August Poems | Examples of August Poetry

Grecians  Hellas and the port of Piraeus hold a memory in my seafarer’s heart, civilized people, no they are not leaders of efficiency, but you can talk to them and expand your knowledge. Not forgetting whores, they had time for a drink sharing, a joke, and didn’t hurry you. In Hamburg, it was never thus, no smiles, no foreplay efficiency ruled; money on...

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Silence isn’t quiet — it’s the scream stuck in my throat, the venom dripping from broken teeth, the promise shattered on cracked floors. Your silence is a fist beating against my ribs, each unanswered breath a knife twisting deeper, a war waging beneath broken skin. I claw at shadows grasping ghosts that slip through bleeding fingers, love drowned in the dark, where silence is a battlefield and...

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the soothing shade from a majestic oak tree refreshes in a marvelous mellow way as a gentle breeze sways in rhythm its lush green nostalgic memories of love have come and gone whilst the magic of summer has only just begun...

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The body Johan on the strand The sun shone on his belly Gulls had gouged his eyes Crabs crawled into his nose came out of his mouth A shroud of sea tar A man strummed a guitar A girl laughed A summer in 1954. ...

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what is left of me, once you have taken all that I am? what words are left for me to wallow in after you say goodbye? in who's arm do I find comfort, now that mine have been shackled? how do I say I love you when I can't bring myself to love again, or have I ever? how...

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Continuous cathartic resonance of black bashful veil, imposing the darkest recess and its tangled tantrums amassed, phases exist without problematic manifest intrusion illusory but for a while, the reckless chilling bursts of wild incendiary angst a blight, such burdens match interminable interior and exterior struggle, the bulk of etched trauma recent or derivative of remote life event, an additional weight as...

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though my life is rougher Compared to some other And constantly i suffer Never will i trade it for another Even if its a life much better To me it will not matter I will be just stronger And try to be much wiser Protect them from danger Give the best of life i can offer For there is no greater joy To...

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I looked at the trees. They moved with the birds, while they chirped and laughed. Shutting the door, my hand shaking from former caffeine. I heard music from my room. It stopped. My speaker died. The blinds let the light in and my room smelled good, like laundry in the morning. My skin was easy today and my lips...

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After Angella Voras-Hills fallen green apples here and there at a dead end, the yard is where in the story lies an ending, the life I lead an illusion a collage along the road of broken houses bathed in light a quiet moment, a lament when the day bleeds into colors and all my realities and dreams connect There is an illusion of light...

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Mine is a wild spring step, shoe heels dash leaf strewn path, wrinkled drivers sour mien, from rueful rush hour toll, as sluggish cars inch by, my drained feet moult traction...

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Against a willowy wailing backdrop of inner chaos, an indignant incendiary mask stifles the simmering cauldrons, of a stoic stage clown post lachrymose performance wearily stunning yet stung, or the surreptitious posture of the laugh it off as mediocre bypass, iron clad ruthless repression of bone rattle indignation a seeker of impoverished aperture, whilst many can manage to laugh through...

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It is not but a tiny ball of yarn I say as I roll it around in my hand then throw it away. The littlest furball sees it and squalls a hiss which made her mother even twitch. She pounced and rolled and bounced and scolded that teeny tiny ball of yarn until she...

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Where the hail crests the sunlight by the hill on which we laid Though the bedding were not empty as the rocks did fight away In the confounds of our memories too soon pass ways galore Love then dines as faiths are born to the measure of one’s hearts true implore Then the captives of the waves sang...

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A man had returned to the dust! His friends had called to check on him On this twenty-eight of August. Not knowing he was a victim. The night before, all three of them: Greg Reid, Javon, and Michael B. Knowing he was for them a gem, Made sure, at home, he had to be. Now, did they know he was dying Or did...

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Your gentle touch, sparks myriads of, memories secretly lodged, sequestered on queue, awaiting slender threads, of poignant smile so warm, heartfelt dispensation without strain, at platforms, bus stops, meeting points, that simple please excuse benign tone, amidst the daily lifestyle jostle, to raise the flustered traveller, from self-imposed scarlet blush, when items from stuffed bag vanish, only for my conscientious aunt to interject, is this item yours...

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