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Poetry By Gerald Bosacker
from Dunedin, Florida


No stitch mark or discerned stitches,
nor pockmarked skin that shows or snitches,
this gloried miss is free from glitches
deserving crown you could install.

 The scars she bears are all inside,
her bio skips the nights she cried
mute victim of her parent's pride,
no sadder star can you recall.

 As Queens need more than pretty faces
she's well rehearsed in social graces
with perfect smile, rescued from braces,
segued amid her demure drawl.

 You have the power to place her first,
or send her home, her bubble burst,
no matter which, your choice accursed
since you don't see their souls at all.




 I love to party but I'm depressed
since invitations seldom come.
Don't people know I'm super guest,
and hardly ever, troublesome.

 Learned decorum from the start,
my house breaking really shows.
I say excuse me when I fart
and turn my head, to pick my nose.

 In groups, I listen so polite
and laugh at jokes I've heard before
When parties drag into the night
though I might nap, I never snore.

At meals, I always clean my plate
and use my saucer when I smoke.
I tell the cook, the food was great,
and did not cause his guests to choke.

 At weddings, I bring down the house,
my parodies of brides are great!
In Church, I'm quiet as a mouse
snipping bucks from the offering plate.

At functions where the fancy meet,
I always clap, should someone sing.
I help them out, clap out the beat,
or show the band the way to swing.

 If you would plan a grand soiree
with no amusements planned as yet,
I will attend and make the day
one all your guests you'll not forget.


In Somewhere Land, no weeds can grow
and there are no thorns on roses.
Spearmint springs up row on row
just to titillate our noses.

In March the winds might blow a lot
but they are warm so no one sneezes.
It only snows when it is hot
in ice cream flakes or lemon squeezes.

There are no tears in Somewhere Land
and meanness is an unknown sin.
One problems here where grief is banned,
since none can lose, no one can win.



The wind is wildest
of the artful friends that we abide.

When wind allows us to share its vigor,
you know it's that she intends it for her pleasures.

Wind will never spare our prized properties,
nor pity our loss.

Brash Wind maliciously turns to placid air
mass and sets its path to capriciously toss
down trees in winnows like freshly-mowed grass,
shaking steel towers until they too fall.

Wind, like Kings,
must always be petty and mean
and topple anything that grows too tall
or clutters up what wind wants to sweep clean.

First primieval man, hunting his food, knew
and used the facing wind to hide his scent,
stalking the game he'd then bite and chew uncooked.

Yet uncalled Wind most provident
first provided fire and appetizing smell
of roasted flesh.

Man could at no time tame the wind,
that Pyrenees cave pictures now tell us,
man did with fire.
For when called, fire came.

But man could never call the wind or turn it off like fire.
Fire capitulated, to be his lackey, baking mud into brick,
burn-hardening wood and giving light to see.

Man took skins from his cooking meats and fanned
his small fires to smelt the metal from rock
and learned to spill the glass from ash and sand.

In one small tick of the existential clock
fire was harnessed in steel
and trained to toil for man.

Steam tools burned wood
then switched to coal,
then summoned motive force from burning oil.

Man handled flame,
but not its dying soul,
escaped as smoke, bestowing poison source
as the price we pay for controlling flame.

The mocking wind runs free,
a feral horse with fume free power
we are loathe to claim.

Let's harvest the wayward wind
that does not smoke like all the soot-wrapped flames
we carelessly stoke.



Peeking out
from slatted stoops and hidden crevices
where bleeding saffron stars shed seed
to grow sure proof of sin.
Bright yellow tufts spring forth,
persisting in their proof of shame
while penitent Aryan grounds-keepers
daily sweep away the past.

No detritus
of the subjugated horde remains,
and wasted cigarette butts and gum wrappers
are routinely sent to
politically correct incinerators
to waft a tame trace of penitent visitors.

Impudent yellow bloomed weeds
wrap their golden blooms in buds,
shrinking away from the grandchildren
of the first garbage burners,
to escape a little longer and defiantly bloom
as tributes to the fallen and trampled flowers
that came before.

