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When it is sundown
Will I see the stars?
Will I see the moon?

The constants are not constant!

When it is morning dawn
Will the sun show its face?
Will the day show its light?

The constants  are not constant!

The rainbows are not day's face
They come in middle of the nights

I know the glory of the Glory
Comes at the appointed time
Let fear fade into death
At the appearance of faith
Oh! My faith shoot straight
To the orbit-vortex of Truth
To harvest glory in glory
And put every doubt to death!
marvin m brato Aug 2018
Our life's thoroughfare
like sun blazing each morning
from bright to darkness

A blessing for us
to wake up another day
or die in silence

Life is like a day
there are much to accomplish
live to the fullest

While the light is on
make use of the time at hand
before sundown comes
Sunrise horizon
Chasing the sun’s smile for warmth
Finding               (THIS                       comfort
  In the                          IS                        simple things
Sundown                        HALF                       ­  reminiscence
Chasing the                      OF                           moon’s arrival
Finding                              MY                  ­                      comfort
in the                                 HEART                           simple things
                                             FOR                                       Brazen
                                           YOU)                                       kiss and
                                                                ­                         attention
                                                                ­                             fade
                                                            ­                     Question
                                                        ­                         -ing
                                                            ­               your
                                                            ­         love
      ­                                  sun-
                          ­  ****-

(Please read this poem in landscape if you're on a mobile device.)
I suppose that I half-heartedly gave effort on this one.
michael cera Jul 1
i hugged you in my work clothes,
kissed your cheek and said goodbye.
walking towards a door in noon,
my weightless tears in cornered eyes.
stepped inside our favorite room,
christmas lights, their flickered swoon.
i must have lost you twice a day,
your arms ignite the dying flame.
Green and black,
Apothecary's wrath.
Who'll have your back?

Que pasa, black mamba.
Justice master,

Never come down
after sundown.
Twenty four/seven trance.

This stereo goes up to eleven,
Five-thousand watt bass machine;
Phat. Cruise round Isengard, Big Jump blaring.
Mitzi-turbos and ten-shpots.
She is on the street in her little kiosk ,
at the break of the dawn ,
When many are still on a lucid dream.

Selling the most delicious of grapes
Sourced straight from the vineyards

Assembling  the previous  day's discards all in a tray
Discards For humans it maybe ,
for her birds its a treat to relish .
down  for it ,day after day..

Mostly bought by the morning walkers ,
Many in numbers are they
old patrons , as they say.

Every day she sells her wares
Holding the loveliest of smile
That I have seen in years,
All Knowing , the pain that  she hides behind .

Never misses a day nor business,
And back home she is before sundown.

Only to return the following day,
With a new stock ,at the break of the dawn.
Have been seeing this woman, fruit seller for a few years now.
She has had a difficult life. Her husband committed suicide for being indebted, not able to repay, son going wayward.
Yet she holds on to her grit and has been able to piece  her life together and  her Family.
Never lost her determination .
So, a little tribute to her .
Sasha Raven Mar 19
With every day, your Sundown, maybe is the last,
your life story will end, one day, in which you cast ...
Everything has its uprising and it is so sad — downfall,
sometimes you feel so tall, then again so small ...
With seven hundred and seventy-seven ways I love,
my angel, I send prayers for you, to the God above ...
With your deeds you will be closer to h**l or to heaven,
her sacred number is seven hundred and seventy-seven ...
She is always talking about that — her sacred number,
I would love to listen, all the time, but I have to slumber ...
But, before I fall into asleep, give me your — the sweetest kiss,
just want to be dreaming my dreams with blessing — bliss ...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“leave at your own chosen speed”

Dylan inserts a phrase that haunts,
indestructible permafrost,
played in slow and ever slower reverb all life long,
for it’s intuitive and you recognize it too well
as the best companion to the sour ending of another love affair

(but! this one differs; called love yourself)

the sad of a dying love, remembering the steady drift away,
capped by a casual remark that doesn’t sting but
cuts a Y on your chest, a lover’s coroner courtesy,
the bad humours permitted to at long last healthy escape

you’re staggered but say nothing for
is a changeable elf, a mischievous devil,
requiring constant monitoring cause you moving,
but the speed limit alway a reflection of the road you’re on

speed is a tag along to show the overall fit still works,
though now far from the obvious and familiar
and the inspiration modifies,
so you retrofit untill the parts are incapable of
bending to new demands, contours unfamiliar, old plans no good

