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

—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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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 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

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

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

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

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

― 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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-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

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

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

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

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

maple leaf ragtime
dancing around the maypole
tap the tree at dusk
when dancers are sugar sweet
syrup is very sticky

—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