life – Page 9 – Kevin Trent Boswell

But I Am Not There

I see the blood that spills in the streets
Can practically smell the gunpowder air
Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue
I hear the explosions, but I am not there

I cannot claim to fathom their fear
Or say that I know the depth of their dread
I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones
Nor have I the need to step over the dead

I live far away from the noise of the horror
I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping
No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely
I read in peace, tea silently steeping

Pictures and articles pour in daily
Videos making me a bit more aware
I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real
But the sadness I feel does not compare

I hear children crying, and nothing stops it
I see the confusion and pain in their eyes
I smell the smoke and festering wounds
But the foulest odor is the stench of lies

A well-heeled madman’s misinformation
Distorted guile drips from his tongue
Slanderous justifications for the slaughter
Of unknown thousands, old and young

But my food is hot; my belly is full
I don’t hide underground or need to run
There are no tanks parked out on my lawn
My hands are empty; they hold no gun

I don’t have a gas mask close at all times
My roads are clear, my home is intact
The power to stop the storm is not mine
It rages on, and the sky is blacked

I cannot order the attack to halt
And to send in support is not my decision
I don’t determine the fate of anyone else
I need not defend my political vision

No sons or daughters go off to fight
Because of anything that I say or do
But war will not cease of its own accord
No moving of money makes it less true

I can say kind things and show my support
The only thing worse is not even to care
The words I say, meaningless, useless
It’s easy for me, for I am not there

If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing;
Or else he may set the whole world afire.”
I could say I believe to hold back is better
But were I to say it, I would be a liar

Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder
Intervention may mean the death of us all
So, we answer the cry for help by saying,
“We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”

To cover our fears of atomic destruction
Supportive words hang on digital display
Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy
He’ll go no further after getting his way

If only it were true that a taste of victory
Made conquerors quit; one land controlled
The wanton wishes of children who know
Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold

I cannot assist in their hour of darkness
Or insist that others answer the pleading
My heart hurts for those brave defenders
But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding

I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.”
It’s not my problem or burden to bear
After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions
It’s easy for me because I am not there

Photo by Алесь Усцінаў

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell — Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

my friends

good morning, all you beautiful people
you lovely, angelic folks i call friend
i want you to know that i’m thinking of you
though fiery days, together, do blend

whirling quick, down the drain of time
not seeing your faces, hearing your voices
distance and schedules demand this of us
circumstance offering no other choices

i want to take this brief opportunity
to say that you still mean a great deal to me
i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing
than where and how we happen to be

more often now, do i have these thoughts
since all appears to be coming apart
the wretched state of things all around us…
i think of you, how i miss your heart

each moment is truly a blessing, unique
neither taken for granted nor guaranteed
i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy
if i thought it helpful to request or plead

but alas, our time on the big, blue marble
ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise
disappears quickly, precious little warning
like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice

tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands
by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar
an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth
a disdain of beauty and a love for war

beastly creatures, not one, but many
loving too much, to climb and to fall
punching holes in our collective boat
though surely it sinks and dooms us all

the cup of this world, spills over with promise
wonders of nature, so much opportunity
carelessly ruined by the madness of kings
who with stolen gold, kill with impunity

we, being lovers of kindness and good
seeing their greed, the destruction it brings
it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude
“i guess that we just can’t have nice things”

as we watch them ripping it all into pieces
everything beautiful, too soon to die
i want you to know how much i love you
i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by

i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart
and in my thoughts, your memories glow
i’d not forgive myself if i wasted
the opportunity to let each of you know

just over the horizon, a banshee wails
as we near the welkin, do smile, once more
i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step
through the long, strange and endless door

Photo by Mo

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell — Eight poetry titles, available on Amazon

Pariah

I’ve always been
Outside the norm

I never quite fit in
Never fit neatly enough
Into any of the boxes

Despite being a straight, white male
Somehow, I always still manage
To be the different one
In every crowd

I believe in science
But I’m also an occultist

I’m entirely too rational and skeptical
For a great many in the occult community

I hold disdain for those who think that
White light is the solution for every problem,
That all things are possible through magick
And that crystals, sage and essential oils
Will cure absolutely anything and everything

I’m what is known as a gray magician,
Equally comfortable with
Angels and demons
Blessings and curses

But I’ve always been
A little too “light and goodness” for some
And a little too “dark and scary” for others

My acceptance of atheists,
As well as agnostics and Satanists
Gets me odd looks from the
Holier-than-thou clubs

And my complete lack of
Any bitter hatred of Christianity
Makes the Left Hand Path people
Somewhat suspicious of me

But the fact that I believe
Spells can cause change
And that it’s possible to
Communicate with unseen entities

This gets me automatically pigeonholed
By anyone in the scientific community
As either a lunatic or a charlatan
Or both

I’m too Ceremonial for the Witchcraft crowd,
Too witchy for the Hoodoo crowd,
Too Hoodoo for the Ceremonial crowd
And so on and so forth, ad-infinitum, ad-nauseam

