poet – Page 18 – Kevin Trent Boswell

When I Think About Tomorrow

When I think about tomorrow
I only see one thing
A day laden with the sorrow
And the trouble it will bring

My heart is full of fear
My mind is full of dread
My hands are full of jelly
My feet are full of lead

The day coming after this one
Is one I’d gladly do without
But it’s ridiculous to run
And it’s of no use to shout

On the head of this stickpin
No promised angels dance
Much to my chagrin
Just the devil’s half-a-chance

He said tomorrow’s fruit is rotten
To enjoy it is to fake it
It’s the only offer that I’ve gotten
So, I guess I’ll have to take it

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The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell — 8 poetry titles available on Amazon

Main photo by Gabriel Hohol

how dare i

how dare i take you
by lascivious force
boss you around
play the pirate, tie you up
treat you roughly
as my possession
force upon you my will
make you drink from my cup

for then,
you would not
be free
to do as you like
i’d be a curse for you to endure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i worship you
as a goddess, divinity’s source
respect your opinions
hear your voice
let you run free
give you space and respect
yield to your whims
whatever your choice

for then,
you would not
be attracted to me
no desire, masculine, primal passion
no naughty novelties, obscene, obscure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i
stay the middle course
walk the fine line
weigh situations, each
independent, with thoughtful care
read moods, assess
accordingly to act
whether i should listen or teach

for then,
tepid, neither cold nor hot
is how you’d find me
indecisive, wavering
weak and spineless, insecure
and whatever then
would you do?

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - Music, Poetry and Madness — Magus72 on Patreon – Music, Poetry and Madness

Too

You’re too young

You’re too old

You’re too timid

You’re too bold

You’re too forgiving

You’re always holding grudges

You’re too straightforward

You’re all winks and nudges

You’re too kinky

You’re such a prude

You’re too nice

You’re terribly rude

You’re too poor

You’re way too rich

You’re too loyal

You’re a backstabbing bitch

You’re too punk

You’re too straight

You’re too early

You’re far too late

You’re too logical

You’re too black and white

You’re too much of a pacifist

You always pick a fight

You’re not broad enough

You’re too eclectic

You’re speed is too slow

You’re pace is too hectic

You’re the same, old, usual

You’re too avant-garde

You’re too soft

You’re just too hard

You’re too boring

You’re too, too much

You’re always gone

You’re here way too much

You’re too stupid

You’re a little too smart

You’re too far ahead

You’re too close to the start

You’re too involved

You’re too apathetic

You’re too fat

You’re too athletic

You rhyme too much

You’re too free-verse

You’re too offensive

You’re afraid to curse

You’re too angry

You’re too sad

You’re too worried

Why are you so glad?

You’re too sensitive

You’re too thick-skin

You’re too quick to finish

You’re too slow to begin

You’re too far gone

You’re too stable

You bite off too much

You don’t give all you’re able

You’re too frigid

You’re too horny

You’re too grabby and needy

You’re too distant and thorny

You’re too quiet

You’re too proud

You’re too humble

You’re too loud

You’re too unpredictable

You’re too strange

You’re too normal

You’re too subject to change

You’re too ambitious

You’re too restrained

You’re too big-boned

You’re too big-brained

You’re too reserved

You’re too outgoing

You second-guess too much

You think you’re all-knowing

You’re too brazen

You’re too fearful

You’re too cold and harsh

You’re too sentimental, tearful

You’re too specific

You’re too cryptic

You’re too Pollyanna

You’re too apocalyptic

You’re too masculine

You’re too effeminate

You’re too tight-assed

You’re too indiscriminate

You’re too hands-off

You’re too political

You don’t tend to details

You’re too analytical

You’re just way too picky

You always say “whatever”

