Best Augustan Poems
Lying in an augur's aviary..
Reneging on my virtues,so credulous..
The feying fay being taken to
bury,
I see things called ambigous.
Slowly fading odour of scantity..
In Attica, end of augustan age.
Wings of Azreal, the martinet
deity,
I see these, with espied rage.
Hydaes casting spell every
night..
The abysmal wizard of dark
kinglet.
Between scylla and cherybdis is
my sight..
Seeing through the torment
outlet.
Through that window, with
arriere pensee..
I see me, the ambling ember
Once alive, now frozen modus
vivendi..
Promenading with flowing ichor.
Still with each sunshine..
I see hope blazing through..
A jocund scene,hard to miss.
The changing magniloquent
hue..
Palladium of gamut bliss.....
The rubicon is crossed,
thirteenth legion for glory.
Augustan,publico pro bono,
behold the untold story.
Marched into all Rome,
flags of the republic burn.
Demons threaten his name,
and say they shall return.
All hail justice reborn!,
Caesar, men will know fear.
Battle drums retired now,
nobody guarding the frontier.
Bingeing under empire skies,
baths with foreigners galore.
Wavering peace for the rich,
an abolishment of the poor.
The years passed quickly,
Cicero's return with his scars.
Trampled Rome so defenseless,
once again burning under stars.
Hung from the Romulus gate,
tyrant now in history's stones.
Curia of Pompey never tainted,
with Julius Ceaser's bones.
It was the last Sunday of the month,
when Providence opened its secret door,
and my longing was granted.
I walked through marble corridors
into the heart of the Vatican Library,
where time breathes softly between the pages.
I asked for only one treasure:
the Vatican Virgil,
that ancient manuscript of immortal verse.
And when it was placed in my hands,
the air shifted—
the walls dissolved—
and I was carried upon the river of centuries
into the Augustan dawn.
There I beheld him—
Vergil, the poet of Rome—
clothed in the fragrance of eternity.
I bowed and said:
“You may dwell in the past,
but your voice still sings within our present.”
From the shadows stepped Pope John Paul II,
his lips reciting verses of Latin fire,
and Vergil’s smile was the echo of ages.
He turned to me and asked,
“Which of my songs has pierced your heart?”
With trembling breath I answered:
“The Aeneid,
your epic of exiles and destinies—
it is the star that guides my nights.”
He laughed softly,
like an oracle who knows the burden of genius,
and whispered:
“Do not seek to wear my crown,
for I cannot be you,
and you cannot be me.
Walk your own path,
and poetry will be born in your footsteps.”
Then the vision faded—
a librarian’s hand rested on my shoulder,
and the manuscript closed its wings of light.
He looked at me, bewildered,
for my eyes were still lost in eternity.
When they asked,
“When did you become a poet?”
I could only answer:
“It began in the Vatican Library,
and each time I write,
I remember Vergil.”
Droplets bled stained a star-spangled banner
Eagles clutch arrows guarding a nation’s manner
Marble marks the crypts of heroes
Orchards of Polycor Georgia marble honor their grassy graveyard
Citizens soldiers bled for the freedom and justice they guard
Rainbows span a nation’s expanse
Anchors of steel fuse resolve to et al
Cementing an Augustan wall
Yankee Doodle marching precedes liberty’s parade
Behind the curtains of this smile, are freshly sewed wounds;
Rich yarns finely whipped by the Armageddon;
Each touch turned colder, from philosophy of ashes to ashes;
Each an ongoing curse, of every memory of Attila the Hun;
That lingers gleaming thread of gold,
At Augustan Age of Destiny's playful fingertips.
Every healing oblivion of Avatar’s Axis, to cheat Fate’s design;
Babel of a wicked clock, droplets of tears, and rain intertwined,
Shout “Give me what was once mine!”
I send the core of my heart, to dissect this hurting,
Where a kaleidoscope of dying leaves and blood set the stage.
Chimes of my dissection chants
“Let this agony scream, of Autumn‘s burning despair;
Let this pain sing, when the tide of love is low.”
Babes in the woods, gaze into my being,
By magnetic lips of centuries of work and worth of art.
“Kiss me before this fades, and undress me of these fears.”
I ask the King of sacred heaven, and eyes of glowing fire.
Before Babylon’s delicate loudness envelop me in dim light;
A moment of forever lost in time, commissions dancing curves—
By bacchanal carousel of hot and cold tainted thoughts.
Bad day at Black Rock, unveils mutilated wings, past the ugly parts;
Banquo's ghost germinates a suitcase filled with hope;
bare ruined choirs and broke boomerang that never returned,
Sing songs and sling arts as a doomed dance for the faithful;
A goodbye that still asks me to stay, is a mother‘s prayer,
Making a wish, fading from my rearview, to welcome the rain.