lives in Madison. A UW–Madison grad [eons ago], he also has a degree in linguistics from the U. of Michigan. A writer and editor, he works hard at his poems, reworking things like a love affair with his cat and a bad poem about his childhood boyfriends. Some of his poems have been published in a book or two and here and there. His voice has been heard at a few readings. He hopes to be noticed by anybody before he turns 80.
At the kitchen table,
when it was still light,
I could see, through the
condensation on the panes,
the artificial spring.
February, it was, and the sun
was playing with the slits of the
worn-out, whitewashed fence.
The sun was about to set,
and the winter-worn pickets,
in need of a paint-job, and
not quite straight, seemed to be
lenses focusing on the snow. A
solar-graph. Bars and shadows
plotted symmetrically along
a curve, with shadowy slats
viewed through the windows.
The snow was disturbed, traces
and tracks of my little cat, I
imagined. She was not home.
The barren branches of the Ash
trees and some of summer’s
stronger, left-over weeds were
the only other marks on the snow.
She had to have stalked those
pickets, back and forth across the
yard’s expanse, kneading and prancing
a calculated path, in search of a bird,
perhaps, or a nest of rodents, hiding,
she hoped, under the pine-cones
covering blankets of dying oak leaves.
I looked longer, as the sun set, and
she did not complete her geometric
tour of the yard. As I closed the curtains,
I found her asleep in a chair. Then I knew
that my little cat couldn’t be fooled
by artificial spring and its brief
moments of sun.
Later, when the sun focuses on
shades of green, and the Ash trees
mar the brilliance of the grass, my cat
will take off, and my eyes will grow
dim as I gaze at a photograph never taken.
“Kitty” appeared in Recordações – Remembrances, © 2011, Lewis Bosworth
A friend of mine
A single reed, a lonely view,
a thoughtful scene.
His soulful moments
are photos. They’re
inches and itches of life.
A private world.
Another friend captures
roots. A definitive line,
a color, a hue.
His cautious care.
Still another grabs at
balance. His only link
A narrow life.
And I pick at memories,
at past, roots, balance.
“Memories” appeared in Something Borrowed, Something Blue, © 2012, Lewis Bosworth
Behold: the blind now see the river’s
banks spilling water on their shoes.
They touch the mud, rubbing it on
their naked thighs, cooling comfort.
The smoke of a man’s pipe on a park
bench nearby wafts above their heads.
It causes them to salivate with thoughts
of cedar, lemon drops and licorice.
Little boys stop in their tracks as the bell
of the ice cream truck peals by.
Playing tricks is the game of the brain
whose cells deliver dreams, laughing.
“Uncommon Senses” will appear in Trying Hard to Hear You, © 2013, Lewis Bosworth