My name is Gerald Bosacker, born in Barron, Wisconsin in 1930. Later, I attended the University of Minnesota and am a retired Vice President of Sun Chemical. I live in Dunedin, Florida and have published a little conventional poetry and short stories am currently concentrating on Poetry that has conventional rhyme and meter submerged or hidden. It has a pleasant effect when narrated but belies its true structure. I call this hybrid subliminally rhymed verse. It is an attempt to bridge the acrimonious gap between conventional and free verse poets. There are two prime examples here.




Our Not Found Wheel

Native Americans,
proud and secure found clay,
molding it with their strong hands,
made food crockery,
and each bowl was round,
predicting use of potter's wheel.

Dawn displayed
it's radiance in perfect circles of gold
to orderly roll across a waiting sky.

A circular sun
woke them and told them rise.

Circularity,
they still deny,
never heeding their Sun God
who rolled to tell them "make a wheel"
for their clumsy Travois that gouged a tell tail trail.

When felled by sickness,
they watched Clairvoyant Medicine men
draw circles portraying their World.

Proud warriors,
danced by campfires,
as their squaws made arrows,
scraping wood smooth and perfectly round,
to fly straight.

Your fire-maker spun round and hot,
propelled by circular force,
Your campfires burned
to light and warm the night.
Why did you not see that bow string tool
as a wheel that turned motion into heat?
Were that round shaft ovate
or square, it would ignite nothing.

Squaws chose round stones that rolled easy,
despite their weight,
to move the fire's heat to boiling pits.

White foes had wheels
that hauled away your gold,
and plowed your prairie to grow their wheat.

If you had watched how those hot stones rolled,
you might still have herds of buffalo to eat.
Your Squaw put roundness to work
which was a wheel you did not see.

You appeased the Invaders
with gifts of turkey and corn
and curtsied so politely.

You saw those wheels
and said, "No thanks!"
When white man came,
you faced his guns,
in your canoes instead of tanks
because you stayed the wheelless ones.


Copyright 2001 by Gerald Bosacker




I'm King Of Swat

I do not kill instinctively,
and never once, maliciously.
But Mosquitoes who choose to sample me,
I quickly squish with hand clap glee.

Taking joy from sadistic swat,
denies compassion which I've got
but manage to suppress a lot
while sleeping naked when it's hot!

Mosquitoes who might try to drain
that wine of life from my blood vein
should heed this rhyme and wise refrain
from picking me for their champagne.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Something Fishy On My Plate

A fresh brook trout is pricey treat
  sauteed by Chefs before it's dead
   then served, full dressed, for you to eat
    censuring eyes still in its head.

I may be crude, to not eat trout
  if it expires while being cooked
   with crusted sneer upon its snout,
    from twisted lips where it was hooked.

A Chef might laud this tortured dish,
  but I believe it ranks obscene
   to pay surcharge for half dressed fish
    that no one cared to even clean.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Casting Pearls!

Sooooeeee, Sooooeeee! Its feeding time.
Digest these orbs of nacreous matter,
Ignore the fool who made them rhyme.

Don't push, don't shove, don't block the trough
word choices forced are mindless patter
that meekly earn, your right to scoff.

Cram down, gulp quick, subdue their shine
each gem will hardly tint your taste
if they are first dissolved in whine.

Porcines decry my rhyme unsung
its wisdom missed as banal waste,
their music mute, sad bells not rung.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Would Gods Be Proud

If there be Gods, they must be miffed
to witness mute, while man wild dare
pollute their most essential gift
of seas creating rain and air.

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 won't decay?

If our Creators, we must please
inventive man should soon take stock
of chemicals that foul our seas,
returning Earth to lifeless rock.

We've changed this world to comfort zone
without regard for other guests
and think the world is ours alone
when it's we that are the pests.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




The Poet Clown

If somewhere a clerk
  with self-righteous smirk      
      records my acts of folly.

