By Gerald Bosacker
The wry and eccentric poetry of an historic poet, alive nowa days, annotated together with his twisted state of mind.
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Additional info for CONFESSIONS OF A MAD POET
48 DARK SHADOWS FROM THE PAST They moved into the Pearson shack with just one son and he was black. @ He tried to be our shadow, he was not one of us Spike said he looked like kitchen coal, looked skinny as a telephone pole. Folks said our meanness took its toll and won for us a bigot=s role, We did not feel too sad, though, he was not one of us. His funeral, was grand in style, the casket lined with golden faille that softly held this chaste exile from southern hate and white man=s guile, It never was our fault, you know, he was not one of us.
The one I rode came in just a little bit high while the other somewhat slow came within a mile. Too close, said the man who wrote the file, and tipped the TV press and primed his smile. I was home and safe, and watched the setting sun obscured by those clouds of birds who rose and danced as one in dense and polite crowd. How swift they turned and spun in changing harmony but safe and ordained unison. BEHIND THESE WORDS: Have you ever watched a thousand birds converge, each on divergent path, yet always maintaining safe clearance.
We admit wizening maturity but unlike smart, bodies do not lie. Remember, my vain friend, the only way you can escape the scars of growing old is dying quick, before your hair turns gray, and all those maturing years are tolled. So ponder again your aging fears, for loss of vitality is slight cost discounted in your survivor=s tears for the dear friends regretfully lost. BEHIND THESE WORDS: We cannot refuse to die, nor refuse to crumble from encroaching years. We should sanely moderate our expectations, and enjoy what attributes of our birthright we still retain.
CONFESSIONS OF A MAD POET by Gerald Bosacker
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