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

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

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

When I Was Fourteen
I took a walk around the world
When I was fourteen.

A round-trip from the country
Of Florida to the province of
Friendship.

I broke out my camp gear on
The way to the sea of desire
And edged my way to the point
Of view.

When I was fourteen
I took gym class and failed
Showers.

The water lapped at my body,
Its steamy blows pelting my
Boyhood.

The jocks jeered at me ‘cause
I cried in shop class a lot
When I was fourteen.

The girls wore saddle shoes
With bobby sox and they
Liked me seeing as I could
Dance the jitterbug.

I loved the beat, the jiggling
Of my legs against my pants
And I learned to cope with
My feelings of trackless taunts.

I starred in a one-act play but
Forgot my lines
When I was fourteen.

I had a dream in the province
Of friendship that there was
A boy called little prince
Who nourished a rose.
Prince taught me that I would
Only see clearly with my heart
When I was fourteen.

A new boy came to school one
day and sat next to me at chorus  
practice.

He gazed at me, his eyelashes
and lips detailed in copper, head
tipped back as though in trance
and pulled off his t-shirt.

I am here today because he was
There, nourishing me like prince’s
Rose, but with courage.

When I was fourteen
I met the gymnast of love, his
Daring glance, his feather touch,
Defiant, preaching counterpoint.

I tried to run away but his name
Kept Calling me back, like a
Birdsong: “Phillip,” it whispered,
“My name is Phillip.”

And I went to him, to his glance,
To his smile, to his arms, and
He sang to me, this boy named
Phillip:

“I know you, my little prince,
You are a wee patch of blue,
My Mordecai, my Bashar, my
Ivan, my Carlos, branches of
The same tree, so serious at
Fourteen.”

Soon another dream came over
Me, I dozed, drowsy and snug
In the arms of an unknown hero,
And I was wrapped in a frosted
Halo, when I was fourteen.

My halo was a gift from Phillip,
And it dripped so silently down
On the closet, on fire, holding
The me that I now behold in
The mirror.

I saw the shower and stood up
Proud, I saw the stage and
Remembered my lines, and
I was proud.  I was the rose,
Nourished. And I was proud.

I danced and dreamed and was
Filled with courage, my chest
Popping with buttons, my head
Filled with melody and my
Shoes tapping in rhythm.

Today we went home to see
My mom, Phillip and I, and
She put her arms around us
And said “Welcome, boys,
I love you!”

When I was fourteen.  


© Lewis Bosworth, 2014

down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora
a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign
an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions
a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine
a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky
the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie
burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not
cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty
the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask
a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016

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

Dancer: tune up
your body’s chords,
swaying strategically
to the rhythmic commands
of an ancient age.

Princes, kings, and
courtesans:
mark time until the day
when your dance is
recorded on the scroll.

Laughing hyenas:
grimace a yep and a yowl,
and shed your tears
stealthily as would
the muses pray.

Corrugated wrinkles
don the happiest face
when one dares look
upon the choreographer
and turn away.

And we believe
that the chorus is one
and the prima donna
creates a world unknown
where no one pulls the strings.

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016