He'll underline twice,
  this only bad vice,
      I'm never melancholy.

Grief, masked by my laugh
  earns choice epitaph,
    "He's always been jolly!"

While others might cry
  or soulfully sigh
      faced with disaster or worse

I don't want to frown,
  but laugh, play the clown
      providing whimsical verse.

When comes my last day,
  I'll beg for delay      
      as exit lines, I  rehearse.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Perception

All of my friends are seeking perfection,
    but their search has one little flaw.
Results are judged by their perception,
    that they must win, never lose or draw.  

When judging ourselves, it's essential
  that ground rules be those we have set.
If choosing ideals it's most providential
  when meeting the goals we've already met  

When faced with censure or harsh condemnation
  It's only our voice we tolerant bear
Weighing the reproach in self revelation
  we summon compassion no other would share.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




You Can't Haul Giraffes in a Compact Car

You can't haul Giraffes in a compact car,
you can't bake beans in a jam glass jar,
and you can't pound nails with a candy bar
Unless you wish upon a star.

You can't shovel snow with a willow stick
or sail battleships in the pasture crick.
You can't sew thread with any brick
Until you know the magic trick.

You can't sing songs with a belly ache,
you can't lace shoes with a skinny snake.
You don't eat food with a garden rake
Unless it's Old Merlin's magic cake.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Memories

Time won't ignore
nor dare deny each past defeat.
The trail of hurt marks fine
each sigh where they complete
a wrinkled trail.
The passing years,
a subtle knife,
carves tattered line
of condensed tears
that mark true life-line
on palms, once supple,
now claws where babies
rocked to sleep.
Each passing year
has gnawed away
and locks up memories.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




Don't Weep For Me

Don't weep for me,
my grieving friends for I have lived,
and now am free to go back home,
as fate intends.
I don't go poor,
to fearsome site since memories,
will comfort me in pleasant sleep,
through endless night.
Don't think me lost,
for I am found and will in peace,
triumphant bask
for I knew where my soul was bound.
The tax for Life,
I would defray
by facing brave each destined task
to glory on this hallowed day.
Don't harsh resent untimely call,
or brand my death as tragedy.
My life's been full,
I've treasured all my host of friends,
each battle won and precious love of family.
These gifts I prize when life is done.


Copyright (c) 1999 by Gerald Bosacker




You Cannot Call The Wind

The wind is wildest of the artful friends
that we abide. When wind allows us share
its vigor, you know its that she intends
it for her pleasures. Wind will never spare
our prized properties, nor pity our loss.
Brash Wind maliciously turns placid air
mass and sets its path to capriciously toss
down trees in winnows like freshly mowed grass,
shaking steel towers until they too fall.
Wind, like Kings, must always be petty and mean
and topple anything that grow too tall
or clutters up what wind wants to sweep clean.

First primeval man, hunting his food, knew
and used the facing wind to hide his scent,
stalking the game he'd then bite and chew
uncooked. Yet uncalled Wind most provident
first provided fire and appetizing smell
of roasted flesh. Man could at no time tame
the wind, that Pyrenees cave pictures now tell
us, man did with fire. For when called, fire came.
But man could never call the wind or turn
it off like fire. Fire capitulated, to be
his lackey, baking mud into brick, burn
-hardening wood and giving light to see.
Man took skins from his cooking meats and fanned
his small fires to smelt the metal from rock
and learned to spill the glass from ash and sand.
In one small tick of existential clock
fire was harnessed in steel and trained to toil
for man. Steam tools burned wood then switched to coal,
then summoned motive force from burning oil.
Man handled flame, but not its dying soul,
escaped as smoke, bestowing poison source
as price we pay for controlling flame.
The mocking wind runs free, a feral horse
with fume free power we are loathe to claim.
Let's harvest wayward wind that does not smoke
like all the soot wrapped flames we careless stoke.


Copyright 2000 by Gerald Bosacker



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