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  February 2005
volume 3 number 1
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  contributing poets
  Gerald Bosacker
  Jack G. Bowman
  MC Bruce
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Dana Campbell
  Larry Colker
  Francisco Dominguez
  Kenneth Gurney
  Kari J. Hayes
  Jessica Healy
  Jerry Hicks
  Bryon D. Howell
  Judith A. Lawrence
  Marie Lecrivain
  Roland Lesterin
  Cheyenne Lewis
  Laura A. Lionello
  Andrew Lundwall
  Stosh Machek
  Johnny Masuda
  Corey Mesler
  Scott Miller
  Albert Lee Moran
  Aire Celeste Norell
  Charlotte O'Brien
  Maurice Oliver
  Angel Perales
  James Pinkerton
  Raindog
  Steve Ramirez
  David W. Rushing
  Clinton Smith
  Kate Soto
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Anca Vlasopolos
 
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Gerald Bosacker
February 2005
   

 

bio


T Jungle

    Gerald Bosacker is a prolific poet and tale teller who is minimally known to the paying public, but lavishly displayed pro-bono on the Internet. Unemployed, he exists by charging "tasting fees" to grocers, and "comfort-rating" assessments to his landlords.
    Destined to become a crusading journalist or witty editorialist, Bosacker abandoned his night class studies at the University of Minnesota to become first a printer, and then a salesman who successfully migrated upward, propelled by serendipity coupled with his love of choosing just the right words, to eventually become Senior Vice President of Sales for a large international chemical company. Promoted much beyond his ambition and capability, Bosacker jumped to early retirement at the first chance.
    Now living among his aging peers in a Florida retirement community winters and his fishing shack on Whitefish Lake by Glacier Park summers, he has resumed his first love: weaving words into prize-winning poetry and surprising tales that borrow heavily from the fascinating people he met in his world-wide travels.

bosacker@aol.com

   

 

I See Their Bones

Coasting easily down the long rain shadow slant

of the mighty Rockies, toward the rising sun,

the endless eroded wasteland seems to pant

for rain. Bygone buffalo chips, their decay done,

still tease arrogant clumps of sagebrush to defy

thirst. In this barren land, millions of bisons fed,

lodged and heated the affluent and grateful Cheyenne

and Sioux citizens of their beloved meadow-

land nation. They saw no need to tap the less

fertile lower layers of furtive mineral prize.

Vast rivers from ancient melted glaciers coyly

seep toward nirvana. Ancient flora carbonize

wait for rebirth as smoke and cinders. Oily

graves of corpulent cadavers coalesce

to black gold, waiting to belch a deadly oxide

for a greedy, mechanized world. These blessings

bode beneath the barren bushes but bastioned hide

Paleface come with buffalo guns on iron trail.

They dug and drilled, fenced and killed, dissecting

the Earth Mothers belly for her hidden holy grail.

Pied Indians now fight only themselves, neglecting

to thank intruders for bad water, starvation

and decimating small pox. Brave warriors that fought

for their children are as dead as the Indian Nation,

white as bleached bison bones, embalmed by bourbon bought

from the Indian bureaus temporal padrones.

Beyond the southern sky-edge, the brown Big Horn

sometime floods, exposing bits of Custers bones.

Brave and sober Sioux warriors rise up in scorn

from their hidden pyres to ride their dust devil steeds

through sleeping reservations, whooping war chants

to their drunk descendants and resigned half breeds,

timidly afraid to dance when the red man leads.

copyright 2004 Gerald Bosacker