Another "I Do," Another Pledge**
I found myself confronting mortality in the guise of the viper on the day my heart was irrevocably broken. Deep within, I understand that he liberated you, much like the Meadowlark’s song.
Once again, I utter "I do" and make another pledge. The deceitful viper adorned himself in the same black suit. He donned the colors associated with malevolence during this second endeavor, for it is indicated that "strait is the gate and narrow is the way."
His countenance radiates as he feigns a smile, resembling a contrived pose for the camera. I observed the specter of death in his expression, reminiscent of Pinocchio’s nose.
The well-wishers murmured, "No discernment; what a disgrace, what a waste! A lamentable image of a man." The pastor solemnly proclaimed, "Amen."
I perceived death upon the visage of the haunted individual. The fissures in the antiquated brick wall emitted a haunting melody: "You stand before the altar as yet another fool."
Is this a wedding or a funeral—an evening fraught with foreboding? The middle-aged groom reflects a decline in love and kindness. Love, indeed, is blind.
September where have you been?
The June days burnt my smooth skin,
in July it was hot and I needed extra sun screen.
August was fun pool time with us all-in.
Finally lovely September to break-in,
with many wonderful holidays to begin.
Mister Alfred
Mister Alfred
Alfred, the pianist who is also my father
although he denies the paternity vehemently,
was in Hawaii and played the ukulele with
Had little success and returned to Europe.
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, could
get the sweetest tones when he played and
women swooned in other men’s arms,
was when not playing of a rather sullen nature
He spent the day walking around town with
In an alpaca jacket and a French bonnet, he looked ever
artistic, and I followed him around, once when I fell
A bollard got in the way; he did help me up and
I`m not your father!
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, got to be
ninety-two, and in the last years of his life was glad
to have a son, even if it was a fake one, as Alfred
was fond of pointing out
Wit
Where were you when I was arrested at a public toilet for drinking
of a flask of brandy- the man beside me was a police officer out
to catch people like me who needed a drink to survive the tedium of
living in a provincial town in the middle of a landscape of cows
Where were you during the court case when the judge said I was
a disgrace, a plague on the backside of humanity, drinking in public
It is a serious crime, the buffoon thundered, throwing the gavel at me
It hit a guard in the head, who was knocked out
Where were you when I had to run the gauntlet of jeering reporters
and people pointed me out in the street, and a hush when
I entered a café, and the waitress refused to serve me coffee
You went on holiday in Spain, drinking red wine.
A streak of moonlight cuddled by the chair placed in the balcony, outside
The ricocheting time and I, and the solar moonlight, a moonlit foamy, a subtle tide
My daughter beside me, and a diamond stud, her nose knows her black heads, in a way, fortitude
A face and a lit, a solar and a misfit
a questioner, closest, midfielder, lifelong
my quenching oasis, amidst my torn life, vagabond
I saw my brazen Fenugreek, my curry, my grave failure, a Maugham outspoken in mom
My dish said a delicacy long ago, with your perfect soft, melted ambiance
my soul, my Mosul,my Samara , my mina and my minaret
They kept your calendar tales and fruit punch , they never quite gripped
The midnight hymn and the enclosing, merging with the foamy sea, rhythm
I saw a morn, a corn, of the needle in a haystack, where even the arch angel ask.
My daughter, sleeping beside me, my soul within, in the depth of the moonlight!
Woody sonnet
I tried to be a carpenter, soft wood
and a screwdriver to make shelves for
I have many manuscripts that I have not
the heart to throw into the flames
In case what I'm looking for is there
The girl in the shop said I could not
carve a name on the shelves, she
handed me sandpaper to erase
The titles I had given the shelves
Failure one and failure fifty-four
She, the girl in the shop, gave me
a plastic hammer for free
The Battlefield of Survival
There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea
Who's that goo
He knows these rules
Been part timed
An hesitant he won't forget
She's his worries
And hurt wisdom
Join with me
His excellence sees
Bring me frees
Poet trees
Some words spring
La la la
In his stead she wakes i bring
Cause everything
Cause winter won't rent for me
Climbing back words maths
Fast friends still say bye bye
Augustus
Pardon, Tia Jenna
Superior Novella pairing at the store lunch bench?
