are due to a life-mate
who shined when she looked at you;
to a way with words that caused
both intellect and emotion
to stand on end;
to a stable and loving personality;
to a cooperative style
that belied scorn and impatience;
to a sense of humor
and of compassion;
to a stage presence
that might have earned a Tony;
to fairness that transcended gender,
age and credentials.

Thanks,
Mr. President.

*© Lewis Bosworth, 1, 2017

A misty morning
Leaves its dew
On a slab of granite
Facing the back yard,
The names etched
Recently.

Across the roadway,
Facing the asphalt
Sits a bench, its seats
Empty, the names
Obscure.  Children
Play innocently.

Passing away is
Euphemistic, but
The phenomenon
Is not.  Granite and
Urns of dust carry
On and on and on.

Innocence during
Life stops as mind
Becomes attuned
To the slings and
Arrows of decades
Of faulty love.

A long-lost friend
Received a holiday
Letter, years after
No-contact love.
He suffered much,
Died yesterday.

All these years, I
Have strayed, paths
Worn down by
Rain and mud.
Is there a road
Home?

Rebellion begets a
Ton of memories,
Lost kisses, roses dried
And withered, off-key
Music and dead
Teetotalers.

The earth is tired,
So favorite lullabies
Drown in salt and
Ice, alongside dirges
And psalms, just
In time.


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

the day is short
and long
when the sun
seems to
stand still


blink and you’ll
notice a sky
painted in rose
mocha and
gainsboro


the life of a
honey bee is
lengthened by
achromatic
images


stand aside and
smile while
a ****** buzz
attracts you
to life


beyond the pale
insides
of belief lies
the outside
atmosphere


what is short
in the sky
becomes length
in life
and love


© Lewis Bosworth, 1/2017

Rock climbing comes easy to
Anyone who has tried to scale
The face of the H. Building one
Meter at a time.

At dusk, and the electricity is
Out, rain falls lightly behind
You, the single pane of glass
Not quite in reach.

An illusory trance protects one
Hand at a time as it shakes its
Way upward, followed with luck
By one foot.

Wishes aren’t horses or fishes,
And even prayer cannot create
Steel steps or a decent length of
Climbing cord.

Gazing upwards or down is a
Dizzying event, twin spires or
The water towers on a collection
Of rooftops below.

The task was to gain entrance
To the building from which he
Had been banished, although
Dangerous it was.

To grasp and grab and place
And displace, to pull up and
Put down, to gain a quarter
Meter in the process.

Barely a stone’s throw from
His right hand was the edge
Of a windowsill, slippery but
Amenable to a lunge.

Losing a toehold would be
A disaster, so the skid free
Soles on his shoes would ensure
Victory.

A windless, now dry façade
Provided just the surface for
His hand to seize the sill.
Itself a jagged prize.

Here is a case, he thought,
Of mind over mortar, of the
Proof positive that man can
Do without scaffolding.

Even the banished can climb
To heights armed with secret
Weapons and ready to meet
A ☺ at the summit.*


© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

1

Only seventeen,
swings both ways.
Blond, curly short
cropped hair.
Sings body electric,
hums Madonna.
Taps cigarette
against shoe.

2

She won awards,
courted by peers.
Glorious new life.
Sang songs ringing
in new year’s,
inviting boys to
taste new experience,
tunes of the city.

3

He came to ask
about world of
boys and men.
Bold new hormones,
dancing body electric.
Curiosity humming
tunes with antiphons.

4

She came to close
debate, to whine and
moan, pathetic little
tears, wrenching hands.
Her world no longer
awesome, her body
full of spleen,
her mind tired.
Her hum now a dirge.

5

Seventeen years.
He grows yet, sparks
and electricity shine.
New songs, gifts, worlds,
peoples. Life filled
with awe. Body
celebrated. New film
is now. Camera pan to
scene 3.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2013

It all started with a wire recorder,
Skinny wire wound up on a plastic
Roller, in the basement bedroom of
His neighbor’s garage, very near
The place they euthanized a cat to
Learn about feline anatomy.

Fresh from his new job as an
Orderly at the VA hospital, and
Sure of his place as the savior of
Many a homeless alcoholic drifter,
Adam decided to start with a cat
So as not to practice without a license.

The recorder was a Christmas gift,
Since the young man had started to
Document the songs he learned in
His choir-school days in case he
Had to audition for a role in the
Church mini-pageant the next year.

