He was magnificent and Augustus
came from the multiplicity of ages
today's light, I actually appreciate
glowing ancient infant
II
Made of carbon and poetry,
substrate, substantive rhyme
Lazio flower, and gemstone
symbiosis of pain and magic...
III
Dying of sane intelligence
portal of shadow and agony,
Semi-trapped sparkle
IV
Impetuous undammed river
suppressed vortex vitality
that the estuary of life declines...
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite note from you, and
saying our acronym over and over.
It feels like hearing you
call my name, from a dream,
again and again. Yasbtm. Yasbtm.
I lie on my back on the bed and say it.
I drum the syllables on the pillow.
I see your secret code of affection
in the pattern on the ceiling tiles.
Yasbtm.
I stand at the sink,
toothbrush in hand,
and say it, my mouth full--
I dare not spit.
l smile our secret and swallow.
And when outside I stoop to
write the letters in the snow:
Yasbtm
I say it, trying to remain as beautiful
as I was when you sent Joe
as a messenger the first time--
trying to be the same as when you left.
And everytime I say it, I feel the
excruciating pressure of knowing
that I'm not the same: I'm no longer
so beautiful. You left and took
that part of me with you.
By: Evelyn Augusto
#poetsout @evelynaugusto2012
Remove the wool from over your eyes
and you will see the truth they hide
AUGUS9
“Give up trying to do anything.
nothing works works.”
From a note written by Scott Allen Ostrem
If only you came to buy
another cell phone, a pen and
note card, some crayons &
paper. Anything. Anything
that would give you a voice.
If only you bought the
fixings for a satisfying supper,
or a gift for a lost lover.
Anything. Anything to help
you express your distress.
Anything to free your
words from the prison of
your maddness, anything
to thaw your frozen tongue,
anything to return your
manhood, other than that gun!
Anything. Anything. If only . . .
By: Evelyn Augusto
For GUNS DON'T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO 2017
You are the soup and the spoon.
You are the moist, warm vapor of
tarragon rising from the bowl,
you are the wooden bowl.
You are that same vapor morphed
into the morning mist that flags across
the tops of hemlock and pine on its
journey toward an evening sky so
perfectly clouded and colored it
could be a painting. You are that sky
at dusk. You are the canvas that
caught the silhouette of a tardy
mourning dove racing home.
And I am that mourning dove lost in
reverie while foraging beneath a Mock Orange.
I am the Mock Orange. I am the perfume lifting
out of the center of its creamy, white petals—
pursed like a pouting mouth. I am the hunger.
I am the mouth that will not hesitate to open
for the offered spoon of soup.
By: Evelyn Augusto
What's Left
I like dimly lit bars and beer.
I like how you walk purposefully
to me. I like smelling need in
your swet. I like your reserve.
And I like how you stand when you pee.
I like the shape of your feet
and how you touch me here
and there with them.
I like how you never go directly for me.
I like when we rub our bodies
together like two sticks, then
warm ourselves
on the heat we generate.
I like how you saved me from my despair.
I liked you--
but now there is only
this dimly lit bar and the beer.
By: Evelyn Augusto
You are: The sound of your mother's
voice calling your name and your father's
chance for a better life--not his,
but yours, because it's too late for him,
but not for you...not yet, unless you forget
U R Not Your Gun.
You are your greatest fantasy and
someone's best friend and another's
first love. You are shelter
from the storm.
You are memory and risk and reward.
You are tougher than your
disappointments, you are kinder
than you imagine, you are everything
that child you once were
wanted to be and more. But
U R Not Your Gun--
not grey and cold and lifeless.
Not unforgiving like that. Not hollow or predictable. Not dangerous.
U R Not Your Gun.
You are someone I can love.
Evelyn Augusto for GUNS DON'T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO. Oct. 4th, 2019
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.