"circuitous" poems
on the other-side of a grave wall
there may rightly be a water-vessel
that is chicken-hearted by birth
there may not be around her
a stretching of water-body
do remember
when we all went that day to catch the train
the room of the rail-station was totally vanished
after enquiry it was revealed that
it had gone to observe holidays with its family
in the yolk of the eggs of the snipe
before opening the no-door to take a leap i also knew
that the top-branch of a green and large grasshopper
was mainly made up of white-stones
i did not also have
any mystic words
given by the moon
to recite silently
so without caring for the water
i made a all-complete ocean
with sands and cement
throughout the year
solvency gets down
from the body of the traffic signal
even-then
the monsoon this year
has been under the poverty-line
and the ray of hope is that
it is this circuitous route
leading to the top of the himalaya
that would one day
play the tune of differential calculus
on her guitar
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
Curtains, veils of virtual vice
So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.
Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-porn pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.
It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Along a winding meadow way
Circuitous and pebble strewn
Towards a brook and down a slope
As morning sun outshines the moon
An expectation clogs the air
And all about the flowers turn
To face a wave of tidal light
To catch ablaze but not to burn
A dusky fragrance lingers still
And gathers calm as mercury
In solemn spots beneath the boughs
It lies in perpetuity
The weaving breeze is powerless
And banished by the canopy
Abiding there a myriad
Of all of natures panoply
Drift along now deeper still
A clearing basks amid the shade
An isolated paradise
A lonely little woodland glade
Where early spring regains the lead
And ferns uncurl a welcome hand
The nettles bare their jagged teeth
And offer up a reprimand
A dragonfly takes up my path
And leads me into humid heat
She weaves amid the reaching grass
And safely guides my straying feet
Between the rocks and rabbit holes
That litter my vicinity
The creatures in my path retreat
All sensing my proximity
A fallen trunk now blocks my course
Like driftwood on the shoreline, beached
Its peeling bark is spiraling
And pale in the sunlight, bleached
Enfolded in its limbs I am
As if they shaped themselves to me
As though a plan of ages hatched
And formed a place for me to be
**
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
The circuitous and arduous roads
Slithers over the difficult terrains
Slimy and slipping away from reality
Through the tapestry of agony
Bruised souls pay with dripping blood
In deepest burrows hibernates the truth
Weary and defeated travelers move along
Only the one who bends but do not break
Shall redeem truth from the caverns
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Recieving mixed messages-
And returning them.
This is my defense mechanism.
You are here one moment
Gone the next
I am responsive today
Uninterested tomorrow
Circuitous jargon
Perpetual confusion.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Vague
F J McCarthy on Nov 3, 2009
We are here and we are speaking,but your meaning is unclear.
You allude to situations with out ever going there.
We dance around the subject, trying hard not to commit.
Suggesting innuendo’s in the statements we omit.
Why can’t we just this once, speak openly and true.
Perhaps that is a talent we have never learned to do.
The hunter and the hunted switching roles from time to time.
Never letting out our secrets,just a foggy misty rhyme.
Ever do you torture me, with this circuitous verbal plague.
Answer me this question, Why must you be so Vague.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 4:07 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
I buried her beside the clematis
Before the old untidy oak. The sullen wind
Began its circuitous hiss
A mocking presence. A cruel portend.
With fevered brow I pressed
The dark soil down, my quaking hands
My anguish succinctly expressed-
Stubborn fingers torn into blood-red strands.
Putting the ***** away, I went back indoors;
Her corpse still fixed in my sight, I made tea,
Sweat seeping from my pores,
As I drank, my hands again shook visibly.
A storm broke over the nearby hills
Roaring rolling sounds of shame,
Walls of rain thudding on my window sills-
The resonating thunder repeating her name:
‘Lucilla! Lucilla!’
Came each profound clap
Her voice within: ‘You killed me. Murderer!’
Long after the lightning’s crisp rap.
I had loved her with my infinite core,
Her screams scoured my teeming brain,
It pained me as I smashed her beautiful head on the floor,
Her rapid blood fading down a drain.
I died inside as she died my hands upon her neck,
Panting, protesting her undying love,
I gave her cheek a tender peck
Crying that the disinterested gods above
Knew I loved her too.
But, when a woman cheats,
What could an honest man do
In the face of numerous public deceits,
More so when his avaricious friends
Sample her like old women squeezing
Oranges in the market place? She trends,
Or did, for only one, distasteful, reason.
I did what I had to do. I had no alternative!