Adam took pride in being able to
Reply in the affirmative to both
The questions his friends asked:
“Are you a scientist?” and “Are
You a singer?,” since the Nobels
Are being handed out oddly now.

Taping his notes was a necessity, as
His hands were always full of sheaves
Of music or carefully wrapped in
Latex gloves when he was armed with
Stainless steel surgical tools, and
Liable to get ****** dissecting.

On one occasion his much younger
Cousin happened in on the anatomical
Experiment and was sprayed with a
Rather morbid dose of formaldehyde
From the spot just under the tail,
Where he was standing.

Adam began to wonder whether this
Was the tip of the iceberg, or if he was
Merely fooling himself into recording
His results as the best way to gain
Entrance to the grad school of his
Choice, to join the other robots.

He wondered, too, if this was just
A little bit of a dream from faraway.
If the cat was simply a clue to the
Future, if in the entrails would be
Found dramatically bound in
Ribbon, the key to a music box.

And from this music box would
Spew forth a melody which Adam
Could redeem for a ticket away from
This basement laboratory and to
A candlelit stage floor where he
Would hear the sound of a single cello.

He believed in the things he always
Thought he knew, the things he had
Not memorized but had gut feelings
About, so in his beliefs could be no
Deceit, no surprise, no doubt.
Only wonderment and blind faith.

Black dots started to form on the
Ceiling, bells began to ring, soft
Crying in the distance became louder
As the ghost of the basement in the
Attic whispered in Adam’s ear:
“Your sleeping heart is awake!”


The whisper became a whistle, a
String of lights, then a fugue, then
The tick-tock of a clock, finally the
Sound of a fire’s breath in green
And gold murmuring over fake
Rattling radio waves.

Adam’s lab was transformed,
It became a lobby with a Steinway
But no player at the keys and no
Rolls hiding above them, only
A triptych playing the carols of a
Lone double bass leitmotif.

Adam felt blessed as he was called
Center stage by a maestro in white tie.
The podium’s glistening red and gold
Parament complemented his bright
Blue eyes in a pleasant way, as did
The strains of “Fantasia.”

Adam’s mom entered the room
Suddenly without knocking.  She
Handed him a letter from the ASPCA.
“I had to sign for this,” she whined.
“And get dressed.” she ordered, “Your
Choir rehearsal starts in an hour; hop
To it before your voice changes!”

© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

Have a moniker like mine?
        “@oogie123”
Want to tweet me?

This isn’t an attempt by
Haiku-enthused form poets
to limit your free verse self!

What’s your line anyway?
Are you the doting mother
or girlfriend of a laureate?

Billy Collins and Garrison
Keiler are first rate at poetic
output, criticism and style.

These champions make us
look in the mirror starting at
birth and not ending ever.

While we’re praising, let’s
add Mark Twain, Will Rogers
and Dorothy Parker to our list.

The tricks of the trade are
sarcasm, reality, hilarity, yeah,
and truth at any cost.

I never wanted to be tweeted
as much or more than I do
while I’m writing now.

140 words and illegal character
count are the names of this
prompt, so give it a go.

A fitting finale for most poets
would be a li’l heart sent
100 times in earnest.  

© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

The last one thinks of, yet the most
Important ‒ the blind use it to feel
Bumps in the pavement, and the
Deaf are tapped on the shoulder
To get their attention.

Because of texture and good company,
The absence of smell and taste don’t
Ruin a good meal.

As infants we survive by being
Touched ‒ love is given by both
Parents, whose skin is recognized
As the warmth it provides.

When we grow ‒ the pubescent years
And beyond ‒ girls still whisper, kiss
And touch each other as signs of
Affection.

Boys grow up touch-deprived ‒ what
Makes them different? ‒ Male fears
That men don’t touch because that’s
A sign of being queer?  Likely.

Sure, guys touch ‒ slaps on the ****
Playing sports, the snapping of
Towels in the shower room ‒ nothing
Gay about that!

Or is this sudden lack of tactile affect
A sign of maleness?  If so, we wouldn’t
Shake hands ‒ or high-five or hug our
Brothers and best friends.

Consider the massage ‒ visiting the
Parlor run by Asian ladies, which for
A 20-spot more brings a blow-job ‒
But answer an ad for online service
From a guy, and NOPE, not me!

Not unless of course the wife
Doesn’t put out no more or is
Sick ‒ then any excuse works.
But, that doesn’t mean I’m….

