Long August Poems
Long August Poems. Below are the most popular long August by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long August poems by poem length and keyword.
When I Give You My Heart…
The love I give to you dear one,
Is love I know belongs to me,
To think that it is yours alone
Is adolescent fantasy.
For if this love weren’t really mine
How could it then be mine to give?
If heart is always True Love’s home,
Without a heart how could I live?
It may not bring you comfort love
And you may never feel secure,
But dreams my heart is only yours,
Reveal a heart that’s immature.
For you to tell me that’s your gift,
Suggests that you’re naïve at best,
For even if you think it’s true,
The emperor is still undressed!*
At least most men aren’t made that way,
Our futures never are for sure.
And pleasures taken while we can
While praying there might be a cure.
A sick child cause our love to end,
Even our jobs drive us apart,
Though no one plans on stuff like this,
It spells disaster for the heart.
A partner that decides they’re gay,
Somehow an accidental death,
The day your spouse does not come home,
The world can take away your breath.
So when I ‘just’ give you my love
Please check your heart to know it’s true
And realize that lover’s chose,
It’s really all that one can do.
A witches spell, a chain of fire
Cannot restrain decay to dust,
A lifetime all we have to live,
Where good days start with hope and trust.
Brian Johnston
August 29, 2014
Poet's Notes:
* ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ – A tale by Hans Christian Anderson about two weavers who promise an Emperor a new suit of clothes that is invisible to those unfit for their positions, stupid, or incompetent. When the Emperor parades before his subjects in his new clothes, a child cries out, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!" The tale has been translated into over a hundred languages. From ‘Wikipedia.'
Few go into a relationship with the expectation of love not lasting a lifetime, and yet we all know our relationship too will end, sooner or later, hopefully the latter. The time spent may be quality time or more of a learning experience, usually a mixture of both. But nothing can totally prepare us for the future except to be honest with ourselves and to admit, we are not really in control. That understanding can make things easier for those able to embrace it. Failure may always be failure, but being able and willing to forgive, to love yourself too, is the only path to future happiness in my experience.
April 6 Wagontire, Oregon
1973
In 1973, I went on a road trip
With my father
We left Berkeley to go to Yakima
Where my father had a summer cabin
He was a college professor
And had July and August off
And we spent the summers
Every summer from 1968 to 1978
Our whole dysfunctional family
Our annual road trip to hell and back
As we did not get along at all
We decided to drive through Eastern Oregon
Just my father and me
Just for the hell of it
The rest of the family was already there
My father and I shared a travel lust
One of the few things we shared
This was one of our best trips
We got along
Which was unusual
Normally our relationship
Was fraught
As we were so different
We left Klamath Falls
A real nothing burg in those days
And headed east along highway 395
As we entered the desert of eastern Oregon
We entered a different world
High mountain dessert
Almost no one on the road
Then we saw the sign
Wagontire Oregon
100 miles ahead
99 miles ahead
98 miles ahead
We counted down the signs
Miles after miles
As we drove into the gathering dusk
We speculated that Wagontire
Must be a giant truck stop
In the middle of no where
We pulled into the town
Nothing there but a gas station
Motel and café
We decided to stop
Last gas for 100 miles
According to the highway signs
In the morning
We chatted with the owner
He was the sheriff, the fire chief
The owner of the motel, gas station
The only business in town
And the only place open
For one hundred miles
I noticed a highway sign outside
Welcome to Wagontire, Oregon
Population 2 ½ humans 10 dogs, 50.000 sheep
I asked the Sherriff
Say who is the ½ human?
My idiot son!
And we left.
200 miles later
We finally left Eastern Oregon
2016
In 2016 my wife and I drove through Eastern Oregon
As part of our epic cross country trip
10,000 miles
31 states in three months
On the way from Medford to Yellowstone
We drove along highway 395
The signs for Wagontire was gone
And we drove through the town
The motel was abandoned
Nothing there at all
And that sign was gone too
I said I suppose the idiot son
Never took over the business
And we speculated about Wagontire
And all other nothing burgs
We drove through that summer
Heart of Trump’s America
True fly over country
Before my flowing, poetic pen is hushed in Quietus,
And I have reached my journey's end with folded hands;
Departed into my dreamless sleep beneath violets,
Let me write one everlasting, eternal, immortal verse;
Of the ravaged garden of my life.