As was my due, I punished her with death,
And now subsumed in grief,
I strangle in my own dark breath
Now, each night I watch the clematis climb
Study its coiling struggling vines
Fixed in that cold, cold time
And the shallow grave on which the cold moon shines.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
The soul has as its sextant the ribs opened wide,
The heart its compass in fluid circuitous diatribe,
When each to zone the geometry of Greek sky
With its powdery fabulism of centaurs and jars
From Aesop’s wine of words, the untimeliness
Of sundials to Charybdis’s bloom of giant watery eyes.
To know oceans by the dry riverbed of my pulse,
To scale only as high as the sparrow’s tomb of my heart.
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 5:05 PM UTC
In the far fringe of a woody island
With a winding river
Making circuitous pilgrimage
There is a solitary hut
Visible through the patches of light and shadow
With its precincts lapped by the waves
And the rich alluvial soil
Engendering plants of robust growth
In it live a man and wife
A pair made for each other!
Their likes and longings
Blend and bleed into one another
Though they are at the subsistence level
Who have just one square meal a day
They grow in the joy of a living love
Making life a celebration in a rare way
Their humble hut, ever blessed by
Seasonal yield from fruit trees of tropical kind
Added by plants’ flowery delight
A riot of pink, yellow, red and maroon
Where wild trees stand watch over
With creepers in greener leaves
And their foliage, in a merry dance
Latching and intertwining their delicate tendrils
In the air, there is a subdued roar
Made by the swish and swirls of life
But in the silent interstices
Between the rush and blur
There descends a heavenly peace
That sets their souls dancing
Making it a happy home
Sweeter than a mansion of gold!
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
in this 2012 year
elevating consciousness
our illusive challenge..
an evolution signpost
on a circuitous road..
reaching this marker
finding new directions
depends on awareness..
locating our place
right here and right now..
worthy guides there are
who tell us
we are perched
on a precarious ledge
between light and shade..
other names suffice
for this place
might we say
blessing and curse aka.. (?)
then our guides say..
don't curse the shade
don't curse the curse..
a startling discovery
to be made
in each her own way..
at last she absorbs
the sought for blessing
during a frightening search..
all along disguised
as the accursed curse... (?)
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
To concretize my theorized love,
I could play the accidental odds and strew
slippery tongues of spotted petals
onto thickly trafficked highways,
or use the best predictive modelling
to deduce when and where I can poke out
a well-heeled boot to trick unwary spills
and ****** a kiss from the unsuspecting
lips of any suitably compatible
passerby oft times inconvenienced and passed
on by.
These well-oiled and crudely experimental
methods do produce expected results,
but not the breakthrough nor the looked-for
satisfaction of appropriate reactions,
so I'll keep my dotted eyes tucked in
their pulpy stems and my shoddy toes curled back
while I beam my bits of invitation through
circuitous routes spatially arrayed along
parallel paths where one might search
with an extra-terrestrial inventiveness,
and wait.
I know the trials of these errant waves
won't add up to a guarantee
my burpy blips of a pulse can reach
the receptively comprehending and responsive
soils I seek, but it's the remoteness of a stead
to come stalking that appeals, and despite
the Hawking drone of unveiled warnings
I might regret such contact, I'll risk it all
on vaguely washed wishes this astronomical
anomaly with an alien sensibility has
one match.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 3:15 PM UTC
If I were to elicit success's embodiment
And to feel it's enrapture, like sin
It's touch, coarse as salt to the fingertips?
Would it smell like a rose on the wind?
To risk, for a shared surreptitiousness
That very boldness independence empowers,
to instead announce allegiance to the flock of the age
When drinking after hours
Should it matter on the stage...
As a coy rebuttal to loneliness
In prioritizing what you need,
by finding "circuitous" after a dip in the thesaurus
for describing a sentence about trees
("When, obviously, it's actually describing something...far more potent...than any mere tree.")
...what fails to show up on the page?
Such is the world that Art wanders into
All big gestures 'round a clattering din
....but instead, "Success" has meant to me
A home in my arms
And she feels like a world
resting beneath my chin
A thought that cancels out Art's disappointments
...And her breath is a rose on the wind.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
Ellsworth Land's prima donna of the Latin sing-a-long
lassoed Joss' hollow demoiselle crane
a pair of circuitous logicians finally deciphered
her grammatical Denebola into oblivion.