You’re not very bright

You’re think you’re so clever

You’re too pasty

You’re too tan

You’re too girlie

You’re too manly-man

You’re too dense

You notice too much

You never ask for help

You always need a crutch

You’re too red

You’re too blue

You’re too much of everything

You’re way too much you

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

the others

dark nighttime
holds illusions,
all seeking
to guide you

into madness
and cringing
under too-short,
coarse covers

trust your gut,
sweet child;
only light
is inside you

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

look
before crossing
strange threshold,
take care

there’s a light
that’s inside you
that light,
true and bold

and then there’s
the everything
else
that’s out there

some lights
have gone out,
but haven’t yet
been told

devils
can appear
as angels,
so beware

they would
warm themselves
by the fires
of your favors

they return
your good deeds
with nothing
but despair

gratitude
is absent;
all the usual,
good flavors

are not nearly
so much in them,
not so much
as their needs

you’d help them
if you could
but you can’t…
nor can any

any goodness
you offer
is repaid with
foul deeds

their love was
all strangled
by weeds,
so many

caring is a
thing they’re
far too good
at feigning

but they’d not do
so much
at all…
were they able

to give you
assistance
they assist
by restraining

they’d have you
assist by
being food
on their table

in the dark place,
your kind rules
won’t replace
good sense

your eyes
fail to hear;
your sight goes
deaf and dumb

you’re a good child
and a smart one;
always keep
strong defense

against the weaving
of webs
that would have you
succumb

listen not,
to easy tales
of leisure
or love

be generous
be grateful,
but too much so,
one discovers

there’s humanity
in your heart
and it fits you,
like a glove

but the same
may not always
be said
of the others

listen closely
when light whispers
its soft,
gentle warning

go not lightly
where sternly
it would guide you
away

lean gently
upon your genteel
manners
of good morning

shield carefully,
your beacon;
shining,
that it may

ward off those
hungry things,
slinking in the
twilight

committing
many crimes
to justify their
sadness

your large heart
would feed them
but the briefest time’s
highlight

your manners
won’t give them
a single moment’s
gladness

a hunger,
baleful,
returns ever,
without pauses

more hot
and more fierce,
much stronger
than before

opening you
slowly,
hiding
true causes

growing
more bold
once you open
the door

in knowing
what nice, warm
feelings
spill out of you

on your noble,
good faith
they’ll come again,
to dine

a stitch of
incredulous
keeps away
death’s hue

after all is
said and done,
it almost always
saves nine

trim the wick
of your candle,
its bright light,
inspire

keep your powder
all dry
and your lamp tinder
lit

small steps
can lead you
into darkness,
more dire

so, be careful
and wise
and don’t fall
for it

odd misgivings
may cause you
to shirk,
with an attitude

even the
friendliest
of those come-hither
smiles

the first thing
to go,
once they’re in,
is your mood

a lengthy
and foul one
means you’re taken
by their wiles

hold your memory
on tight
and never let them
touch

trust your
way-down-deep
when the good feeling
lacks

harken
which hands
reach for you
too much

a bother
in your belly
stops you dead
in your tracks

your energy
will fail,
long before
their thirst

a visceral fear,
in your
tenderhearted,
warm guts

take the
hooked bait
and you’ll soon see
their worst

suspicious
of yourself
and feeling like
you’re nuts

when uneasy
twinges
drive you back,
second-guessing

from a seemingly
obvious
act
of benevolence

they’re there
to warn you
of something bad,
pressing

even daddy’s
good breeding
can draw to you
malevolence

some feed on daddy’s
manners,
mother’s charm school
propriety

it’s less commentary
on your love
and more on their
bleakness

in spite of all
politeness
good intentions,
sobriety

resides in
a maintenance
that guards against
your own weakness

you are glowing
with life, child;
remain balanced in
your poises

stay out of
the shadows
and out of
the foolish

they’ll drag you
into dins of
the most horrible
noises

pulling you
from the light,
down into…
the ghoulish

when your social
sensibilities
are suddenly
eviscerated

and it happens
without logical
reasons,
not one

a thing which,
on the surface,
seems
uncomplicated

do not question it,
dear child;
instead…
turn and run

when abdominal
doubt
scorns the stranger’s
handshaking

when something
inside of your
knotted-up,
deep self

signals
a threat, with
inexplicable
quaking

though they look
the good deal,
put them back
upon the shelf

never wander
too closely
to the edges
of the dark

shadows
have been known to,
on occasion,
jump through

to leap out,
swallow flickering,
pretty things
that spark

the sparkling,
pretty lights
in pretty things,
like you

keep close
to the guard dogs
who growl
behind fierce eyes

when temptation
comes close,
offering you
strange favors

don’t lean in,
too closely
or listen