I want to hear a bird song when I quietly glide away,
With a sigh, I will lay my pale form down peacefully;
I have willed my Keepsakes and my musing poems,
The Angel of death, will take my hand into another realm;
And the drums of time will cease.
Oh, it has been a life full of happiness entwined with sad,
I have travelled many different roads to get to Tranquillity;
The chapters of my life are full of the dead and undead,
Memories of childhood, family, friends and pets I loved;
The scars of life stab my soul.
I do not fear death and I am ready to go through the gate,
But I will miss nature, the woods and the waters moving;
And as I walk the silent passage alone to my eternal night,
Think of me as being set free and soaring high up above;
I lived a life weather-stained with tears.
Leaving life is something we all must do; it is written,
I was held by a thread in this earthly realm until that last gasp;
Now, all I know is the peacefulness of a leafy tree above,
Drifting blue clouds and rain falling gently on my resting place;
I was a shadow on the wall of time.
Do not weep over my eternal grave heartbroken my dears,
I have followed the beautiful Angels footsteps to heaven;
My poetry is timeless, ageless, and will always remain,
I have shed this earth bound life and I am a butterfly set free;
I drank from the deep blue cup of life.
So come, dear hearts and plant some pretty flowers in Spring,
I am at last united with all my beloved who have gone before;
Touch my name and remember me for my beauty,
And although my life was but a whisper, I loved every moment;
Now, I exist in another realm.
____________________
August 26, 2015
Poetry/Epic/'Before My Pen is Hushed'
Copyright Protected, ID 15-1216-704-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into FGI Blog Special - Epic
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Gregory
You made yesterdays news, invoking fears
You were found on the streets
Discarded and left to die alone
Thrown away like a piece of garbage with little thought
An inconvenience, as you struggled for your life
So many questions and no answers….
Your thoughts were dark and twisted and not appropriate
You did not fit the mould
Opportunities wasted as you oared against the current
The river washed you out and you choked to breathe
Your thoughts were numbed by substances
Chemicals that took away your sanity
Robbed you of your family and your home
Left your mother with a broken heart and tortured soul, struggling with forgiveness
Your father fought his own demons just long enough to remember your life
And then fall back into the abyss and darkness and forgottenness
Your friends cried as they thought of you.
Their scarred faces and souls with their big crosses around their necks
Their tattooed and tattered young zombie bodies
With their vacant eyes that bore too much pain to contain
Thin and remorseful souls
with the tears that fell down their cheeks like rain
They loved you, you were a good friend!
It was said you would give the shirt off your back for a friend
Your first love wondered how she could have helped?
Your grandfather has lived too long to see this day
One more funeral in his 88 years
A reminder of his son of 17 that was also discarded.
Your brother tried to honour and play his guitar that you gave him
Tears were shed
Beautiful memories shared and kind words spoken
A life too young
Fell beneath the caverns of a broken world
Aunts write poetry to make sense of it all, desperately writing to keep your memory alive
Unspoken grief all around with nowhere to go
One more forgotten victim of an epidemic
Bi-polar they said
Addicted they said
As they sat in their offices high above the streets away from it all
Making policies to keep you safe.
Safe injection sights to shoot poison to your veins
And kitchens with large pots of soup to sustain you until your imminent death
The great unravelling of a generation
You were loved by many
You were a beautiful soul, a good friend, son, brother, cousin
A beautiful child with big brown eyes and so much promise
Gregory always remembered
Rest peacefully sweet soul…
Grace Daub August 25, 2021 written after my nephew’s untimely death- homeless and on the streets
As I looked upon her face
Solace was there in her eyes
Of acceptance running out into fate
My fingers grasping for the memories
As to slipping through her silky hair
In selfishness to embrace denial
Was the choking upon every single tear
Her, now simply lying…
In my open arms…
And dying
Along with all our years
Squeezing her tightly,
Hoping to bring back the life
With sobs to Madeline
“It’s not fair!” “It’s not fair!”
The calmness was…
Her own demeanor without despair…
Her lips, once vibrant, now colorless… began to move nearer
And whispers to my ear…
“I’m so sorry”
Were words breaking from an angel
And what took hold was confused
I didn’t know what to think
Or what to do?
This fading vision is my whole
And with her, my heart fulfilled
But, what was this confession?
What is her sin?
My replies were weeping questions
Of why’s to her apologies
And my own declarations
“If protector, then I should wear the blame”
“Your only crime to bring joy to a man”
Then, the tears fell
Along with the august rain
Rolled down our cheeks to our lips
And landed on her last
But, fading sweet bitter words
"Before the ricochet...
I was pregnant with our son”
I've lain beneath this sugar maple before.
In fact, I know it quite well.
And it's seen me and watched me throughout the seasons.
And it has its own stories to tell.
In Spring, it would hear about all my wild dreams
for the months and the year still ahead.
And I'd watch its new leaves unfurl and spread out
for a canopy over my head.
I'd lay there for hours and hours on end
reciting verses 'neath a wet springtime sky.
And sometimes I'd lay there for no other reason
but to ask the Universe "why?"
The maple, of course, would stand silent and still
just listening to my thoughts and my words.
It must have imagined "Just who is this soul
whose passions and dreams I have heard?"
In Summer, I'd lay on an old cotton blanket
and gaze up at the now deep green leaves.
"How beautiful you are," I would say to the tree
and bask in the summertime breeze.
Its shade would protect me on a hot July day
and guard me from the bright August sun.
Butterflies and bees and birds would swoon past me
like a parade put on specially for one.
All about, the clover would bloom and bloom
in a carpet of purple and then white.
And I would lay on my blanket 'til the sun would set
deep into a long summer night.
In Autumn, the maple would be changing again
from its green mantle to that of orange and gold.
And I'd find myself sitting 'neath it in the shortening days
whose warmth turned to darkness and cold.
I pondered on those days beneath that old tree
lingering in the quick fading light.
Its quivering leaves in the brisk Autumn air
seemed to shiver through the frosty Autumn night.
The gold maple leaves would fall by the score
into delicate piles and mounds.
And I'd shuffle through the leaves and they'd rustle and scatter,
then sit 'neath the tree on the cold ground.
In Winter, the maple would stand there exposed,
with limbs and branches all bare.
It seemed all alone, but somehow I knew
that it knew that I would always be there.
It stood in the storms, it stood in the rain
and it stood against the bitter and snow.
I'd look up at it swaying in the hard Winter wind
from the snowdrifts where I stood down below.
Yes, I know it quite well, this sugar maple tree
for it and I grew closer o'er the years.
And come nearer to Spring, the men would come tap
my tree for its sweet syrup tears.
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
they say forgive and forget
remember and hold to account
seems to be frowned upon
and memorable events take a while
to manifest digest and process
narratives change with the core
at every reason and heart
‘everything is wrong and it is all your fault
what exactly you will have to find out yourself
I will put our relationship into a drawer
and possibly open it again once you …’
have changed to her wishes?
relinquished any meaningful part in the drama?
conceded to her perfidious pantomime?
are totally broken?
‘you claimed that one cannot talk to a depressed one
but were you not projecting your discontent?’
years on the metaphorical couch
like a spider in a cobweb of distrust
attempting to just pull one string
breaking at rock bottom
with someone else throwing rocks
from a fortress of a glass house
accusations lies silence pretense of innocence
and turning children against him
he walked a difficult path
many a time running on empty
but eventually it turned out to be
the best thing that could happen
and he found new love
made peace with his offspring
invested in kindness and compassion
now lives with his lover and soulmate
chapters however can only be closed
when the epilogue has been written
when the spine of the book
stands upright in truth
for years he maintained that she
could not have done any better
did not cope with her own crisis
and he absolved her from further critique
the protagonist eventually found his voice
He has become I and I lay to rest
my memories of that evil malignant
and greedy you chose to become
it was you who tore me apart
and watched with satisfaction
when I became vulnerable and depressed
discredit where discredit is you
it is not about settling score
or spread sheets of retribution
simple honesty will do and
I don’t have to be nice
because poems understand
and refrain from judging the writer
but deep in my soul I do not care
that you have turned lonely and bitter
because while I am privy to
exquisite satisfied pleasure
you made your bed
and that is empty for a reason
trying to hack out my eyes and essence
made me spread my wings joyfully
and you are an old haggard crow
merely feeding on crumbs
05th August 2021
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
Kim (one of my BFF) brightened with inspiration, “Oooo! Send him a sexy pic!”