“leave at your own chosen speed”

for I am leaving you as I leave myself,
beaches erode,  lighthouses corrode, the salt cannot be refused,
the earth demands your return as the lease is deemed
non-renewable and the space where the date shall be inserted,
is parcel of the contract and though blank, certain to be fulfilled

the body erodes, the ***** parts corrode,
and this season of the new year^ comes with the usual disclaimer
recited on the tenth day from today

‘who will live, who will die,’^^

taught to you as a young-in, a child who can comprehend
even before manhood arrives, comprehend that life ends,
all good things and it ain’t no use, born compromised, but
“don’t think twice, it’s alright”

the slate you have written overdue for a prudent clean wet erasure,
so you begin to leave at your own chosen speed,
which is kind of nice, even cool, organizing your papers,
write with contented softness that so long eluded,
now come easy heady peasy

after a life of reciting poetry, good bad and always too long,
the pressure is on and off, side by side, even a dimming bulb
sheds some light, revealing what yet needs revealing

that Day of Atonement annual visitor,^^^ he/she of impish humors,
makes Pandora play a new station,
‘dimming of the day,’
reminder that it gave you a piece of an unowned heart to hold,
leased temporarily but the temp is roaring,
who, boo hoo, for you?

life and love is all about leaving,
the pen in penitent gone dry, no refills in this new world,
wish that **** rooster would stop crowing at
the break of sundown,^^^^  when I'll be gone
I'll be travelling on, for when the new day begins,
that’s my own signature personal marker,
the sundown poet

~the first day of the new year on the Jewish calendar
  Mon, 10 September 2018 =  1st of Tishrei, 5779

  Rosh Hashana 5779
^ see

^^ see poem

^^^ see poem

^^^^ jewish law says the day begins at sunset till the next sundown
Arianna Jan 7
Eyes averted,
Dark and downcast,
Full and flickering with firelight,
Ears brimming,
Echoing with the ethereal songs
Of angels, hymns
Of liberation ⸺

How many times
Have I gazed, like you,
In this way
Upon the candle,
Wishing myself to dust
Or to smoke,
Or even to the wanton insatiability of brimstone:
Breath of veneration!

Washed asunder, floating
On waves of strange emotion:
Tears thunder, gushing torrents
Of poison,
Steaming black humors of malaise
From the hardened recesses of my heart;
Alms of sorrow and rejuvenation,
Laid in reverence on the altar of autumn leaves,
In genuflection
Upon the softness of the Earth
Where she catches my body
Felled, brought to its knees
But an arm's length above the resting place of wildflowers
Where I shall return
Come sundown
Swallowed in the brilliance of fire
Floating down
In droplets of scarlet
To stain the snow-white lilies
Bursting now from my toes,
From the soles
Of my feet.

Now from my lips
The weeds of stagnant silence
Ivory peals
In the petals
Of songs
(For there are still songs!)
As yet unsung
To sing...

Now from my palms,
Turned in supination
Towards the Sun,
In supplication of forgiveness
For my prideful unworthiness,
In the wide-eyed hope of a
Who firsts beholds the Light,
Banishing the darkness of the womb
From its eyes
As now that Light
Sears the image of the world
Out from mine,
That Who gazes down
With such glances of golden warmth
Ringed infinitely with blinding halos of healing
Might deign to kiss
The fingers of one
Low as a sparrow
And lower,
For the sparrow soars
Where this leaden body could not rise,
Could not
With eyes dark
Made still darker
By their shame before the Sun,
In itself
Nurture wings
Of its own
To fly...
"The Repentant Magdalene" (c.1635) and its sister painting "Magdalen(e) with the Smoking Flame" (c. 1640) by Georges de la Tour.

Jordi Savall - "Cristobal de Morales: Officium Defunctorum - Missa pro Defunctis - II. Invitatorium"
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide

Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale

The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach

Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change

Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness

Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul;     that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's  impending break

Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies

The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...

someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
Robert G Page Apr 2013

I never cried in viet nam,
I  just seemed to take it in.
The missing limbs and twisted flesh
friends one day and gone the next.
Was I too young to understand?
And need someone to take my hand?

No mother there to hold my hand              
no father there to teach me ways.
To lead me through the day by days.
Just left alone, and alone I stayed

Instead I found my bottle friend
to stay my tears and hide my fears.
Back then “charley” felt they owned the night.
With blusterous thud the mortars hit,
Of saying hi it was “charley’s” way
then to be my friend by day.

