Archive for December, 2010

Elemental

Posted in My Poems on December 9, 2010 by paulscotaugust

Elemental

If you stand in the dirt in front of the house
where I grew up, lean your body inward
over the Arbor Vitae, steady yourself against
the fieldstone sill, and peer through the picture
window, the first thing you’ll notice are the colors.
The green of the shag carpet thick as indoor sod,
the worm-brown cushions on the sectional sofa
curving in toward a pair of orange arm chairs.
Then if you look closer, you’ll see a white lamp,
the bulb still warm. And beneath it, a red pack
of Pall-Malls next to a blue, boat-shaped ashtray,
one lipstick-smudged cigarette leaning starboard,
its ember still burning, fog curling up and over
the bow. And beside the boat, a lighter, black
enamel glistening in the bay, a woman’s name
etched in a chrome square. If you are truly
perceptive, you’ll notice footprints in the lush
carpeting just beginning to lose their shape,
and your eye will follow them to the staircase
and up to where they end at the closed bedroom
door. Love is like that, the desire to engrave
the name of the beloved onto ordinary objects,
the unfinished cigarette always smoldering just
below the surface of everyday routine, and the
elemental need to ascend together into the dark.

Paul Scot August

Published in Scribble Magazine Vol 8-1

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Over-The-Top Love Poem

Posted in My Poems on December 9, 2010 by paulscotaugust

Over-The-Top Love Poem

When you come back to me, my mouth will open
to speak, but only dogs will hear my delight.
But the pleasure on my face will be visible
from the third moon of Saturn and they who live
there will know there is love on this planet.

When you return, the trees will begin to bud
and bear fruit even in the dead of Winter.
And they will uproot themselves and walk
beside us, granting shade when it is needed
and beds of leaves the color of fire to lie upon.

When you come home, the birds will sing your name
in 37 different languages, all with perfect accents,
and they will spell it out in avian cursive in a sky
so blue it will make you feel as if you might drown.

When you come back to me, the past will taste sweet
like strawberries laid upon your tongue,
and all poems written will be to the glory of you,
and every one will end with a single word: Amen.

Paul Scot August

Published in Scribble Magazine Vol 8-1

Close Cover Before Striking

Posted in My Poems on December 9, 2010 by paulscotaugust

Close Cover Before Striking

Sweetheart, you’ll take up with anybody:
That young soldier about to ship out to Iraq,
The goateed clerk at the local bookstore, even
your ex-husband, anyone so as not to be alone.

But still, you are. You’ll open your wet mouth
to any warm kiss, any cold stare, but honey,
they are not your saviors, and the cross
in your hand is leaving splinters in your palm,

blood running like cherry wine over your
scarred wrist. You know that place is not your home,
and where you are from is now just a burned out
field days after a wild fire. What makes you burn

is still right here, waiting. Now pack your bags,
board the damn plane, and don’t forget the matches.

Paul Scot August

Published in Scribble Magazine Vol 8-1