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Poems On / About SUN  5/27/2015 2:42:02 AM
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  153.     

Red Sun

... the red sun bleeds a sad sorrow
the sun is setting on tomorrow.
your day is surely dead
... when the sun sets on your head
 
Mikhail Zenkovich Zaraev

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  154.     

The Cursed Young Sparrow, The Magnificent Sun, The Jealous Moon And The Ever-Giving Earth.

The moon may be jealous of the magnificent sun, but it holds in itself its selfish opinions. If the wonders and mysteries so much larger and greater than ourselves refrain from spouting selfish lies why we must, the beings of this delicate earth decide to fester and grow on the pain and sheer misery of others? Why magnificent sun, must you shine for all that we are or will ever be, when underneath our friendly faces we are merely what the human mind has made us, what the stars had never dreamed of seeing. The devil itself is portrayed through the eyes of our opinions. How can the earth thrive so abundantly, when so many abuse its pure kindness? With its endless giving and care for so many sinful people who never think to return what isn’t rightfully theirs? Tell me young sparrow, with wings so agile are you really free? Do you really go everywhere you could dream of going? Wings should be a gift, young sparrow. But so should life and yet its luxuries are abused. Sparrow you may fly high above our proud or perhaps hung heads but looking down on the destruction we make must be a curse you wish was not given to you. Then again, young sparrow, just like the rest of the maze of thought that surrounds us on this delicate earth, we’ll never know what it’s like to fly on wings so light and nimble. So this earth will give us everything it has and show us its ways, even the magnificent sun and the jealous moon reach down their rays and enlighten us. Still we refuse to listen; we insist we have the answers. Hidden behind the lies is the truth, but hidden behind the truth is reality.
 
Zoe Martin

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  155.     

Tattoo

I am the criminal whose chest is tattooed with a poinard above which are graven the words 'mort aux bourgeois'. Let us each tattoo this on our hearts.
I am the soldier with a red mark on my nakedness-when in a frenzy of love the mark expands to spell Mad Queen. Let us each tattoo our Mad Queen on our heart.
I am the prophet from the land of the Sun whose back is tattooed in the design of a rising sun. Let us each tattoo a rising sun on our heart.
 
Harry Crosby

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  156.     

Sunrises Like These

I wake to the most beautiful scene. The sun pours in through the boughs of the great oak tree across the street. The Earth takes its morning breaths as dust rises through the twilight. The old plantation home's wrap around porch is moistened with the dew of the saturated thick air of late summer. The cotton of orange, pink, and purple sky paints the motif of the yellow plantation home as the sun ever creeps over the peak of it peering through the darkness of the oaks leaves. There could not be a more beautiful morning in the world as what has been given me on the corner of Poete and 2nd Street. And yet, something is missing. The pain in my heart reminds me of the caress of your bosom against my bare chest. The brightness and volumes your eyes once spoke to my soul even in the darkest of nights. No mornings like these should be wasted on the heart of one. Although it gives me such torment, oh how it brings me peace. I sit now un-waking and waiting for the beauty of my sunrise. I wait for my sunrise becomes of you. In this moment of my true solitude my heart is as one with yours, and nothing on this earth can hinder. I long for your touch once more as I long for the sunrise all through the dark of night, for you are the sunrise. As the Earth breathes your breast does rise. As the sun does peak your eyes do wake. This is what gives me solace in life to know that some where in the world you do wake each day.
 
Saltedpeanut Blank

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