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Hosted by Gerald Bosacker...
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...
TODAY'S WISDOM...
Laughter is good medicine for all ills except hunger.
TODAY'S POETIC MESSAGE...
CONCERNING DEAD SOLDIERS
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 wile 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 stoke in Ares pyre?
Do they despise their coffin's flag
or covet 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?
NEW POEMS RELEASED
MY BEST FRIEND
My best dog friend, eats broccoli
accidentally dropped upon the floor
Spot wags his tale so I can see
that I should drop my friend some more.
My dog eats stuff, I’m forced to eat,
if I might spill it off my plate?
Even liver, he thinks is treat,
and sweet reward for his long wait.
Mom does not know, I share my food
with my constantly hungry friend.
If Spot should bark with gratitude,
this partnership would quickly end.
GOD'S MESSENGER
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?
PAST POETIC LESSONS.
TATTLETALE SNAIL
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.
BEHIND THESE WORDS:
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
ARCHIVES
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.
EASILY BUY BOOKS MY NINE BOOKS ONLINE HERE.
SEPTEMBER 2007 WISDOM:
A STRANGE WAR
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.
BEHIND THE POEM:
Only a small minority, with economic or professional gain from the war, 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 challengte 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.
BEHIND THESE LINES:
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.
WE ARE PLANTERS
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.
DIFFERENT GODS
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.
FIRST SNOW
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
and HERE TOO
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