By Gerald Bosacker
I received your urgent and timely Internet offer
promising to stretch my member several inches.
Thank you, but why be a small thinking piker?
Why not grow, at least, another foot?
Following your explicit directions, I greased
my palm with the magic lotion and vigorously
applied your secret elixir, generating heat and friction.
Twice each day, I forcibly stretched and massaged
my weakest link, which did not grow longer,
fatter or prettier but my hand has grown to giant size!.
Now maybe I will try to grow another foot,
but with my luck, it will be a foot with toes.
***
"Our Kazoo Band"
By Gerald Bosacker
A wonderful horn, the Kazoo
Made to be hummed through not blew,
Just pick a song and toodle-de-doo
It don't take skill to join my band
and we now have a big tour planned
with many stops through out our land.
The tunes we play by hit or miss,
won't be confused by those of Kiss
nor help to bring our own fans bliss.
But join our group, we do have fun
and when our first grand tour is done,
we'll try to plan another one
***
"There Is A Street . . ."
By Gerald Bosacker
Called Internet
that heads straight to my house,
between open gutters
full of filth, deeper and wider than the street.
It is a crowded road and peddlers drop by
to sell me what I never knew I needed.
Strange bullies lurk within the throng,
indistinguishable from
the regular pimps, prostitutes, beggars, clowns
and shady merchants
soliciting business on this street
and daily banging on my door.
These anonymous bullies
destroy other people's treasures
just for specious pleasure.
This is a very dangerous street
on which I must travel for work
and use to visit my friends.
I must pay rent for
a greedy monster watchdog
that is always a little behind the time,
and needs to be periodically updated,
his teeth sharpened
and to have his psyche energized
and aggressions focused.
My virus eating watchdog,
loves the predators among the peddlers,
as they keep him needed and fed,
but always baffled by the latest invasion.
My watch dog may be self perpetuating,
clandestinely creating his own need.
***
"Ladies Beware"
By Gerald Bosacker
In slimy balls, worms congregate
regardless of status or creed.
Watch them squirm and undulate
fulfilling their passion or need.
When touched earthworms ejaculate
dribbling out their potent worm seed.
Right through their skins they procreate,
by clumping together, worms breed
When baiting hooks best hesitate,
use gloves, I fervently plead
since you could find by tempting fate
that worms are hard to breast feed.
***
"Mountain Lightning"
By Gerald Bosacker
Black clouds barking at rain soaked ground,
don't scare the trees with their rumbling sound.
When wild winds strip away each unsure leaf,
the impudent trees kneel in specious grief.
Angered storm clouds mocked by bogus fears
light up the Earth's sky with ionized spears.
Now charred and split, shocked trees wear scars
tracing the course of ionic scimitars.
Do Clouds fear trees will steal their space
or more securely rivet them in place?
Do cocksure trees that grow too tall
dare brash storm clouds to make them fall?
Do earthbound trees resent things that fly,
or jealous of Heaven, long to try?
***
"Indian Corn"
By Gerald Bosacker
Dead Indians, embalmed with salt from unshed tears,
wait too patiently for the ghost dance drum beat.
I see them huddled in shadows when sun disappears
over the blood stained bluffs, where Custer met defeat.
The keening of slain children are what the wind hears
and amplifies to ripple the stubs of dry land wheat
tamed Sioux politely plant at the Little Big Horn
for baking white man's bread. Braves, now less despised,
hide two hundred and twenty six scalps and mourn
their dead in secret. Grandsons of those unrecognized,
still plot and plan when drunk on fermented corn,
full revenge for raids Custer considered civilized.
***
"Montana Fireflies"
By Gerald Bosacker
Infrequent April sun comes to warm molten snows
in moose wallows where the luminescent beetles dance
indecent pirouettes. The marshy meadow glows,
from fertile bugs, skirts upraised, begging for romance,
rushed by impending death, to couplings conjugate.
Drowned larch skeletons protrude from the mossy muck,
proud sentinels where peregrine falcons wait
for the first courageous new hatched wood duck
eagerly fleeing his calcium cocoon, with callow zeal.