From no where came the dragon ship,
and tipping his left wing
as a polite executioner saluting his victim just before unleashing hell.
W/ firery tongue lapping up the earth while mini-guns
roared, eagerly devouring all living things,
leaving “charley” w/ no where to run.

All clear, a small visit w/ my bottle friend
and back to sleep in the alcohol deep.
I was no john wayne, I didn’t fight the war
a target yes for “charley’s” sights
when the sun gave way to night.

But no, I didn’t fight.

I never cried glossary:

Charley=VC=viet cong=enemy: by day he acted like any of  the population, some were even employed around the various bases. But at sundown he would turn…
Dragonship=C-47=2 or 3 several barreled mini-guns mounted on left side of the plane capable of firing a few 1000 rounds per minute each w/ a phosphorous round placed at every 6th round a tracer. At night this made it look like a steady stream of fire coming from the plane, hence the name “dragon ship” or “puff the magic dragon.” To aim the pilot had to dip his left wing and fly in a counter clock wise fashion. Very effective weapon…

Written for a special friend A.S.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Don’t go, hold onto your colour bowl,
never lose your paintbrush,
not even at the twilight.
Someone's smiling on earth.
It can’t hide forever.

Maybe hidden but not far—
could be only behind a lock of hair.
Black is not only black.
Look beyond, it could be all fair.

Gently raised and softly lit
on the moonlight’s field
These forever-calm shady groves,
piled up on the night's pitch-black scene,
are ahead of the curve in silent reading.

Behind these out of the box line-ups
by the middle, the stage composed
for the thrillers that rock and roll
An incense is still burning
the sundown burns down into ashes,
is still breathing, smelling the scent.
Yesterday will revive and comes tomorrow
keep an eye for a moment or two.

Follow the glow, gazing in the night
and slip into the grove
for they are in the know
is a veiled beauty, earth’s silhouette,
drawn down to the moon!

All the starry fireflies on the stardom
love to drop down and join the moths
Around this tucked away silhouette,
charming beauty down the moon.
Only on the earthen ground it grooms!
the sun is gone

i feel like without it, i am no one
though it burns my skin
and hurts my eyes
i still stare into its glow
its light

i know she destroys me unlike anyone
she turns everything to dust
when i turn away, she does things
and my back, consumed by flames,
she claims me

so like an obedient child,
i face her once again
and again

and again

because without her,
i am no one
11/01/18 – sundown
mark john junor Apr 2014
her ashen eyes hypnotize
the crisp summer wind catches me
i am not stirred from my place at her side
deep in thought she twirls a braid of her hair
and i watch her warm emotions
flowin easy like daylight on her
lovely features

the day romances its reasons
but finally bows to evening tides and begins to retire
with the flourish of a well mannered man of leasuire

the day walks with the sundown by the seaside town
hand in hand and window shop
the little shops full of sparkling wonders
and rich with old sea tales and lore
finally daylight leaves us on the the sand with evening stars
greeting each of us with brilliant words spoken to the eyes
the night long with its thoughts shared between lovers
and there she cupped me in her gentle smile

i knew that kind of love once again
that a woman gives of her secret heart
  like a summer rain
soft in touch and swift
deep with history's yet to be written
and rich with loves yet to be sung
and there once again she caressed my cheek
with tenderest touch and reassured
that all swift summer days contain such equal long nights
and she would not sway from her place
by my side
jane taylor Jun 2016
i am frightened – i’m alone
it is dusk and i am scared
oh why was i born - what does it mean
i wish someone cared

i feel separate – apart from all
it’s an awful thing to bear
the twilight set in its eventide
at blackness i stare

moonbeam take my hand
moonbeam guide me home
moonbeam stay by me
don’t leave me alone

i'm confused and i’m asleep
what is behind the dream?
if i’m not awake then this whole thing
is not what it seems

healed then broken once again
peelin’ layers until i see
that it is a screen ain't nothing there
but eternity

moonbeam take my hand
moonbeam guide me home
moonbeam stay by me
don’t me leave alone

i feel like i need a map
in the dim with no one near
it’s a maze to me – why can’t i see
that there’s somethin’ here

it was light out then sun set in
got lost in the nightfall
i thought i knew how to guide my life
now it’s you that i call

moonbeam take my hand
moonbeam guide me home
moonbeam stay by me
don’t me leave alone

it is nighttime and it’s dark
help me find a little spark
a hope a dream at sundown seems
i can’t even start

there’s a purpose in all things
i know because i feel
there’s light before the shadow’s cast
i know you are real

moonbeam take my hand
moonbeam guide me home
moonbeam stay by me
don’t me leave alone

