Best Seasonssun Poems
Wander through the trench of bodies,
torch held high, the volley's prose.
Overhead the sun still shown,
heat and radon, Oh';
the bliss alight,
the corpses mount come first midnight.
Thus we take the bodies,
the mountainous trench of bodies,
we take them down from whence they fell
and bury their stories for some to tell.
The laborious task to cleanse the streets,
for come midday the feat repeats;
and come midnight again;
we grab our shovels and bury the dead.
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Author notes: As the sun intensifies and summer brings it's heat to bare, I think of the
people without shelter or roof, or shade to hide by. Having to sustain heat stroke by the
minute, all to satisfy the cavalier apathy of those unwilling and incapable of being
bothered by the suffering of others.
The sun it shone on sky deep blue
today the birds on wing,did sing,
sculptured trees tried on their clothes of green
sprinkles of Spring peeked through the sward;
The sun awakes early each day
shadows shorten across the lawn,
day by day afternoon remains,
wood pigeons mate and mate again;
Gardening columns into colour bloom,
daffodils and crocus aroma rooms.
Will the sky always stay blue
Will the clouds float lightly and show
Just peaks of great blue
How about the days I do not go out there
The days I miss seeing the sun come out
Feel the wind on my face
Watching the sun rise
What about the summer days I sleep in
The days when I am sick in bed
Times when I am too sad to see the outside
Where do those days go
let us say the summer that year
was a cliché to its lovers.
And its once open windows stood
firm
against Prying Eyes.
Perhaps the silver
smoke of automobiles rose toward the waiting sun that
climbed so eagerly. we didn’t know.
Summer was a witness
A watcher
Tracking our movements, counting our
numbered pulse beats
our Numbered Kisses
—of sweet desert rain
when the creosote bush was thick in the air—
our crimson liquids
moving fast through
the chalks of our skin
And the rouge on your cheek seemed
almost translucent to me
as time itself, sifting between
Hourglasses broken shattered
With memories tainted
stained—
and let us say that Dandelion perfume lingered on our parted lips
—it was pungent, maybe, as the saline tears
where lashes are sieves—
clinging to the pads of our fingers.
our identities
veiled by tiny white seeds
that may,
In the winter (when the sun cracks along its crevices
like melons in the heat),
bury themselves deep into our pores, Waiting
For that last Dandelion seed
to surrender