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

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

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

—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

the din of one thousand plus
audience members is displaced
as the concertmaster clip-clops
from stage right to center

a fusion of brass and strings
begins its call-to-order by
the woman charged with
bringing chaos to hundreds

of orchestral voices -
a boisterous parade of
timpani vs. flute vs.
bassoon vs. viola

then - silence - then
a moment of expectation -
she enters smiling with
baton under her arm

applause from the low
seats of the orchestra to
the heights of the highest
balconies

she mounts the rostrum -
a penguinesque black-
striped uniform topped
by a bob of dark curls

a moment of silence from
the musicians - her hand
points the baton to the
sky - and strikes the air

with the sweep of authority -
a blend of sounds causing
heartbeats to still -
allegro ma non troppo


© Lewis Bosworth, 2018

the 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

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

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

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

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

-1-

“Listen up,” says the dependent
Conch lying in the shallows of home.

“I am full of cold air and hot waves;
Hold me up, and we will vibrate!”

-2-

The sand palace above provides a
Beneficent confessional for bivalves.

In the distance, but not far, are the
remnants of rusty pails and shovels.

-3-

A drone flies over, dropping its cargo
Of earthworms for the hungry snails.

There is little sound at all, even the
Habitat of the birds has been silenced.

-4-

The conch is aware of its potential,
Its nacreous offspring are valued.

If its luster fails to please, it can be
Traded as Triton’s magic trumpet.

-5-

Up and down the dunes, as far as
The eye can bear, lie the moribund.

Once the mayor and prophet to
Sea creatures, the conch now dies.

-6-

Flash forward, the anthropologist digs
Up deflated volley *****, snow-cone

Wrappers, ragged beach towels and
Half-empty bottles of sunscreen.

-7-

The morning newspaper reads:
“President declares state of emergency.

“Marine life biologists meet at Harvard,
Price of fish increases 50 percent.


©  Lewis Bosworth, 3, 2017

—For my brothers in cabins, in hiding, out-of-this-world.

I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny *****, the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.

These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me.  But
I look again.  These are photos of posing and
***** boys.

They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’

So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.


© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980

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

corona

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


© Lewis Bosworth, 3-2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

̶  After J. L. Storie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


© Lewis Bosworth, 4/2018

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

His life is like the
Glass – half empty,
Half full.

What sources of
Love are to be
Found lurking therein?

Will they be the
Reruns of “Little
House on the Prairie?”

Or perhaps more
Like daily episodes
Of “******, She Wrote?”

Choices to be made,
Struggles to overcome –
Boys to be heard.

Now the months
Become years – their
Ages marked in tattoos.

Giving up the bottle
And the pack of butts –
A badge of thanks.

A Godly existence
Comes with favors –
Flavors and smells.

Bend down and
Stare at the stream –
Ripples and currents.

No sounds, little to
Lose in the quietude –
Life half empty.

His life is half full
Of regrets and brief,
Tearful canons.

Sudden relief – the
Joy of Mozart and
J. S. Bach.

This fullness a sudden
Surprise awakening –
Emptiness begone!

© Lewis Bosworth, 2018

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


© Lewis Bosworth, 5/2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Lewis Bosworth, 7/2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving;  let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!*       —Psalm 95:2

Giving thanks after a “Hail Mary” touchdown
or before downing a meal of turkey and all the
fixin’s ‒ not what the psalmist had in mind when
writing about being in His presence.

Here we are – days from the cross – not much
time to rejoice and give thanks for the real story,
the passion play to end all spectacles, worldly
narratives or daily newscasts.

It’s time to set the stage – polish the bells and
warm up the recorders, get out the metronome
and clear your throats – the opening chords of
St. Matthew’s Passion are in the air still.

The celestial chorus has no patent on singing –
the angel choirs we hear on high every Christmas
do accept new members – and going solo on
timpani or viola is pleasing to God.

Many of us – largely children – agree that when
making noise, we should be joyful, loud and
yes, not be afraid to do it in public:  sometimes
gangs even march on their way to forgiveness.

As we look around in the confusion of our
world – have you looked lately? – it’s very
helpful to read the psalms, the songs of David,
it is said, can be of comfort and enlightening.

Close your eyes and imagine a mystical figure
playing the lyre and singing the words of this
psalm – give thanks, sing, praise – the words
call us, an invite to worship.

This is the liturgy you can have every waking hour
– in the house of the LORD and in yours:  you can
praise the LORD in any key – anywhere – as long as
you practice the steps of faithful allegiance to the one
who gave himself for us.  Amen.  


  Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017

God’s Gifts to Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Lewis Bosworth, 12-2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017