to their lies

the keepers
of darkness
and light are
close neighbors

and sometimes
those shaded
boundaries
fall open

since some always
go there,
eager to
steal keys

this may shock
or confuse you;
sensibilities,
all broken

but disappearance
in the night
happens with
great ease

not all
are so nice
as you, child;
you must know

that some
are the weight
of a great,
heavy stone

not all would
have you live
or leave
or let go

but would gladly
consume all,
even marrow
of your bone

your mommy
and daddy
and friends want you
to live

but monsters are
more common
than they bothered
to explain

taking each
precious drop
of all the blood
you could give

some quietly
feed on
the wellbeing
in your brain

not keeping you in
too good
but rather too many,
different shapes

creepers,
all slithering
down low,
out of light

until you break
their spells
and your spirit
escapes

well-hidden,
under coverings,
many put up
no fight

but will linger
and drain you
until you rise up
and slay

some appear
tricky,
as a lamp
or a torch does

shielding you
from the bright,
good and sensible
day

storms,
wearing rainbows;
where color,
never was

any light that
splinters out
is artificially
made

those devils
would lay you down
on razor-sharp
pillows

dressing you
in black cloaks
of drowning
in the shade

some wicks
take light easily,
like dried-up,
old willows

candles burning
through the night,
on first strike
of one match

but some things
only look like
a flame
or spark

but their sweet,
sugar poisons,
sharp, in the throat,
catch

you’d use up
all your matches
and still be
in the dark

they will never, ever
burn,
no matter how hard
you try

for they’re just
not the good,
useful, light
type of stuff

they will always
break things
and take things
and lie

try to help them,
you’ll discover
that it’s never quite
enough

a mask-wearing
face appears
like innocence
and hope

lovely or kind
at first glance,
they may
look

but with a lot
of hard scrubbing
and a fair
amount of soap

you’ll discover
the ruse
and note all that
they took

i’m sorry to
have to say, child
not all is
as it seems

in fact, most things
are not
at the bottom
of this matter

in this world,
there are things
far worse than
bad dreams

and the daylight
does not
cause all of them
to scatter

some things
are stubborn
slow dying,
sowing trouble

and you’ll never
get back
those things
which were taken

it’s much better
when you’re older,
to pop
your own bubble

childhood
dies easier
with your confidence,
unshaken

but die
it must do,
since it’s nothing
but a blindness

the warm blanket
of sheltering,
by fathers
and mothers

the love you
possess, child
rewards kindness
with kindness

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

From the black book of fiendishly foul, frightening things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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baby elephant

no one wants to talk about
the little, baby elephant
that wandered into the room
some decades ago

only now, the thing
has grown to full size
and everyone has to move away
from wherever the elephant chooses to go

still, no one mentions it
if you start to do so
you’re quickly told
to hush

it’s as if everyone believes
that discussing the thing
will somehow cause it
to rampage and crush

it’s a bit more than annoying
since it’s beginning to wreck
anything and everything
that’s in the house

lots of nervous smiling
and changing the subject
you’ll hear no mention of the elephant;
we’re all quiet as a mouse

everyone brightens right up
when you share a fun story
talk about a new movie
or tell a funny joke

but when you try to talk about
the elephant (or the weather)
it’s as if you were never there
and you never spoke

you’ll get a lot of
blank stares, shrugs
mostly, a lot of people
turning away

you’d think that since the beast
is destroying their home,
they might have an opinion,
a choice word or two, to say

but you would be wrong
for all is quiet
except for occasional whispers,
so brief

once the whispering stops,
all sigh and go back
to whatever they were doing
with a nervous relief

it’s more than just
a little bit puzzling
it’s far beyond being
just strange or odd

having everyone assure you
that we’re alone in the house
with a wink, a smile
and an anxious nod

this is all doubly,
if not triply or quadruply so…
or even to the power
of twenty-one

the elephant is angry,
bellowing loud, all the time
and people have been crushed;
more than just one

maybe it’s something about
how i was raised
or a skill that i never knew
that i needed before

something as big,
as destructive, imposing
as an elephant… to me…
is impossible to ignore

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

Out On The Killing Floor, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

355 pages, available now on Amazon

8 different titles available

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry

Elephant photo by David Blackwell

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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