No, dude, it doesn’t, but any
Port in a storm ‒ we all know
What sailors do when at sea for
Months, or do we?

Maybe it’s just American men
Who are hung up ‒ The French
And Italians don’t seem to be
Paranoid, and Russian men are
Said to kiss each other on the lips!

So, maybe our psyches could use
A tune-up ‒ a lesson from a wise
And happy soccer player/philosopher ‒
“If it feels good, and doesn’t hurt
Anybody, do it!”  

*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

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 empathy,
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.


*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

My portrait will not be painted.
It will be  d r a w n  on textured
Paper with pointed charcoal
Such as the royal gallery’s
Commissioned best are done.

I will pose in the corner of a
Small room surrounded by splotches
Of torn cardboard and still moist
Papier-mâché under my footstool,
The burlap pants causing me to sweat.

It’s hard to tell if aesthetics
Are as important as the glory
Of the gray poster board surface
On which my upper body will be
Displayed in intimate splendor.

When first I agreed to this stance,
He said it was an abstract piece,
The geometric patterns of my body
Reduced and distilled to shadows,
Light and feathery and seemly.

As I was unpretentious, if not a
Tad modest, I was not prepared for
Fame via framed exhibitions of me
In the buff, even though my upper
Reaches were of decent eye-appeal.

I wondered if my blushing cheeks
Would transfer well in black and
Grey, or rather would my figure
Take on a halo of light, in jagged
Doses down to the treasure trail?

Who knows what he meant by one
And another reference to art for art’s
Sake, as if I were really a mannequin
Without a soul, subject to the jeers
And jollies of a maddening crowd.

I wondered what the docents would
Say when pointing at me with pride,
Perhaps “there is truth in this drawing;
Notice the hint of red in his face, a
Sign of the artist’s transcendence.”

Somehow I didn’t think this gig
Would make me famous, but as I stood
There, at attention, I hoped for the
Esteem of the crowds, especially the
Novice art students-in-training.


© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

—Flash Forward—

A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.

“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”

*—Flashback—

General.
     Colonel.
           Aide-de-camp.    
                 Immigrant.

“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”

—Stepfather of the Union—

Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.

“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
        corrected it.”
“The Federalist:  Addressed to the People
         of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
         of government.”

—Family and Marriage—

The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
     Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
          Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
                Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.

“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
     but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”


—Why, How, How long?—

Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”  
     ‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
       Hamilton:  The Revolution

© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
    With credit to the book:
     Hamilton: The Revolution

My innermost thoughts
Under lock and key
Daily written down
Dear diary….

A little link book
A black cover without
A title or name
Mine….

Some entries are
8.5 x 11 pages long
Spelling doesn’t count
Secret….

Between mattress ad
Box spring hidden
Don’t tell anyone
Personal….

Religion, ***, politics
Men, women, both
Scandals, friends, danger
Confession….

My soul bared
My heart broken
My bones brittle
Testament….

Social….
Twitter….
Virtual….
Misbegotten life

© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

You are a geode, a
special brand of rock,
crystalline quartz,
but hollow inside –
Ha! To see inside,
you must be sliced,
and then if you are
true, your inner
amethyst tingles.
It’s like your libido
on Facebook.

You are a robot, an
autonomous vehicle
under water pressure,
Diving!  Down, down,
past unimaginable
creatures, colorful
yet shapeless – a tin
man – rusted inside,
uncanny and witless.
Your heart’s chambers
on Facebook.

You are an apple tree,
flowering half a year,
bearing fruit the other –
sharing your meadow
with locusts and wild
honey – Cider! Or pie
or strudel – no matter,
the fruit is forbidden
and the pomarbo, is
the ****** of the lonely
on Facebook.  

You are – are you? The
jealous type who has
to keep up with the
Jones’ Xmas list and –
wallow in addictive
cutsey animal videos
and stolen bons mots –
this, amigo, is your
brain on *******, free
of charge, ma’am,
on Facebook.

© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016

three houses
stretching from gnarly bow to
     copper-greenish branch – only
dropping
one or two at a time
     sweet seeds enough to breed

tree houses
a sylvan hotel on the outskirts
     of town looking on the steeple
of a country church – its sabbath
psalms echoing painfully
     on the tympanum in number two

green houses
hidden in summer’s glory
     days to shield the men from pesky
folk intent on taking aim – trying to
test Josiah’s mettle and break
     him into baby twigs

poor houses
in spirit and pocketbook
     yet each armed with steely latch
guarding unknown contents –
at dusk the shadows of one
     candle cannot reveal

light houses
suspended at risk of plunging
     mere meters down – the common
room looking after ill-fated siblings
     huddling together in fear
and shame

glass houses
no brick or mortar – under lock
     and key and susceptible to the raps
of Isaiah the seer’s allegations:  “and what
is it you guard with fastened doors?”
the arborist poses

slaughter houses
tremble at the shock – major
     prophesying at the door’s weak
and rusty hinges now wet with dishonor
     and ruin and guilty sobs making
a last long dirge

           
© Lewis Bosworth, 2013

Grandpa crafted me a trellis,
thus many neighbors were jealous
of the tall, green plants climbing
higher than the picket fence.

Dad taught me how to improvise
and this talent let me devise
techniques of speech to trick
my classmates with “I digress,”

confusing them.  But I learned quick,
clever moves to draft a rubric
which taught everyone a free lesson
and gave me the right to decree

a day of silly games a week
for each student’s winning critique
of another’s literary
gift hidden in the library stacks.

Grandpa never went to high school,
and from my dad I hope that you’ll
find in me a bit of humor,
at least please omit the guilt trip!


© Lewis Bosworth, 11/2016

When I Was Fourteen
I took a walk around the world
When I was fourteen.

A round-trip from the country
Of Florida to the province of
Friendship.

I broke out my camp gear on
The way to the sea of desire
And edged my way to the point
Of view.

When I was fourteen
I took gym class and failed
Showers.

The water lapped at my body,
Its steamy blows pelting my
Boyhood.

The jocks jeered at me ‘cause
I cried in shop class a lot
When I was fourteen.

The girls wore saddle shoes
With bobby sox and they
Liked me seeing as I could
Dance the jitterbug.

I loved the beat, the jiggling
Of my legs against my pants
And I learned to cope with
My feelings of trackless taunts.

I starred in a one-act play but
Forgot my lines
When I was fourteen.

I had a dream in the province
Of friendship that there was
A boy called little prince
Who nourished a rose.
Prince taught me that I would
Only see clearly with my heart
When I was fourteen.

A new boy came to school one
day and sat next to me at chorus  
practice.

He gazed at me, his eyelashes
and lips detailed in copper, head
tipped back as though in trance
and pulled off his t-shirt.

I am here today because he was
There, nourishing me like prince’s
Rose, but with courage.

When I was fourteen
I met the gymnast of love, his
Daring glance, his feather touch,
Defiant, preaching counterpoint.

I tried to run away but his name
Kept Calling me back, like a
Birdsong: “Phillip,” it whispered,
“My name is Phillip.”

And I went to him, to his glance,
To his smile, to his arms, and
He sang to me, this boy named
Phillip:

“I know you, my little prince,
You are a wee patch of blue,
My Mordecai, my Bashar, my
Ivan, my Carlos, branches of
The same tree, so serious at
Fourteen.”

Soon another dream came over
Me, I dozed, drowsy and snug
In the arms of an unknown hero,
And I was wrapped in a frosted
Halo, when I was fourteen.

My halo was a gift from Phillip,
And it dripped so silently down
On the closet, on fire, holding
The me that I now behold in
The mirror.

I saw the shower and stood up
Proud, I saw the stage and
Remembered my lines, and
I was proud.  I was the rose,
Nourished. And I was proud.

I danced and dreamed and was
Filled with courage, my chest
Popping with buttons, my head
Filled with melody and my
Shoes tapping in rhythm.

Today we went home to see
My mom, Phillip and I, and
She put her arms around us
And said “Welcome, boys,
I love you!”

When I was fourteen.  


© Lewis Bosworth, 2014

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

A very talented painter.
He painted a piece
for me
– my request.
He had a Prince Albert.
It happens.

The Parisian sky is red.
Reflected in the
rainy street.
Six persons – male?
female?
Wearing black garb,
carrying black umbrellas.
It happens.

One lone man walks
uncovered in
the rain.
It happens.

The street is warm.
Lamps and yellow
windows.
Above a café.
A newspaper kiosk
across the way.
A vague skyline
in the distance.

Billy was reluctant
to sign it.
It happens.

He’s not here
anymore.
Off to the big city,
designing
tattoos and
painting fog.


© Lewis Bosworth, 2014

Dancer: tune up
your body’s chords,
swaying strategically
to the rhythmic commands
of an ancient age.

Princes, kings, and
courtesans:
mark time until the day
when your dance is
recorded on the scroll.

Laughing hyenas:
grimace a yep and a yowl,
and shed your tears
stealthily as would
the muses pray.

Corrugated wrinkles
don the happiest face
when one dares look
upon the choreographer
and turn away.

And we believe
that the chorus is one
and the prima donna
creates a world unknown
where no one pulls the strings.

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

She is the female lead
And plays a 91-year-old
Grandmother.

He is the male lead
And plays a 21-year-old
Grandson.

This is the first day
Of the Theatre 101
Boot camp.

A small but faithful
Group of fans
Plays the audience.

An aside – the fans
Are not culture-blind –
(pause).

Life’s small moments
Are acted out by
Veteran hoofers.

In the back of the
house – in darkness –
sits the director.

Love and healing,
Sensitivity, humor –
Trenchant script.

Two class acts –
Three weeks until
Les trois coups.

Awards, prizes –
Applause –
Ovation.

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

today
I put on a
tie

a gesture toward
formal dress

like a now-a-days
woman
might wear
a skirt

or
a teenaged
boy
a belt


© Lewis Bosworth  10/2016

Do we simulate or
emulate?
Stimulate?
These similes
we toss out so
cleverly.

To rhyme or not isn’t
the real question.

Down deep in our
inner being
is empathy.
Capture or
don’t make a point.

What are the lines
and spaces?
Do they look at
or peer about
a soul, a brain?

The emphasis must
really be
******-fiction or
nothingness.

A vacuum or perhaps
a void,
the truth or hurtful
lies.

Are lines and syllables
written, etched
out for us or them?

We live by poetic
license, using
a photo ID or a
nom de plume.



But here is the final
secret: our
lines are emotion,
or just an
echo?  

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

You’re stuck with a leaky lifeboat?
Cherish your vote.

You seek the system to berate –
Join the debate.

If daily news puts you in stress,
Clean up the mess.

Election time brings no redress –
Polls and ballots you have to bear
If civil rights you wish to share.
Cherish your vote.  Join the debate.  Clean up the mess.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16

Before he retired –
aged sixty-two –
life was a meaningful
calling for her.

Not over-radical,
more gentle and
secular – but post-
suffrage.

Her children had
left the nest, and
the story of Esther
came to mind.

She writes poetry
and helps others
less fortunate than
she is.

He puts food on the
table, and she gives
meaning to the
marital vows.

She never wanted
to emulate Steinem
or Millett – maybe
Eleanor Roosevelt.

She neither wears
a bra nor burns one
– competition only a
four-syllable word.

A day in her life is
one hand on the soup
kettle, the other on
a protest sign.

One week a month
she volunteers
at a church shelter
for the homeless.

One day a week
she picks up the
mail for a neighbor
who is bed-ridden.

When night time
comes and she lies
in bed, he massages
her feet in silence.

She hasn’t retired –
never will – not in the
shadows of the night
nor morning’s shine.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16

The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

suffer the young poets to come
they are already good – most –
what they need – like it or not –
is a heavy-handed teach with a
heart of steel and a mind of
compassion….  The other way
around?  the behavior education
model?  nope.  Whitman
wannabe’s will do it on their own?
nope.  Dickinson’s to be discovered
in yellow paper letters in death?  
spinsterhood to be canonized like
Lorca?  there are laureates in front
of me, standing tall at the podium –
life is to be lived, words to be spit
out with relish, juxtaposing music
with tears – letting ambition curdle
and toss away transience – Amen.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16

The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

Just past dawn
She toddles out in
A flour-sack apron,
A hatchet in her
Pocket.

Beside the upright
Log, its bark aging,
Leans a potato sack
With one white
Cackling hen inside.

The woman is all
Business, this job
Nothing new,
Dinner comes soon.

The log is capped
With two rusty nails
About 2 inches apart.

The hen continues
Her song, ignorant
Of her fate.

The woman grabs
The hen in her left
Hand, the hachet
In her pocket.

With deft attention,
The woman places
The hen’s neck between
The nails.

The cackling becomes
A maniacal squawk,
But no one is there
To grieve.

One quick stroke
Is all it takes, and
The hen’s head is
On the ground.

The stump is full
Of blood, and the
Proverbial body
Is running around,
Minus the squawk.