Living memorials
profane the sunny blue skies,
where millions of jews were brutalized.
Dandelions still grow at Dachau,
flourishing proof that man
cannot eliminate what God has chosen
to reflect and echo his glory.



Time won't ignore
nor dare deny each past defeat.
The trail of hurt marks fine
each sigh where they complete
a wrinkled trail.
The passing years,
a subtle knife,
carves tattered line
of condensed tears
that mark true life-line
on palms, once supple,
now claws where babies
rocked to sleep.
Each passing year
has gnawed away
and locks up memories.



Don't weep for me,
my grieving friends for I have lived,
and now am free to go back home,
as fate intends.
I don't go poor,
to fearsome site since memories,
will comfort me in pleasant sleep,
through endless night.
Don't think me lost,
for I am found and will in peace,
triumphant bask
for I knew where my soul was bound.
The tax for Life,
I would defray
by facing brave each destined task
to glory on this hallowed day.
Don't harsh resent untimely call,
or brand my death as tragedy.
My life's been full,
I've treasured all my host of friends,
each battle won and precious love of family.
These gifts I prize when life is done.



If there be Gods, they must be miffed
to witness mute, while man wild dare
pollute their most essential gift
of seas creating rain and air.

Would Gods be proud, that man has learned
to squeeze the oil from ancient clay
and fashion goods to earth returned
as plastic trash that won't decay?

If our Creators, we must please
inventive man should soon take stock
of chemicals that foul our seas,
returning Earth to lifeless rock.

We've changed this world to comfort zone
without regard for other guests
and think the world is ours alone
when it's we that are the pests.



Dying leaves,
dancing in the wind,
halt and rest in patchwork piles.
The roaring wind shouts loud
"This is my quintessence,
my colors,
my very best truth,
much more lovely than the bare boughed tree".

The nude and embarrassed tree,
can only brace against wind
that blows harsh on wintry eves
icing white each branch,
to rashly place
snowdrifts over its collage of betrayed leaves.

At last,
comes Spring,
and brash wind tries
to blow down the stalwart tree it did not freeze
with heated breath that stirs the frozen sap to rise
bestowing verdant cloak,
strip-teasing summer breeze.



A Poet's fate, I sadly find
is seldom praise, or reviews kind,
yet I persist, by fate inclined
o leave a trail of words behind.

Each night time thought that begs me write
must face the glare of bright sun light.
In rhyme, beliefs must shine contrite
like dogs that bark before they bite.

When comes the day, I must atone
for all the words I've flippant sown,
stood meek before my maker's throne,
I'll find one place, my writing's known.



At Christmas time, my sweetheart pleads
what gift would please me most.
When I assess my urgent needs,
my needs are met, I'm quick to boast.
A kindly God has blessed my life
with gifts I treasure more than gold
He sent to me the perfect wife,
to share the joys of growing old.



If somewhere a clerk
with self-righteous smirk
records my acts of folly.

He'll underline twice,
this only bad vice,
I'm never melancholy.

Grief, masked by my laugh
earns choice epitaph,
"He's always been jolly!"

While others might cry
or soulfully sigh
faced with disaster or worse

I don't want to frown,
but laugh, play the clown
providing whimsical verse.

When comes my last day,
I'll beg for delay
as exit lines, I rehearse.



At day's end could we peaceful sleep
had not we cleansed and buried deep
each thoughtless word from that day's slate
on notebooks we, with gall, create?

Do friends whom our approval seek,
deserve from us for query meek,
our mean retort, creating debt
of hasty words we'd best regret?

Do we ignore our past misdeeds
when pious mob new target needs
so all can *pharisize with stone
their sin, yet kind, forgive our own?

What guilty wretch could we convict
if deeds, so wrong, ourselves depict?
We host our memories but never let
our guilt survive, we do forget.