Bambi G rating Kev
Que Mas gratis audience of two
Mira's condolences on the loss of the new balcony
Secrets in a box
I have a box on the shelf in the spare bedroom
The box has blue and white stripes, I think
It was a shoebox, perhaps bought for a child that
I was not born; my youth is in that box
Sometimes, when alone, I open the box, and it has
many photos of life lived in the seventies
Many friends are smiling for the camera
My ex-wife, too. What they have in common is
that they are all dead
I received a delayed letter from Alex, a friend
By then, I knew he had died, the letter in the box
unopened
I look at the photos like a visitor from a past life
I do not feel sorrow or guilt. I was a difficult
person to live with, even though I had friends
that loved me
I put the lid back on the box. The visit is over
I must go on living in the now.
The Black Sea of Hostility**
I express no willingness to engage in the metaphorical black sea of hostility. It is a misconception to believe that individuals are born with fractured souls; rather, such conditions develop throughout one’s life.
One enters this world devoid of sin, possessing innate virtues and qualities. However, I am not inclined to accept an invitation to your table, where the tablecloth is whiter than the pristine blanket of snow on Monsanto Lake. I will not participate in such gatherings.
Your opulent Gorham silverware glimmers, reminiscent of clusters of grapes hanging from a mountain. Nevertheless, I remain disinterested in both swimming in this sea or dining at a table rooted in animosity.
The children raised in this environment are instructed to disdain the clergy. Meanwhile, violence stains the streets of northern communities as politicians indulge in lavish dinners costing $2,000 per plate. One must question who is safeguarding the gates of moral decay.
The realm of politics is indeed tumultuous.
Shadow Waters
The water-bearer leans his urn silently,
pours starlight over forsaken streets
where neon lights flash their final confessions
and shattered promises accumulate like rain.
Here in the reverse trickle of time,
where advancement is lost in its own reflection,
the era turns in, searching for explanations
in dregs of what we believed we'd gained.
Electric prophets air hollow gospels
while the crowds scroll through ghost lives,
each contact another strand that entwines us
to this tapestry of lovely despair.
The constellation turns above, unchanging
those very stars that once held out liberty
now witness us tumble into the labyrinth
we built from our own radiant ideals.
In tower suites and lower-level clubs,
the children of the future sell their souls
to algorithms who recognize their secret names
and dole them out in morsels, afterwards.
Yet, still, the water flows, unceasing,
carrying seeds of something not yet born
perhaps redemption sleeps in darkness
of this shattered, brilliant age.
The carrier's face away from us,
sloshing the future drop by drop
while we stand dry in the flood,
suffocating in our own lighted shadows.
There will be time enough later
To explore the undiscovered country.
Stay with me a while yet, on these familiar shores;
Let us continue to gather, together, what sweetnesses that are here to be had,
For without you, there are no sweetnesses
Tristesse
The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales) was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed, a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
The morning was ashen as my face, and fine drizzle fell.
The hotel bar was closed, and I walked with aching bones
for miles while the heavens descended.
Apocalypse Now!
No such luck, when the clouds parted, the hills
where green with grazing sheep is.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
A scullery maid, have you no mercy?
The beach climbs are harder
the rocks turn my feet
and I find myself walking on my ankles
wading through sand
But the photos at sunset
or as the moon rise
are such a surprise
Like paintings
like fine art
witnessing the beauty of nature
as it shows us all of the basis for inspiration
everywhere
The sea air is so refreshing
the tang of salt
its cool crisp feel
as it laps past me
and blows my hair
The sheen of the sun and the moon
off the water
and it undulates and ripples
It's mesmerizing and beautiful
I seek out the lighthouse
to capture its beauty on the horizon
Its glow too settles on the ocean
and lights the scene in a way
that makes it seem like a painting
A huge downed redwood tree on the beach
a sculpture in driftwood now
but so big as to be a playground
The natural wonders of this place continue to provoke me
and keep me wanting more
from the tiny bits of rock on the ground
to the magnificent scenes in the sky
my senses are always tuned in
And here I share them with you....
Artimus 9/1/2025
Goodbye my little August
Of 2025
I’ve loved you, to be honest
Much better than July
But now September’s on the verge
And we both have to go
For soon the autumn will emerge
Out of the cold wind’s blow
Though many autumns I have seen
And winters in their prime
I couldn’t imagine it would seem
Like a delayed goodbye
More nights, my darling, without you
More withered leaves at your back door
But memories remain like new
We've cared of this before.
Specific Types of August Poems
Definition | What is August in Poetry?
Poems Related to August
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