The woman grabs
The hen and shoves
Her back into the
Potato sack, minus
Its head.

The task is done,
Five minutes max.

Time to take her
To the kitchen for
The plucking of
Feathers and the
Saving of edible
Internal organs.

The woman and her
Hen are ready for
The family’s Sunday
Dinner, only hours
Away.

The hen’s head
Rests outside, its
Comb, beak and
Wattle the worse
For wear.

The woman sings,
Rehearsing:
Komm, Herr Jesu,
Sei unser Gast….


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

Stares down the worst nightmare
Frustrates your favorite reality show
Cannot be contained by a wall
Is a blend of church and state
Contains 50 years of Star Trek
Drives on the right side of the road
Rarely says “Hold on, slow down!”
Is no longer gender-specific
Sometimes prays en español
Allows girls to play football
Can be painted, sung or rhymed
Was born in the days of Hamilton
Celebrates the strong and the weak
Exists as a circle inside a triangle
Hears a whisper in the dark
Often survives the winter alone
Recycles its creation with glee
Worships a blue-eyed God or none
Wrestles its problems in private
Respects its gray-haired flag
Avoids front page truth
Imagines a rainbow during a storm
Invites a homeless woman to dinner
Permits free speech as protest
Welcomes immigrants from Syria
May be terminally happy
Calls the zoo a favorite place
Hums the sound of crickets at night
Put the words in Whitman’s mouth

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

― After American Song

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.


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

For all the saints…

Softly across the stone rectangles
Her hands lingered –
Palms and index pointed
At names and dates.

who from their labors rest,…

As if those behind the
Stones could feel her there;
As if the sainthood were
Rubbing off, a soulful osmosis.

who thee by faith
before the world confessed,…

The book was not unnoticed,
And she opened it slowly,
Unsure of what she might find –
Names, dates, scripture, loved ones.

thy name, O Jesus,
be forever blessed.

The baptismal font stands
Here, guarding its kin –
A promise from long ago;
A trust, a hope, faithfulness.

Alleluia!  Allelulia!


©  Lewis Bosworth, 2015

don’t flip me the bird
if I want your life erased
it’s a magic trick
points of contact between us
are sketchy and full of shame

tickling someone hard
as to discover their roots
brain coiled like a fist
as to maintain discomfort
keeping peace in the bedroom

guzzling beer or gin
of manic necessity
cryptic politics
planting **** in the basement
harmless binging on popcorn

charity for all
insomnia for no one
candidly speaking
triumph of simplicity
social media be ******

an octave above
the gift of tongues forgiven
coming out to god
the second amendment rights
a warming inundation

leading an army
sophomoric sergeant’s guilty
round peg in square hole
suspicion is the ground rule
round up the usual suspects

  
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

I want to change.
You want me to change.
There’s a security in the old me.
I try to change.
You try to change me.
There’s a predictability in the old me.
I’ve changed a little – a little.
You’ve changed me – a little.
There’s a scariness in the new me.
I will change.
You will not accept.
There’s an uncertainty in change.
I have changed.
You have changed.
We don’t know what to do about it.
Perhaps what was worse is better.
I want someone new in me.
Do you?

© Lewis Bosworth, 2013

if you walk on the front lawn
past the library where –
free of charge –
you can take some
if you leave some

if you approach the front
windows she will likely try
to claw the screen
attesting to her
ownership

if you walk up the driveway
and duck under the
grapevines or
poison-ivy – some say –
will tickle your legs

if you look upward
you can barely see the sky
between the
older-than-the-4th-of-July
burr oaks

if you walk past the
once-was back door –
into the backyard –
a forest of ****-trees
shades leftover plants

if you stroll further
the spring bulb-mothers’
dead stalks
cover the leaf-mulched
soil

if you climb up two rotting
steps to the bird feeders
squirrel-ridden –
and treated with suet –
is the cardinal family’s
year-round home

if you like critters and
engage them in dialogue –
natural ambiance –
you will have an annual
prayer rug for a yard

if you let the white pickets
go gray beside the curb –
looking wrinkled –
the shimmer-light of the
street lamp will guard the
paw prints of winter bunnies

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

As I peered down at the murky
Distance beneath, a stalactite
Scratched my shoulder.

She looked to belong there,
Translucent in her birth suit,
A callous icepick in drag.

I gagged on the still water’s
Stench, hoping for a mirror
To spy on the carp below.    

Strange sounds came from the
Depths filling me with fright,
A white sheet covered my head.

