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

i met my fate as the orange grass met the sky
while i stood coddled up in sunlight, studious to some remnant of hope, either frequent or terminal

i sat cradled in tears screaming, speak or swallow me up
but perhaps the words came in sleep, or the bottom of my coffee cup
dripping into my sleep and bursting from buds
music to my ears or the flowers growing in love

i met my fate at the edge of the suburbs, when i disappeared into my head, barefoot and hungry, dashing into forests, so numb, holding my weight in heavy rising lungs.
i was fading, perpetual, my own burning constant.
haunted and gaunt, and hardly ever conscious

i met fate on the edge of chance, of a good luck charm. of a missing someone.
i met fate in the words tangled in tongue
where all you sing is unsung

and if you can't walk, you'll run

Beyond repair
              they said.

But I saw more.

So I wove gold
        within the cracks
sealing heartache

to make your
flaws
         beautiful.

Imperfections are elegant.

Things you could have been:

We could have built our houses in the shade of the sun’s eclipse
And taught our children to build their lives in the turn of the light
Because, silly geese, ultraviolet radiation pours out of its eye
And into yours all the same,
So it's still the day.

You could have waited more stilly, more patiently, more kindly
For the full moon’s pull of your blood’s tide and realized from the
Cracks and cliffs cut out of the shores of your defense that my face
Is the face you can’t remember
When you wake.  

But it’s dark outside and still not night, and the moon is full
But your blood is fine, so we keep building houses,
And I keep talking to
Other people’s children.