"bosworth" poems
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 ******* ‒
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
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
On Bosworth field the die was cast
As banners flapped and arrows flew
The King of England breathed his last
A new one crowned before the day was through
Spewing lead the canons roared
Armour glinting in the light
When Henry's banner Richard saw
He led his men into the fight
The standard bearer he cut down
Then ten feet from his foe it's said
His horse got mired in boggy ground
So failed the charge that he had led
As Henry's men surrounded him
Richard stood his ground and said
I shall not flee, I'll die a King
England's crown upon my head
For the House of York the cause had failed
His skull was smashed, the deed was done
The House of Lancaster prevailed
On Bosworth field the war was lost and won
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I would like to hold an Asda Memo pad in Fleet Street
I would like it if, in the process of being a low-priced tomato
I were stepped on
and really assured that the real-estate in which my squishing had occurred in - would grossly swell in value
Seen as my squashing had occurred.
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
—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
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
At least give the devil his due;
A thousand wind-swept contenders become a few
As the coast erodes & tides
approach
we wonder if God ever spoke
___
the drained heart of god
Initials & pillars both flown, blown away
To await scripture from a new era
Is he there, in a modicum of fear
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2013
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
At trees reunited or the Great Timber-yard in the sky
There are certain branches
who remember the incisions made
to fell their growth.
spurts & seasons,
and the wind rustling
through imagined leaves of
appendages long gone
All the gunge
symptomatic of sap coagulated
won't replace the
holes in the sky
© Copyright David Bosworth August 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
The imaginarium speaks for itself
It isn't a rough & rumble place
and inferno
or a monastery
but
semblance of poetry
slice of junkfood
- escapologist
© Copyright David Bosworth November 2014
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
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
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
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
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
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
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Sooner or later
you find yourself in one room
just one.
In the middle of the morning where the moon never sets:
it’s not perdition
You think you’ve scaled a gloomy height,
And you’re waiting on a mystery beauty
No you don’t need a friend
a hundred thousand, they’ve done it all before,
They lifted kings upside down, rose up out of craters, shook down God
it’s that sparkling fat chance amidst the hour of rapid eye movement
Turn bad to good, they say, emotive as a breeze-block
Dream better somethings up, reach backwards to someone that felt.
Well it’s your problem
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
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
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
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
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
It's imperative to me to believe the universe has a centre, well, the Milky Way has one.
Solar System, too
What if, what if
there is no centre to anything and it's tragic the Sun has to think for the planets - elastic bands, floating soap bubbles in a bath
© Copyright David Bosworth December 2014
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
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
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
*The injustice of this bit deep
Into her consciousness
Quite illogical to be so disadvantaged
A rough night....
Another death
That spelt failure in another case
Stripped by the willow
Serene in her calling.....
Secure in her sanatorium
Her slumber were as troubled
As those of Shakespeare’s King Richard the third
The night before the battle of Bosworth Field ...
Night wore on
Noises died down
As she sought some sleep
Quite the sensation....
That came between
A perfect repose
Heaven only knew
Then near darkness
Other disturbance emanating
With no flashing lights
She was playing on the wing
She was sure about that now....
She was bolted into the room’
As the Taurus had been shot down
With her unborn child
Playing on her mind
Diagonally in the dark
Books were everywhere
Notebooks with meaning
Hearts of evil...
He must be very near!
Near in time
Near in distance
Ready comprehension
Was At hand ...
What did he have in mind?
Moving to Milan
The eternal city of life....
If Nero had lived here
The roof terrace
Would be burning ...
What revelations lie ahead?
To our damaged life
Poetic justice
one more time
somehow someway sometime...
Will she live or die?*
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
How bitter it was to be bereft
of Crown and life
in self same breath.
Bitter it was to fall and die
while disloyal Stanley stood idly by.
The arrow lodged close by my spine
as I was pole axed from behind.
A King of England, doubly dead,
stripped naked ,on an *** was led.
In Leicester's graveyard I was lain-
The anointed monarch they had slain.
To lie forever in this hole
while Henry wore the crown he stole.
My Queen, my son, both predeceased,
were nobly interred and rest in Peace.
While I, Richard, ignobly lie
near Bosworth field with Greyfriars by.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
As food for thought
the girl shines bright,
the bird - grey; then I sink lower, sleepy
in my seat. They exchange luminosity.
No principle of geology forced the bird out of stone
But so, the girl is eroding
sighing, alone.
Contemplating the garden
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2013
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.
King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.
Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.
The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.
The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?
Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
War is a system. It is The System.
it is the means to keep people who feel insecure, securely tucked into a command bunker
Securely delegating their fears out,
so others who would rather plead insanity
Bleed vapidly in their leader's imaginings,
instead of war
who ever thought we had much, such in common?
© Copyright David Bosworth April 2013
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
seagull over, above
reflects back
Led Zeppelin
to me
in folded angles
© Copyright David Bosworth April 2013
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC