Come join in, look around or do some critical reading.  Challenge the author.  Please respond with praise or condemnation on all words posted here. I am a word-weaver by choice and experience revelation.  Been there, done that sure resonates with me.

 Hosted by Gerald Bosacker..


If there be Gods, they must be miffed
to witness mute, while man wild dare
pollute their most essential gift
of seas creating clement air.
Will oceans, once with algae green,
replenish air from seas unclean?

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 can't decay?
Will trees, our smoke makes weak and bare,
no longer grow in poisoned air?

If our Creators, we must please
inventive man should soon take stock
of chemicals that foul our seas,
transforming Earth to lifeless rock.
Will Seals applaud the end of man
who made their seas his garbage can?

We've changed this world to comfort zone
without regard for any guest
and think the world is ours alone,
all life must serve at our behest.
Will something care when man is gone?
Not hunted deer or orphaned fawn!

A houseplant is the perfect pet,
they don't make noise and never poop.
Just give them sun and keep them wet,
since they won't beg, instead they droop.
If they should die if you forget,
just dump their bodies in your soup.

If you seek a pet that requires the least care, that can be left alone for days without soiling your floors, or scratching your furniture, the best choice could be a houseplant. They are so thankful when you talk to them kindly, appreciatively growing lush and green, say botanists who test these things.You can take a houseplant for a walk, and you don't need a tangling, troublesome leash. They will not fight with our people's pets and you don't have to toilet train them or clean up their mess.

A pleased mockingbird sings prettily
high up there in my Sycamore tree.
"Pritee, pritee," He sings merrily,
He means the day, for you can see
that I'm as drab and homely as he.
I won't complain, I conclude, with glee.
We both are blessed, and seem to agree
another day, is a sweet gift for me!

Before those final church bells chime
will I regret my propensity
of spending long hour wasting my time
creating old fashioned poetry,
choosing end words that rhyme,
hoping someone will remember me.

Though Eric Cantor should be shamed
that disaster relief, he rashly blamed
for increasing our debt, but were he the one wet,
he would get the first relief check claimed!

I posted this truth-bearing limerick on Eric's site today.  I hope he reads his mail, and responds.

Why are we allowed to grow ugly old,
as bloom of youth turns to musty mold,
while fingers and toes turn icily cold,
and bodily functions turn uncontrolled?

Why should we prolong our life's coming end
with strange medicines designed to mend
maladies age places we costly attend,
cheating our kin of the assets we spend?

Why should our age frustration show,
or disappointment when ignored although,
with invitations sparse, would we go
where friends are gone, are we apropos?

Do readers bristle at the ending word
in verses where clanging rhyme is heard?Condemned men would speak last words in rhyme,bards if hangmen allowed them more lifetime.

I too, must speak with careful measured foot
if each bright thought was lasting put.
Unrhymed verse marches down an empty street,
stampeding mutely with marching feet.

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 down the mountain's creek.

The story of life and death, in written in ancient stone. The future eventually becomes the past, and is locked in stone. Everything we own or know is impermanent, but will come back again in some resurrected form, including life itself. Pick up a stone, hold it to your ear and listen to its history.

It may be labeled body art,
injected with a sharpened dart
which really hurts, so that's not smart.
The worst thing about the tattoo
is that it becomes a part of you
and sure looks dumb when eighty-two.

The most successful fiction writers are those
that mask the issue of thorns on a rose,
pushing wormy apples, as protein enhanced fruit.
abeling "descent guaranteed" on a parachute,
assuring us we won't keep floating in the sky.
When used, you will come down, they did not lie.
How euphemistically, I am informed of fact,
in advertising that is camouflaged with tact.
Hyperbole is the ad copy writer's norm
from soft pedaling to those that over-inform.
Ads for Pharmaceuticals that I must obtain
now warn of side effects like death and pain,
and these frank admissions legally insulate
them from judgments courts should adjudicate.

Zealots in pulpits, most vocally brave,
summon an army, righteously born,
and imbue them with purpose divine,
as killing machines, God's war to win.

Excuse them as they rant and rave,
begging for someone deserving scorn,
for straying from their God's plumb line,
and targets for troops of lead and tin.

These blessed, condemned souls to save,
sure they are the rose, and not the thorn,
and seek out more sinners they define
as ripe for God's wrath, lost to sin.

My poetry, I force to rhyme,
and hide it away because I won't pay
some one to read it.

My short stories all have plots and twist,
and no one knows they even exist.
My novel sleeps below my bed
and it's been months since its been fed.

But last night,
I cast my shadow on the moon
for two billion people to see.
I stood up tall in the sunset,
on top of my roof and I waved.

Did you see my shadow on the moon,
there on the Earth's horizon
as it eclipsed the moon?

I was there and waving,
a small and insignificant protuberance,
There on the rim of Earth's shadow,
I waved at you.

Because I have impacted the world's literature so faintly, I felt myself a failure as a poet. I watched the magnificence of the lunar eclipse, devoid of descriptive or creative thought. As I watched the erosion of the moon, I realized that it was the Earth's horizon blocking the reflection of light from the sun. I would be a part of the Earth's horizon as it rotated, and I waved. I waved at you. When the moon was restored, I went inside and recorded that event, in this poem. If you did not see me wave at you, read this poem and know that I thought of you.

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

When new winter blusters out where widows weep
over hidden plots where new sod lies browned,
will I too be resting beneath that frosted heap,
when soft snow flakes whiten the hallowed ground.

The worst insult of Royalty
is their assumptive nobleness
inventing the lower class.
Kings and Queens want loyalty
from those they nobly oppress
and fools bow down to kiss their ass.

Just growing old has never been
my life's essential goal, but when.
each aging symptom does occur,
I gird for what I must endure,
the transit fare for growing old
gathering warmth for turning cold.

Now when I face new aches or pain,
and feel the need to loud complain,
I'll ask my God for all the power
I need until his designated hour
completing task of growing old,
leaving life both calm and bold.

I met no man, that I could hate,
but there were many to avoid.
When those politicos debate,
their claims are merely celluloid.
I tell them off, and curse my fate,
but they just think me paranoid.

You better get your sins forgave,
TV preachers, insistent warn.
You'll end in Hell from sinner's grave.
Unless you beg to be reborn.
I fear them when they rant and rave,
needing someone they must scorn,
and they do try, all souls to save,
quite sure they're rose, not the thorn!

Perfection looms in God's design,
yet I question the porcupine.
Fierce mosquitoes we sure don't need,
and hungry fleas are mean to feed.
I don't expect He'd plan for junk,
but then I wonder why the skunk.
Why did he build so many fools,
or did he lose his building rules.
Maybe God makes some boo boos too,
o he's patient with me and you.

Why do Apes stare at us and blink?
Do they think we're their missing link?
Or do we just think that they thinked,
Like who will first of us be extinct?

Avoid each dangerous cafe
highlighting the endless buffet
where customers stuff
much more than enough
getting most for what they pay.

We worked so hard, but I was told
that sweat alone won't fight the cold
nor tears erase a handcuff's hold
it takes so long to grow this old,

The gift I chose for my dear wife,
I have not found, at least not yet.
rewarding her for ending strife,
and all those sins I most regret.
What gift would say, thanks for my life,
that began for me the day we met.

My deeds might fatten the Devil's journal,
I may deserve the promised fires of Hell,
yet I will scorn that fire internal,
unfazed by curse of
Sulphur's smell.

You ask me why I bravely face my fate
unfazed by promised pit of Hell,
If I  doubted Heaven's promised gate,
I must doubt Satan's fire as well.

Morticians charge tremendous cash
turning loved ones to buried trash.
Cardboard coffin for me
for mourners to last see
the body I want turned to ash.

I wish you were just a thing
that I could sell or pawn
You carouse away each evening,
I'm left home while you carry on,
I conjure up bitter things to say
but only after you have gone.


With today's popularity of  dieting, I decided to share my weight loss secret.

It is not just food's delicious taste,
I've tried eating only foods I hate,
I put on weight from even its aroma.
I dread the fat around my waist
and know the key to losing weight
is when doctors put me in a coma.


When tepid March winds start to blow,
they melt old drifts of winter's snow
and bless farm fields with fertile mud,
or rivers poised for springtime flood.

Exhausted wind by All Fool's Day
bring April clouds of sodden gray,
to dump spring rain on sleeping seed
that sprout and green, with sunshine need.

Come days of May, the sun burns bright
and Lilac blooms perfume the night,
while anxiously new lovers kiss
presuming love's brash genesis.

Ah June, the month when lover's vow,
they'll love forever, not just now.
When truth prevails, and lovers part
we blame brash spring and not faint heart.

Our ship of state is barely afloat,
and the Republicans loudly cheer,
while drilling holes in our sinking boat,
because they were not chosen to steer.
They'll find it so easy then to bray
no to all the things they should discuss
so next election they can say,
though things were bad it wasn't us.


Praise the paleontologists,
learned men who unerringly create
a skeleton which each insists
is realness we can not debate.
Past dinosaurs have lost their meat,
leaving lots of fossilized bone.
Do guesses make them complete,
no skeleton gaps left unknown?
Does imagination help them know
the entity they would restore
and where each piece of bone should go
to shape their ancient dinosaur?

We support our troops, where ever they are sent,
in all they do for whichever warring President
fools us next, past history not deemed relevant .

We support our troops, in wars that cannot be won
for lackey support is what we have always done,
while investing backers betting by the megaton.

We support our troops, and those obliged to fight
spreading the gospel of the religious right,
serving corporate need with jaundiced insight.

We support our troops, and never question why
it is strategic tactics for them to bravely die,
in foreign soil from enemy they can't identify.

We support our troops and rationalize their kill,
and mourn ad hoc victims of collateral spill
and brand as treason those who question still.

We support our troops, and glorify that final deed
with patriotic hymns and sanctimonious creed
in last services which luck-blessed survivors read.

Before those final church bells chime
will I regret my propensity
of spending long hour wasting my time
creating old fashioned poetry,
end words that rhyme,
yet hoping someone remembers me.

Beat me at scrabble I won't complain,
insult those friends I entertain,
ignore me when I writhe in pain,
but just remember, when you do,
what I do next, is all on you.

I won't be hurt when you don't care
to notice how I changed my hair
and then give me that stupid stare,
but just remember, when you do,
what I do next, is all on you.

You can snore in bed each night
yet bitch about my reading light,
hog my covers to wrap up tight,
but just remember, when you do,
what I do next, is all on you.

Forget the name of our first song,
don't hang your clothes where they belong,
blame me, when you do things all wrong.
but just remember, when you do,
what I do next, is all on you.

When the darkness of passing night
turned golden with the fresh new dawn,
I watched a single robin light
softly on my dew soaked lawn.

His voice trilled out across the way,
sweet music to my listening ear.
Bright promise of a perfect day
resounding in his song of cheer.

I feared this day when I arose,
surrender loomed as my intent.
Because of prayer to end my woes,
I thought that robin, Heaven sent?

Did my God send that bird to bring
his comfort with transcendent word?
When that Robin dropped there to sing
was it God' s answer that I heard?

Uplifting poet I am not,
I accept the burdens I've got,
Make fun of the fool
and boneheads who rule
with satire until my roots rot.


I thank my God when I arise
for one more day. This sweet surprise,
is more than I deserve. That gift, I praise
most eloquent on sunny days,
but often when the sun is veiled
by clouds of dismal gray, I've failed
to show my thanks, ungrateful for
the lesser day. My spirits soar
when perfect day replaces night,
but why do I need a day so bright
to know I have a double blessing?
The gloomy day, presents a testing
crucible, where I can repay
creation tax for one more day.

My parrot, is about to croak,
for ratting on me ungratefully.
It will not curse or crack a joke,
nor whistle or talk or even try,
but found a way to libel me
if I should somehow tell a lie.

The bird turns green from crimson red,
faster than most those stop lights do
when hearing lies that someone said,
exposing me as a liar too,
so bird I reared and kindly fed
will feed me now as parrot stew.

August 28,2009
Tourists were welcomed, for their dough
traveling the road through Jericho.
The tiny town had seven cops,
for harvesting cash at traffic stops.
Their Fire Chief tried to complain,
but someone shot, Chief Donald Payne,
the slug lodging in complainant's hip,
from a gun held in some cop's grip.
That traffic ticket was then dismissed 
and all the cops that town did list.
Two hundred folks without police,
are now secured and pray for peace.

Reported by the Ozarks Poet, Gerald Bosacker

We could learn from the plodding snail
       that always leaves behind a slimy trail.
This unisex mollusk called a gastropod
       always marks the path where it has trod.
Its single foot will never move them fast,
       but you can tell where they have passed.
I say we also leave a trail behind,
       our detractors can someday find.  


       Sinful people, who rely on total forgiveness from the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ, and plod on with their wicked ways, should learn from the slow moving snail always leaving its slimy, traceable trail behind. Forgiven sins still leave traces behind for our peers and descendants to discover. I do not think that it is not enough to be forgiven.

              On thinking of forgiveness of sins, I thought of a compassionate creator, who was not infallible, and made mistakes.  Criticizing God must be every religious group's worst crime, so I phrased that thought humorously. I hope that you and your God have a sense of humor.   

Tons more HERE

and here


Gerald Bosacker...Was originally destined to become a crusading journalist or witty editorialist, but was forced by family responsibilities to  abandon his part-time jobs and night school classes at the University of Minnesota, to work fulltime as a printer. There, his love of the well chosen word enabled him to become a successful graphic  arts salesman who migrated upward, propelled by serendipity coupled with his tolerance and empathy for faulted people, to become senior vice president of sales for a large international chemical company. Promoted much beyond his ambition and capability, and finding himself unskilled at high-end corporate politics, Bosacker jumped at early  retirement at his first opportunity. Now living in a small Arkansas community or in his fishing condo on Whitefish Lake near Glacier Park when over civilized in the Ozarks, he has resumed his first love, weaving words into prize-winning poetry and surprising short tales that borrow heavily from the fascinating people he met in his world-wide travels.  Bosacker displays the fruits of his labors at this site.  To see his biography and reasons for being, check Bosacker bio.
Bosacker has two novels nearing completion and hopes to finish them before succumbing to the expected innocence of old age.  If you like his short stories and poetry, please encourage him by sampling eight completed books.  A taste of each is freely offered on SHOWCASE.  You can buy any of his nine books at a special price from this page, paying by either pay pal or by check.




At this site, you can find publication help, genealogy charts, a dog lover's site, environmental activism,previews of Bosacker's books, our NE Arkansas Quaker meeting house, and other poetic treats.  SEE MY RECESSION SPECIAL, honoring Barack Obama, with free books by request... 


In Iraq, we are waging a strange war,
a war of attrition and arms supply
Will they run out of bombers before
our stock of soldiers, willing to die?

We fight to establish democracy
and if we succeed what will ensue.
They will vote for a Muslim theocracy,
pledged to destroy each Christian and Jew.

     Only a small minority, with economic or professional gain from armaments, support this very strange war proclaimed to bring a strange democracy to a region hostile to all of the earmarks of our our democracy's basic four freedoms.  
     Look at the corporations that gain from this exportation of American dollars, young soldiers lives and American honor. Their lobbying and we voter's Honor sullied by the President's staunch decision to launch a pre-emptive war and burden our nation with an impossible seige of occupation and democritization.
     Every American citizen should challenge those who profit from this foolhardy enterprise, as these greedy profiteers are our worst enemy and they hold our president hostage to their needs.


           ECLIPSING ME

My half-done novel snores beneath my bed         

and its been months since its been fed,

blessed atrophy 


Disrobed from fame by words, spit back as trite,

            and  I'm starved for praise and just tonight, 

I found the key


On the highest spot in our neighborhood,

casting shadow, I proudly stood,

posed formally.  


Some part of me blocked the moon's bright glow
            while the eclipse let the Earth's rim show
            so you saw me.



            During the last lunar eclipse, I appeared before my largest audience, ever.  At least two billion people watched as my shadow posed on the edge of the Earth's horizon.  Too bad, I was but a minescule shadow of my self. I put my travailed and treasured lines of verse on the Internet, and the same number of people responded as those that waved back at my shadow.  

             Two thousand unrecognized poems for two billion people, and I got as much recognition as when I posed on the horizon and waved.


A tiny seed is wishful sown
in God's hungry, eager earth.
It germinates, not on its own,
since warming sun must beg its birth.

If its roots reach deep enough
in somewhat loosened common dirt,
it nurtures from soil's rotting duff
and springs to life from past inert.

Our relationships are just like this,
and we expect, they fervent grow.
Dark clouds bestow sweet moisture's kiss,
but can't control what fates bestow.

As with anything that's sown,
there comes a harvest we must reap.
Sometimes only weeds are grown
so we must learn which crop to keep.

Does Allah see Bin Ladin in his mirror,
distorted with hate, a specter to fear.
Or does Allah hide his head in shame,
cursed for atrocities done in his name.
If He is the God that Jihads inspire,
I'd fear the Heaven, Muslims acquire.
If mirrors can really show and tell,
my chosen God is Christ-like as well.
A man defines his character most
when he ascribes his heavenly host.
When I might meet my God and maker, 
He will welcome this meek Quaker.

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.

When new winter blusters out where widows weep
over hidden plots where new sod lies browned,
will I too be resting beneath that frosted heap,
when soft snow flakes whiten my hallowed ground.

More examples of prize winning poetry HERE



A NEW FEATURE! A new rhyming contest for children is available for your school, church or club.  Check MrWryme's Learning Time in Side bar or Check samples here.    

FAMILY TREES by Bosacker
Ancestries available...Bosacker, Black, Scarborough, Colton
One book or a thousand, there are appropriate terms, for
volume buyers, and special prices for libraries.