moonbeam took my hand
i am not alone
i'm amongst the stars
i am finally home

this is a song i wrote the music and lyrics to
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
Why is little Musa working in these diamond dirt pits,
Digging from sunset to sundown
Where are the laws that protect children 's rights,
Why is he left unsupervised working on his own?
Struggled from early childhood with all his strengths
Now he can hardly stand because of damaged vertebrates
To know the number of free hours he worked, do the maths
Yet some lucky girl somewhere celebrates.
How can he labor as a slave when he's just a boy?
How can Musa smile when he has no joy?
How can he run when he has no legs,
Who will speak for him knowing he has no voice?
How can the opportunity box be opened without the keys
How can the world do nothing about his demise,
Especially when to stay alive he has to work for food?
How can he locate hope if he can't see,
How can celebrities adorn diamonds with bad blood,
How can this possibly be?
If I can lend my pen to help every child slave working,
Then my life on earth is worth living.

We all have a moral obligation to stop child slavery.
Emilea Burgh Nov 2018
At what point
would I take for granted
those crystal waters
and those consecrated mountains?

Yet there are days still spent
dreading sundown
or the sleepless daybreak
of a grieving city

Does escaping your hometown
make you a coward or
shall I die a martyr?

Might I pencil in a visit to each grave?
Or would you like to deliver
the flowers
for me?
for JPM
Via Olson Dec 2017
Sundown was a small town that straddled a small river, which had no name, because there was no need- it was the only river, therefore simply The River. The shores were beautiful- sparkling sand, cans, and the sheen of oil on rocks.
But a little trickle of water escaped through a grove of mismatched green and brown trees and formed a quiet, grey-blue pool, which, like all things, had been claimed. This small pool had the unlikely fortune of being ruled primarily and almost exclusively by frogs.
The Sundown Frogs' dominion over the little pond was broken only on the few days when the black-booted man came to visit.
A rock, neither small nor overly large, sat on the side of the Frog Pond, and the man would sit with the rock and quietly ask for its secrets.
Sometimes the rock would cry, dripping oil and water, and sometimes the rock would remain as stoic as the man himself. 
If the man, a minister, decided sit long enough for the trees to quiet, very slowly, the Sundown Frogs would return, their soft croaks following like shadows.
One day, as the minister had been sitting close by for hours, a frog jumped quite near him. It landed on a lily pad coated with the rock's tears, and the ripples it made reached the minister's unforgiving black boots.
The frog looked at the man, and the man looked back.
This contest of pride was ended only by the soft buzzing of a fly, lazily making its way over the little pond. The minister now straightened his spine, for this was his favorite part.
It was fascinating to him, the frog and it's  life. How her tongue released, curled, and then retracted. Just like that! a death of a fly.
The minister had watched such a show so many times he could imagine the action in his head, step by step, like pictures in a old film reel.
Out like lighting, the curl, the buzzing stops, in quicker than out, and then the silence of death.
And so the minister said to the frog, sitting on her lily pad, "The coming days will be brighter, for the sun must always rise again in the morning."
The frog said nothing, because frogs never do.
In the silence, the frog jumped away, and in the empty silence that followed her hollow splash, the minister promised to return again tomorrow.
I tried to explain how my mental health feels day to day. Not every day is laying in my bed, sobbing or empty. A lot of the time it's acknowledging the world is a beautiful place, objectively, but being unable to understand happiness in actuality. And there's irony in that that's hard to explain. There doesn't seem to be a reason to go on, and yet I get up every day.
From sunrise until twilight,
My love for you is red like your blood.
From sundown until morning light,
My love for you is black, like the leaves dried
From the rose I wanted to give you
But never did.
Oh darling,
Isn't it lovely to be in so much pain?
A poem every day
i am the eye of
the sun  

i see  the world
beyond the
black darkness

calling to glory
the sunrise and
the sundown

bringing darkness
to shameful defeat

blessing the world
with sublime beauty

in this love enterprise
i am the uncommon
favor in uncommon
story, running rivers
in  uncommon course.
I am a  violent volcano erupting
In the very fiery darkest hour
Bringing down errors
From mountains of fire
Devouring evil at cockcrow.

It's the dawn of a great glory
In  gunpowder power explosion!

All pawns in evil chess game
Come to rainbow rain contrite
As darkness has no hiding place
In emerald golden sundown glory
As trees of darkness uprooted dead!
There is no place for darkness at the dawn of light and her glory.  Come what may the reign of darkness is ephemeral.
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