“I’m NOT going to sext a guy out of the BLUE,” I grumbled, indignantly.
Kim turned to her phone, “No, No, of COURSE not.” She said as she texted.
“Come on” she said, as she pulled me off my chair and out the door. We raced over, on foot, to my friend Bili’s house (two houses away). We entered without knocking (as usual) and ran upstairs.
Bili lay on her stomach on her unmade bed, fiddling with her phone, ankles up and crossed but she twisted up to attention when we came in.
“What should we do first?” She said, as if there were a million things to do.
They set upon me and had my regular clothes off in a heartbeat. Like all makeovers, this had a prelapsarian purity - the ritual stripping down to blankness before rebuilding.
They quickly went through about half of Bili’s closet - selecting just the right combination of trashy and classy clothes designed to seduce.
They finally settled on a black slip under an ivory peignoir, stockings with garters and black strappy heels.
Kim twisted my hair up into a loose “Gibson Girl.”
“Hold still,” Bili said, as she grasped my chin and expertly blended red, gold and black glittery eyeshadows followed by lip liner and gloss. “This is just a quickie job,” she reminded me.
I stared at this strange version of myself in the vanity.
Kim frowned and looking around, she spread a pink scarf over the desk light to give the room a rosy glow. They went into studio mode - posing me in various ways from coquettish to bored lounging - suggesting expressions and taking endless pictures with my phone.
Finally, they were satisfied and handed me my phone.
“Shall we go through them?” Bili asked
“Naah,” I said, “I’ll go through ‘em and pick one - or two.”
Later, at home, I looked through them - I looked SO different - and I had to admit - sexy even. But was that ME? I cringed, what if my mom saw these trashy, Kardashian-like photos somewhere?
I never sent them. I thought I’d have to explain it to my girls.
“HA!” They laughed, “We KNEW you’d never use ‘em” Bili said, as Kim shook her head “Nope.”
“It was fun though!” We all agreed.
.
.
.
NOTE: This is a pre-pandemic story from August 2019. I was 15 - the idea wasn’t to seduce this guy, it was to get his interest so he would ask me out . =]
let every old woman with a wrinkled face,
she should be aware,she lives in disgrace,
a furrowed brow,hairy lip and single tooth,
know me well,i'll get the truth.
a squinty eye and scolding tongue,
the squeaky voice she's had from very young,
you will never hide from me,
i'm the witch hunter general you see.
my name shall be feared throughout this land,
my hunting of witches will go as planned,
first you'll be tossed into a cell,
stripped naked and starved,until you tell.
i'll start to prick to cause you pain,
and i'll do it over and over again,
then you'll be bound to stool or table,
cross legged of course,even if you're not able.
after twenty four hours the cramps will set in,
again poked and prodded,but i'll use a new pin,
you'll then walk the stones til your feet bleed,
still i reckon you don't get to feed.
then you're taken for a swim in the lake,
your baptism water you didn't take,
if you're innocent you will drowned,
but if you sink a true witch i've found.
this cruelty wasn't enough,mathew got no kicks,
a new style was developed,it only took two ticks,
he bent victims double,tied thumb to big toe,
a rope round the waist,in the water they'd go.
these people were worn down by his torturous way,
but hopkins was going to have his say,
one question he used in the brow beating session,
you're aquainted with the devil,i want a confession.
a nod or monosyllabic reply will do the trick,
or my man will beat you again with the stick,
then poor john lowes,a suffolk minister of note,
was told you're a witch,i can tell by your coat,
a quarrelsome gent of seventy was poor john,
disliked by many,they wanted him gone,
hopkins took the task to prove he was right,
john was kept awake for many a day and a night.
they ran him till he was out of breath,
he was weary, and scared half to death,
so he confessed to get some peace,
then the torturous pain would cease.
hopkins said"another one i didn't let survive",
john went to the scaffold august 1645,
no cleargy would read for him at his grave,
a villager said"to the devil john was no slave".
who knows how many poor sould were lost,
letting hopkins rule,had it's own cost,
more than 200 people this way met their fate,
by the time hopkins hit norfolk,it was too late.
his trials of blood passed through our countryside,
in his work mathew hopkins took great pride.