The hatchlings find their niche on Life's food chain,
while civilization asserts itself with noisy squeal
on stretched iron rails that sing beneath my passing train.
***
"Impateint Fireflies"
By Gerald Bosacker
In May, persistent sun does charitably glance
through larches to warm molted mountain snow
in wallows where the luminescent beetles dance
indecent pirouettes. The marshy meadows glow
from fertile bugs, skirts upraised, begging for romance,
rushed by impending death to never say no.
***
"Eternal Stone"
By Gerald Bosacker
Majestic peaks, wrinkle and turn old
shedding rocks eager to roll with the cold,
sunshine adsorbing transmuted snow
destined for something, somewhere below.
Vagrant rocks will crash and crumble,
shake off their armor as they Tumble
seeking freedom in the mountain stream.
In waters, nacreous they gleam
with their drab exterior worn away.
Exposed, mute words they try to say.
about their strange tumultuous birth.
From volcanoes and upheavals, Earth
spit out rock as melted magma chilled
in crystallized form, a destiny fulfilled.
Proud stone, will not keep its grain,
assaulted by wind or ice and sun or rain.
Downstream, rocks turn into stones and
then to pebbles, lastly to finest sand.
Did humbled, crumbled rock know it was fated
to be compacted, smelted and re-circulated,
to rise again in another majestic peak,
when first it tumbled in the mountain's creek
***
"I See Their Bones"
By Gerald Bosacker
Coasting easily down the long rain shadow slant
of the mighty Rockies, toward the rising sun,
the endless eroded wasteland seems to pant
for rain. Bygone buffalo chips, their decay done,
still tease arrogant clumps of sagebrush to defy
thirst. In this barren land, millions of Bisons fed,
lodged and heated the affluent and grateful Cheyenne
and Sioux citizens of their beloved meadow-
land nation. They saw no need to tap the less
fertile lower layers of furtive mineral prize.
Vast rivers from ancient melted glaciers coyly
seep toward nirvana. Ancient flora carbonize,
waiting for rebirth as smoke and cinders. Oily
graves of corpulent cadavers coalescing
to black gold, waiting to belch a deadly oxide
for a greedy, mechanized world. These blessings
bode beneath the barren bushes but bastioned hide..
Paleface come with buffalo guns on iron trail.
They dug and drilled, fenced and killed dissecting
the Earth Mother's belly for her hidden holy grail..
Pied Indians now fight only themselves, neglecting
to thank intruders for bad water, starvation
and decimating small pox. Brave warriors that fought
for their children are as dead as the Indian Nation,
white as bleached bison bones, embalmed by bourbon bought
from the Indian bureau's temporal padrones.
Beyond the southern sky-edge, the brown Big Horn
sometime floods, exposing bits of Custer's bones.
Brave and sober Sioux warriors rise up in scorn
from their hidden pyres to ride their dust devil steeds
through sleeping reservations, whooping war chants
to their drunk descendants and resigned half breeds,
timidly afraid to dance when the red man leads.
***
"November Snow"
By Gerald Bosacker
I loved winter's first snow, when I was young
and I would run, mouth opened wide, to try
and catch elusive icy feathers on my tongue
to taste those first ice kisses from November sky.
I felt so cheated when the million flakes I missed
would vanish as soon as they touched the ground
but withered grass and forsaken leaves they kissed
were soon blanketed beneath a snowy mound
Come morning when all was white and snowfall done
they covered well, the dead and sleeping plants.
I would watch the sunbeams from the red faced sun
bounce off the crystal coverlet, in sparkling dance.
Now old, I dread winter's first inaugural snow,
while watching through insulated window pane,
shivering as I see the crystal icicles grow,
forming an impartial hour-glass of Winter's reign
Iced wind blusters through where widows weep
obscuring plots where refreshed sod lies browned.
My dearest friend lies hid beneath a whitened heap
that hushed snow flakes bless with silent sound?