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Best Poems About / On HEAVEN
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281.
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DEAD MANS GUN
I don't like the dead man's gun
Because
Today I found it on my bed in heaven
And
It was not me who left it there Lord
Because I dont own a gun
And I hate guns
Because
They are very dangerous
And nobody has the right to take their life away
If they are in good mental condition
We leave it up to you Lord
But to my surprise
Just before I went to bed for the night
I discovered
They had removed the body of a young man
Who had killed himself with the gun
In my bed
I didnt know this young man
But I am not happy that he laid on my bed in heaven
Because in my bed are all the blood stains
And that bed is the evidence to this case
And the police took it away with them together with the body
Of the young man
And what now?
Where am I going to sleep tonight?
Please dont forget that I have no bed in heaven
Right now
Why do people destroy themselves in heaven?
Shouldnt heaven be a beautiful place?
Aldo Kraas
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282.
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The Stairway to Heaven
Its six in the evening,
and the sun began to go down.
Im still drinking my soda at the park
when I looked up and saw her over yonder.
The little girl was excited about something
that she had seen in the sky.
Out of curiosity, I walked towards her
to see what the excitement was all about.
Look up in the sky! the little girl said,
God made the stairway to Heaven.
We gotta keep our eyes on it
so we wont lose it!
Gods stairway to Heaven was only clouds
but soon it will fade away.
To this girl, its more than just some clouds
its Gods stairway to Heaven.
From time to time, I still think about
the little girl and the stairway to Heaven.
But one day I heard that she still believed
cause of her faith, she walked on the stairway to Heaven.
Noreen Ann Jenkins
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283.
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The Diamond Mines of Centuries Ago
I seem to be living here-
Starfish in a helmet that you cannot stand-
Stars up in the yum-yums,
Cursing to themselves as to their cousins:
As I am dying through the
Resins in
The dryness of the aqueducts of another heavens-
Just as I do not expect that you can
Feel me exposed in the
Dryly beautiful avenues of another heavens:
But I am here,
Crossing my own badges and bighting myself
Before the
Hydrangeas spitefully just as before any and all of
The last heavens:
And this is just the final avenue anyways-
The last midway, bare bosomed, showing the clues of
All of itself before all of the heavens,
Before all of the lights go out- and we have to drink
The ultimate libation in the dreary snow
Before all of that heaven: and
I suppose you cannot swear to this, because the goldfish
Are becoming fat as hydrangeas in any accord;
But the windows in which landed your grandmothers,
Are finally filly out,
So now- I guess- it doesnt really matter how far
Youve escaped from Mexico-
All that matters is the last of the plans of our cartographies:
As the oceans open their mouths like aquatic
Carnivores waiting to bight down upon the roses
Into which weve thrown our very selves
As if into the fires that just so happened
In the diamond minds of centuries and
Centuries ago.
Bret R. Crabrooke
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284.
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In The Beauty Of A Lower Heaven
Autumn in Paris is like summer in a lower heaven.
Sycamores and chestnuts paint the air,
Pencil-thin branches sketch the city like Utrillo,
The Seine sets leaves in moon-glass.
We caught the metro at Bir-Hakeim
Near Vel dHiv, the Nazi detention center.
Cyclists went flying into fire and ash
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Something grotesque in the accordion
Like a fascist playing Mozart.
Something hypnotic in the sound,
The bellowing of giving birth to terror.
In the beauty of a lower heaven
All the people are lovelier, tranquil,
Even at rush hour music tames
The writhing beast of megalopolis.
Goodnight Paris, bonne nuit,
Your accordions are like history
Repeating the music and the horror
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Goodnight Roseline, Simone and Eliana
We will meet again, Aviva
The doors of the trains are opening
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Salvatore Ala
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