Could we, when praised for worthy acts,
abashed recall demeaning facts,
or righteous glow, ourselves entranced
by our past deeds, by time enhanced?

At last when at the Judgement throne
when asked what sins we must atone,
since Life demands all payments met,
it's kindest gift, we can forget!

If death would let us fresh begin,
to heal past hurts, erase each sin,
would one of us refuse that break,
the past undo, accounts remake?

For when we're laid to endless sleep
but sleepless lay though buried deep,
and past misdeeds still cause regret
it's nice to know, folks do forget.

*Verbalization of the act of a Pharisee.



Awed by its grace,
we celebrate the fervent glory
of this great forest king,
growing tall and lean,
in select company with its green-topped,
ancient redwood neighbors.

they gobble each ray of sustaining sun.
Yet, small flecks of rich gold dust
permeate expressing life
to mushy moss and spidery ferns
that profusely hide below.

Just the precise amount of mist
penetrates through uncounted duff stratum
to saturate this living floor,
and kindly sate this monster's bibulous roots.

Surpassing equivalent neighbors
in this caucus of giants,
is rare for prestige comes easy
where need's assuaged in perfect measure.

Ten miles west,
a different treasure,
sprouts from barren and sterile rock
abruptly perched,
lonely and awkward,
just above the pounding, salty surf.

Harsh elements assault this tree.
Ponder how it still survives,
unhealthy, scraggly fir,
primal cousin to the mighty
and pampered redwood.

Unsightly twigs,
defrayed of chlorophyl bearing needles,
wave in foggy air.
This hero cypress
does survive its harsh environment.

Alive, but dwarfed,
it's grown but one new branch this century.
This wonder
did more than was expected, assays first
when change is checked
and its accomplishment measured,
that triumph
gloried and treasured.



If there be God, some proof we'd find.
I'm sure, some tracks he'd leave behind.
Some distortions or some flaws,
we'd find in physics' constant laws.

Since elements expand with heat,
(water alone does this law cheat)
but water as frozen bloats,
and we exist because ice floats.

From ice locked seas no clouds could feed
on water for that rainfall seed.
To grow each living cell must sup,
to assuage thirsts, sip ocean's cup.

No cells could grow in solid sea,
nor from that ice could new breath flee
to wrap the earth with clement air
so life might try to flourish there.

Who said this juice of life be changed,
one law of nature rearranged?
Could chance create by oddity,
aberration that had to be?

We might ignore explicit proof,
if we can't see celestial roof.
Just as we accept gravity,
why not this God that we can't see?



Sooooeeee, Sooooeeee! It's feeding time.
Digest these orbs of nacreous matter,
Ignore the fool who made them rhyme.

Don't push, don't shove, don't block the trough
word choices forced are mindless patter
that meekly earn, your right to scoff.

Cram down, gulp quick, subdue their shine
each gem will hardly tint your taste
if they are first dissolved in whine.

Porcines decry my rhyme unsung
its wisdom missed as banal waste,
their music mute, sad bells not rung.



Consider the sadness of the dead
when Gods that final truth supply
as boon for lives unfairly shed
in service to persuasive lie.

Do they envy the fallen few
embalmed with poison of the truth
partook while sat in chapel pew
or sniffed while in their voting booth?

Do they impatient count the days
until they meet again the liar
who justified his war and preys
on young to feed to Ares pyre?

Do they despise their coffin's flag
or long for the colors of their foe
and wonder if dead men should brag
or now more calm, their bold outgrow?

Or wasted do they silent sleep,
mute promise of the young that died
for empty glory purchased cheap
and charged to chauvinistic pride?



Will seals applaud the end of man
who made their seas his garbage can?
Will wily whales surviving still
miss human trail, the dread oil spill?
Will something care when man is gone?
Not hunted deer or orphaned fawn!

Will trees, our smoke makes weak and bare,
no longer purge our poisoned air?
Will oceans, once with algae green,
replenish air from seas unclean?
Will we meet doom we justly rate?
Condemn our reign to terminate?



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