My memories of life before
The well emphasized
My pledged share of crops.

Looking down at turmoil,
A witches brew, a caucus of
Black children as phantoms.

What does the mob spawn?
Down there in the shadows?
Can they sell me again?

My story is growing faint,
It gnaws like a cancer
In line to pay the poll tax.

The terror of being thinned
Out is one way to judge
The faces of injustice.

A leprosy of the soul plagues
Me, this scurrilous writ of right
To cultivate cotton and tobacco.

Two small visages glare up,
The girl has dry hair,  
The boy wears suspenders.

Terrible myths surround
The tales of cherubim
Cursing the walls of mold.

I look down again at
The single bucket, its clamor
Pealing against the bricks.

There is a dizziness about
Staring into an infinite liquid,
Call it vertiginous space.

Consider the opposite,
Gazing up at me, seeing
And feeling raindrops.

Inside this well lurk a
Paradox and an illusion,
Duplicitous evils.

Seeing the faces at the
Bottom is an illusion,
That they exist is paradoxical.

Black isn’t black, but white
Isn’t white, another paradox,
Test them for translucence.

In this day we are challenged
To be just, to hold high
Our heads, never to abort.

The penultimate favor
Is of forgetfulness, of
Ignorance, of mercy.

The only face left is
That of the white sheet
Covered in dust and sweat.

© Lewis Bosworth,,2015

Behold: the blind now see the river’s
banks spilling water on their shoes.

They touch the mud, rubbing it on
their naked thighs, cooling comfort.

The smoke of a man’s pipe on a park
bench nearby wafts above their heads.

It causes them to salivate with thoughts
of cedar, lemon drops and licorice.

Little boys stop in their tracks as the bell
of the ice cream truck peals by.

Playing tricks is the game of the brain
whose cells deliver dreams, laughing.


“Uncommon Senses” will appear in Trying Hard to Hear You, © 2013, Lewis Bosworth

Service to others is the
rent you pay for your
room here on earth.
—Muhammad Ali

She talks of change, of
Back to neighborhoods
Which were comfortable.

Of underground parking,
Of walkable, convenient
Distances to work.

Oh, how nice to wish
For change, to want to
Go forward by backing up.

Or, to make sense from
It, plunge right in and
Join the dance.

I dread the thought of
Driving for fear of putting
My foot on the wrong pedal.

As a perfectly flawed man,
I live alone with a cat and
Shelves hosting 6K books.

Should she change?  Must
I?  Which of us has the
More restless heart?

Life is for living, it is
Said, so perhaps we can
Stick it out for a year.

Stick it out until you can
Prove that love is not a
Swollen mass of flesh.


Or change, change, and
Pretend you are different
From a new car in the driveway.

Or another K of paperbacks,
Or a new litter of kittens
Grazing in the kitchen.

If you change, hide all the
Evidence and be humble
As the crippled or the blind.

Share your legacy before
Someone else interprets
It for you.

And live every day slowly
While looking in the mirror
Saying “Progress, not perfection.”


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

It’s the wee things that get to you,
the things that they – the invisible
“they” – don’t think of or deem –
what an egghead word – import.

Like the many languages Pope Francis
speaks to the poorest of the poor – just
books away from Revelation and the
end – apocalypse, they call it?

Like the simple task, simpletons do it
in political campaigns for the simplest
of the simple – cost deferred until a
position be taken if it isn’t ******.

Like the contours of the manhood of
the waiter leaning tightly against your
table – as he asks again if you want
your salad with French or Italian.

Like the death of Romano III, a cat of
nineteen, lying alone on a warm rug –
or it was a cold shoulder, the mother
lode of forgiveness.

Like the birth of an heir or heiress of
a circus regnant – a cut above the
silliest of the silly, dancing in the
streets to a playwright’s tunes.

Like the circumcision of a newborn
boy – a social decision on an *****
that doesn’t know itself until puberty,
an unfair decision by a man.

Like the baptism of a child – protection
against purgatory or is it the shoreline
of the Jordan where wading isn’t kosher
when the teenaged lifeguard is absent?




Like the final couplet of the last sonnet
of a poet – her celebration and self-worth
still unrhymed, its meter and iambs
unborn until next week.

Similes slant to the similar, metastasizing
and growing outside the box – oh, ****,
the poet says, her wings clipped by a
little thing like a pep rally.


© Lewis Bosworth, 2013