The insipid petifog skeleton storyteller, behind
incessant green quibbling eyes, ticking
impatient thoughts in dreams tomorrow.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC
*At times
The rain relentlessly rains
And might seem never
Never to rain once again
But it does,
At times
The sun incessantly shines
And might seem never
Never to shine once again
But it does,
At times
The moon dims its light
And might seem never
Never to shine once again
But it does,
At times
Stars effulgently shine
And might seem never
Never to shine once again
But they do,
At times
The wind relentlessly whistles
And might seem never
Never to whistle once again
But it does,
At times
Life is circuitous
And might seem never
Never to be straight once again
But it will,
At times
You're at a low ebb
And might seem never
Never to hold a penny once again
But you will,
At times
You're engulfed in doldrums
And might seem never
Never to be solaced once again
But you will,
At times
You're drenched in despair
And hope might seem never
Never to come your way once again
But it will,
At times
You wail
And might seem never
Never to smile once again
But you will,
At times
You're heart broken
And might seem never
Never to love once again
But you will,
At times
You're lonely
And might seem never
Never to be happy once again
But you will,
At times
You're lover parts from you
And might seem never
Never to be the same once again
But you will,
At times
Your're in a daze
And might seem never
Never to know whats right once again
But you will,
At times
Failure engulfs you
And success might seem never
Never to come your way once again
But it will,
Every thing will
Just on cue.*
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
He wanted to drown
Not in liquid, but in sound
Raucous rapture bellowing beneath
Hands too heavy to hold his own
Heartbreak.
These lions labeled ladies
Making ****** hearts sing.
The candid caucus of cartographers
With eyes too cold to cry
Mapping and marring,
Partitioning paradox with every stroke
Witless wizardry without
Love and longing.
In a circus tent he found
That circuitous catharsis
Amid tremulous trapeze swinging
Watched by the sloughed skin of sinners
Vice and virtue muddied by malice.
Exploratory tongues
Giving preface to loneliness
Too tranquil to be twisted
Too torpid to be tangible
Romance recondite,
Sold to us by our world
Leaving us with nothing but
Fantasy and
Broken bones
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Right about when eternity starts to become old and weary and
Time has begun to lose its elasticity just as it has finally come around to reach
Its end and found its beginning;
The uncountable fragments that make the vast cosmos will congeal to form again
That we may be made whole once more;
Matter will become ultra-dense,
Compressed almost to the very brink of oblivion until critical mass is finally attained then
With unimaginable heat, fury, and eruption,
We will be violently expelled and propelled into a cold, desolate, and expanding unknown;
Scattered and dispersed to become the pieces of a ****** firmament;
Cast without mercy into the black void, we will be forced to restart a journey along
The long and circuitous route that has been called forever.
The structured laws of random chaos will dictate when it is that
We reach the first stage of a cycle that has neither origin nor finality;
There reorganized particles will germinate and initiate the process of renewal
Creating entities that will manifest in myriad ways;
Each nascent reality holding within itself the same promise of creation
That is as natural as dying and rebirth, as constant as motion and change and
As normal as the universe’s transformation from being the composite of all things
To becoming the totality of absolute nothingness.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 7:16 PM UTC
There’s too little time.
To think that
by halving and halving and
halving again
this can be drawn out.
Somehow be avoided.
Death is no holographic dream.
It’s as real as circuitous
firing triggers of phosphene.
I see light suspended
in this final moment.
The tugging burin
etches away at the
last things it can shape.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:32 AM UTC
You sometimes make me feel like a megalomaniac. Is that bad?
Are these feelings that I'm feeling what's expected to be had?
You infringe my mind in such circuitous ferment.
It's a proclivity, these thoughts
Yet such propensity is irrevocable.
An inscrutable contraband reverberating in a sedulous manner grasping tender hands.
Perhaps it's not transient, but equitable.
Not scathing, but salutary.
Well there's only one way to ascertain.
That is simply to acculturate.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
I'm a ***** for your lips and drunk off your touch
I'm the biggest dork when I'm wet with your love
I just want to drink you, I've never had enough
The poison's in me thick and I know soon death will come
Me, I'm a raving lunatic, I'm mad
Crazier than Carroll's hatter and his Cheshire Cat
I'd put three red hotels on the top of your head
Collect all of Free Parking then crawl into our bed
I am the venom if you are the pain
I just want a thousand years to revel in your name
I can count my true loves on one single hand,
But you I can only count one of because that's all that I've had.
I'm a cylinder of evil, wrought with torturous pain
Dizzied by the spinning of my circuitous brain
I'm needy for your antidote before blackness courses through my veins
And the moon hits its fifth phase and I turn into a werewolf again
I've never wanted to **** around or catch a second look
Now I've been on a carousel of women, full of hookers and crooks
My wheels are thrown sideways, my skin's full of threat
I'm sick with the tantrum, The Fever that missing you gives
I'm weaponized and viral, cursing but still in command
My flags in the ground and I'm taking over this land
I've written a new bible about blood and rock 'n roll
Surrender your body, because I've eaten your soul
I am the poison if you are the watch
I just want to be drunk off your breath and live inside your touch
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 2:40 AM 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 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC