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Hosted by Gerald Bosacker...
TODAY'S WISDOM...
ORGAN NEWS
Organs are played by people who
use both their feet and all their hands.
Because of this its sadly true,
they're never used in marching bands
TODAY'S POETIC MESSAGE...
A DINING TIP
To fight obesity,
Remember at dinner
your wish to be thinner
and eat accordingly.
NEWER POEMS RELEASED
MIRACLE PALEONTOLOGY
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
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.
FADING AWAY
Before those final church bells chime
will I regret my propensity
of spending long hour wasting my time
creating old fashioned poetry,
using end words that rhyme,
yet hoping someone remembers me.
MY SWEETHEART WARNS...
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.
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.
ONE MORE DAY
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.
BETRAYED BY MY BIRD
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.
ARKANSAS TRAVEL ALERT
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
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.
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?
Tons more HERE
and 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.
FAMILY TREE HELP
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...
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 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.
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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