Poetry
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A flower I gave not; a call I received not:
curious how we imagine fidelity and kindness.
Strange how we make ourselves a topic of mass discussion,
a concern to life,
a brushfire in the daytripping of camper’s reactions,
… as if human instance was one of caring;
whereas we merely travel together the road of goldfish memory,
abhorring the traffic, taking it in static vehicle stride,
listening for songs and the bother of a serious accident ahead –
a worrisome delay only … at worst,
just a cautious slowdown over sharp metal, broken glass,
over someone else’s unfortunate blood and sand.
In fate less circumstantial and more circumspective,
I might have graced the halls of heaven!
What a play the sun makes of driving desert mirage
whenever the foolish eye and crazed mind
visualize light passage and a short crossover.
Blameworthy
I know who now to blame…
daring to send my mind
on its own wilderness journey:
without food or water or tent.
I do tend to keep to myself all things concerting,
all floats underpinning,
all facts like faith pending.
I do intend to remove impatience and anger –
always further and further along,
fearing, I suppose, the braces of crowbars
pulling down this fragile heart condition.
Is there anything in the past to recommend the future?
Fumbling through our work,
staring at unfamiliar shelves –
compliant only toward a willingness to learn,
to reestablish strengths and patterns
that were once second nature to us …
when a third-rate nature is all the best anyone can have.
Contrary Life
Like me alone, and without a family;
because no one attends a morning glory,
no one watches the sun flower,
no one nails a moon beam.
because society lauds itself on being sociable,
believes kindness its worst mis-giving,
turns inner strength powerfully weak;
welcoming hope by leaving the poor miserable …
like Lazarus, with not even a dog to lick his wounds.
Found Wisdom
Thinking to know something … about the Son …
the truth of things indwelling soulish dreams and thoughts –
unbeknownst to men across the thousand days
he took to walk them,
to silently fold the wavers of heaven around his self –
only to make each hour a cross to bear …
for me, across to nowhere.
Christ (be gone) I fear.
And by this Lord I am ruptured inside;
for the life of me, I cannot shield or prevent …
this life, being born with no greater commission
than to serve in ignorance;
with no greater emotion than to weep in heart;
no greater accomplishment than to see failure abound –
as it should …
unabashedly, miserably, painfully,
like lifeblood itself being syphoned away
at holocaust’s bidding
for vain love of heaven
on earth’s altar of ordered indifference.
Dr. Walter Boswell
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