I have kinks that get me labeled
As a pervert, by many

But I usually found that
I was something of a disappointment
To a lot of the kinky people I met
Because I wasn’t a submissive male
Or because I wasn’t bisexual
Or because I wasn’t whatever else
They were hoping that I would have been

Of course, they’re always happy that I am
Open and accepting and loving
Of all orientations, gender-identification, etc
But I’m still a straight, white male
Which is, to many of them,
Still sort of boring, sort of a letdown
And I get that, I really do
It’s OK, I’m not offended by it

I play chess and I listen to classical music
I both listen to and play jazz
So, I’m a bit too “uppity”
For many rock-and-rollers

But I’m only a decent chess player
And a mediocre jazz guitarist
So, I don’t get to sit with the really cool kids
At any of those tables

I also listen to punk, speed metal,
Gangster rap, blues, rock, pop
As well as dozens of other genres
And somehow, it’s still a surprise
When someone else likes the same bands as me
I’ve never really figured that part out,
Seems like there’d be more commonality
But there you have it

I write poetry and hell…
Everyone hates that

But even among the poets,
I don’t stick with any one, single genre
So, none of them really gets me, either

When I branch out into things like horror poetry,
That freaks a lot of people way the hell out

“What the fuck is wrong with that guy?!”

Sure, they love Stephen King
They don’t bat an eye at The Walking Dead
Or movies like Hellraiser or Saw
But I write one little, horror poem
About cannibalism and suddenly
I’m weird

OK, so it was more than just one

I play guitar, sing and write songs
But my style is all over the map
So it’s just too this or that for
Almost everyone

I was even told as much, by a friend,
A guy who had helped a pop artist,
A one-hit-wonder, to get a gold record
Yeah, I was close friends with a record producer

It didn’t help me one bit

He said “You’re a very good singer
And you’re a good guitarist but…”

“People want catchy songs”

“And they want to know
Exactly what they’re going to hear
When they come to a show.
You are all over the place.
I had no idea what you’d play next.
Pick one style and stick with it.”

“You can be a genius, later.”

That wasn’t good enough for me
I always wanted to do all of it

I wanted to do all of it, now

I’d play rock, blues, folk, funk, metal,
Country, pop, weird, avant-garde stuff
And psychedelia

However, most people seem to be more
Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry
But not all of the above

So, somewhere along the way,
I’d lose the crowd because I played a song
That was just too… something
For their tastes

I don’t play or follow sports
So, there went any conversation
With three-fourths of the
Male population, right there

I’m accepting of all religions
But I don’t belong to any
So, I don’t have any of the neat, lapel buttons
To get me into those meetings

I hate bullies
So, I never get invited to the hate crimes
Instead, I’m the idiot who will
Stand with the guy who is outnumbered,
Just because he’s outnumbered

But I think everyone is fair game
When it comes to rude jokes
Especially me
Because, if you can’t laugh at me
Then, who the hell can you laugh at?

But I sort of suck at political correctness
So, I piss off most of the woke crowd

It’s OK, the feeling is mutual

I don’t get into cosplay or anime
I’m not a Star Trek guy, though I like the show
I don’t collect or read comics or manga
I don’t keep up with most television

I advocate healthy eating but I’m not vegan

I can dance but don’t really like to
I can cook but don’t really like to
I can small talk but don’t really like to

I only comment on politics
When it looks like my country
Is about to shift into fascism;
I’ve talked way too much about politics
In the last four years

I’m no fan of hatred
So, I don’t get to sit with any of
Those guys in the white sheets
Or the black boots, bald heads and suspenders

But I’m a little too strange of a white guy
For most minorities to feel
Totally at ease around me

It’s probably safer to have
“Normal” white friends
And I actually get that;
I don’t take any offense to it

I’m not fluent in any other languages,
Despite having taken both French and Spanish
So, I don’t get to play interpreter for anyone

I think the climate crisis is way more severe
Than nine out of ten people do
Want to clear out a room fast?
Bring that up and watch them all scurry

I’m not a cat person
So, that rules out about three-fourths
Of the female population, right there

But I can always talk about dogs
With other dog lovers
And there’s a saving grace, for certain

I’m into martial arts and that’s too violent
For many people
But I’m not a black belt in anything I studied
So, I’m not important enough to listen to
In those groups
And even the style I’m most into,
Jeet Kune Do, is controversial,
Because it’s extremely eclectic
And it thumbs its nose at any type of
Tradition, purely for the sake of tradition
So, that pisses off a lot of people
Who practice traditional styles

I’m not a Right-Wing nut job but I support
The second amendment and I own guns
So, I just ostracized myself from
Both the Right and the Left,
Right there

I don’t surf or skate or snow ski
I’m not a connoisseur of fine wines
Or fine cuisine
I don’t read anything on best-seller book lists

I’ve always been either
Lower class or lower, middle class
So, I can’t get into any of the swank affairs

But I’m a bit too odd to get invited to
Most of the cool kids’ parties

It doesn’t really help that
I don’t smoke weed and I don’t usually drink
The lack of these habits raises many eyebrows

I don’t fit hand-in-hand with most, other people

Even my closet friends,
Dear, dear, beloved friends
Would readily admit:

“Yes, he’s an odd one.
Oh, we love him.
We just don’t claim to really
Understand him.

We think it’s probably quite enough
To just love him
And let it go at that.”

And with that statement, I’d completely agree

I’m perfectly content to be
The black sheep, the odd man out
The different one

But all this lack of fitting in
Has helped me, in one, very clear way

It has compelled me to develop
A desperately needed survival skill
And that is

Good listening

Because I learned early on
That if I was going to last
More than ten minutes
In any conversation,
In any room,
Anywhere

I did much better if I
Kept my rather strange opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes
To myself

But I did even better, still

When I could repeat back the opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes that someone else
Had just expressed to me

Everyone appreciates being
Truly heard

Not everyone needs to be agreed with
It isn’t even everyone who
Needs to be appreciated

But everyone
Likes to know that you were
Actually listening

And if they say anything at all
About music, martial arts, chess, poetry
Or anything else I’m interested in
Well, I might have just bought myself
Ten more minutes of friendly conversation

And when all else fails,
When I’m talking to someone and I can’t find
Any common ground… at all

I can always punt
I default to the saving grace of
Dogs

But if it becomes clear
That they don’t like dogs…

Well, then it’s clearly just time to leave

Photo by Arianna Jadé

The Next Ones

I find myself weeping
But I’m not weeping for me
Not for anything I might have missed
Or anything that I had hoped to be

It’s not because of some thing I desired
But did not manage to attain
It’s not something I had that I didn’t want
Nor any of my own physical pain

It’s not for me, I had room to move
I rolled the dice and they fell as they did
But I took my chances, I took my shots
I went for it all and from life, never hid

Sure, things could have turned out better
I could have had an easier time
But I know not everyone gets to win
To the top, only a handful climb

Still, all-in-all, at the end of things,
I did OK and better than many
I had sorrows and joys, resources and gifts
I got to spend my talents, every last penny

Yet, generations are coming behind me
Emerging from the dark of the womb
Into a darker world, for which we’ve not
Prepared them, nor should we assume

That somehow, they’ll just be alright
That they’ll manage some way, to sort the mess
That some miracle solution will present itself
Or that God or good luck will bless

Nor should we think it likely the case
That hard work will see them through it all
Nor in hubris, think what stands today
Will not, tomorrow, surely fall

Least of all, we should not dare
To turn blind eyes to their plight
Out of sight is out of mind
But by no means makes it right

Having turned over each, useless stone
After turning my wheels, digging in deep
With no useful advice or answers, for them
I bury my face in my hands and weep

Main photo by Alex Green

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible and frightening things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much and too often, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, Kevin Trent Boswell, poetry books — **Available on Amazon**

WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.

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There Are No Words

There are no words; none suffice,
None that may cover or explain
None that express the loss of a love
Or help to heal the pain

Anything that we might say,
Anything we try to do,
It all falls short, next to the grief,
And only the grief shows through

When someone has lost someone,
A lover, family, pet, or friend,
Not single word we can speak
That will put them on the mend

No expression of condolence helps;
Our feeble efforts don’t stop the pain
The only thing that’s somehow worse
Is if we say nothing at all

In times of loss and grief, we are
Of little use to those we hold dear
It’s best that we assume as much
And say only, “I am here”

Hope not that your speech is helpful;
Know that we hold no such power
Say only “I am here with you,
In this, your darkest hour.”

The most we might do for a friend
Who is suffering from a broken heart
Is to demonstrate respect by saying,
“I don’t even know where to start”

Offer humility and say, “I can only
Imagine the terrible weight of your pain
I can do nothing but be here for you,
And for you, here, I will remain”

house of ghosts

it is a house of ghosts

every corridor
veers into shadows

creak of old hinges,
original, hardwood flooring
clanging of ancient, iron pipes

scraping, scratching
from behind the walls,
below the floors and from the attic, above

things too small to see
things that can’t be seen, at all
things that receive no mail, no visitors
things that aren’t supposed to be here
or anywhere else

quick, bright flashes
memory’s dim lenses
flecked with dust and specters

once, a place of mirth and much company
echoes of laughter, music and children,
floating through every hallway

scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots,
cigars, perfumes, liquors,
fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace,
roses, thyme, basil, rosemary
and lavender from the garden,
drifting in through the open windows,
freshly baked pies and cookies
all washing over the senses
of friends and neighbors

finely crafted furniture of oak and leather,
where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing,
nursing babies, reading the newspapers,
scratching the chins of kittens and puppies,
holding hands, kissing in the happy hours,
consoling each other, after some loss

all of it now covered over by tarps
draped with sheets and drop cloths
consumed by the dry rot of time
or dampness, the mildew
and stale, trapped air
which slowly made their way in

these too, desired to stay here, forever
to find a home, within these walls

anymore, only whispers
float through these rooms

no one has lived here for many years

the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor
all bare and sullen
the pantries stocked only
with cobwebs of memory

this house was the home
of more than a few hearts
a place of comfort and rest
for a great many souls

it still is

this house has
never been empty