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THE BURNING SUN I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews, Hearts are my friends I live in the city of sufferings Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history I sculptured man silently – Wings that carried birds Did not bring them back; I am drinking thick darkness In the haunts of those forests Which cry out in agony for the birds That did not return; Clutching at the garment woven of memories I twine myself to the feet of my country. Heads that were hanging to the trees Smile as flowers today in the branches Hearts that received the bullets Ring in temples of our land like bells; Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered By how many to bring forth this day; They are hanging like icicles On the ridges of our roofs; Look, it is an iron fist I have; I shall excavate the flame of light From the rocks of time – I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries – To the rivers that run in passion after the sea I cry halt, command them To paint the colourless arid lands in green, Invite back the smile which fled away In terror from this land, To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower I shall give a garden – Come children, eat Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight, I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day; If he wakes not on the horizon of this land I shall tear my burning heart And put it in its place With the scarlet of my living flesh Illuminate the earth I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews – - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ -This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma's second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “ - In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem

I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews, Hearts are my friends I live in the city of sufferings Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history I sculptured man silently – Wings that carried birds Did not bring them back; I am drinking thick darkness In the haunts of those forests Which cry out in agony for the birds That did not return; Clutching at the garment woven of memories I twine myself to the feet of my country. Heads that were hanging to the trees Smile as flowers today in the branches Hearts that received the bullets Ring in temples of our land like bells; Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered By how many to bring forth this day; They are hanging like icicles On the ridges of our roofs; Look, it is an iron fist I have; I shall excavate the flame of light From the rocks of time – I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries – To the rivers that run in passion after the sea I cry halt, command them To paint the colourless arid lands in green, Invite back the smile which fled away In terror from this land, To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower I shall give a garden – Come children, eat Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight, I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day; If he wakes not on the horizon of this land I shall tear my burning heart And put it in its place With the scarlet of my living flesh Illuminate the earth I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews – - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ -This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma's second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “ - In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem

Oceans and mountains away from here end of another evening matinee The sun bows graciously blows kisses luminous strands of affection Applause Wave after wave splashing on a rock pile by the shore There, on the rocks Sits a lady worth loving She sits waiting For what, only she knows Her modest stance absorbing the tapering light welcoming the waves Her lonely shadow clinging with unwavering resolve against the constant sea perfume Fading and conjuring Wave after wave When the last bit of light is devoured by the night her radiant silhouette will still be there When my mind's ships pull anchor and wade into the unchartered seas she'll be there guiding them to safe harbor And waiting For what, only she knows Perhaps Like many a hopeful ship-wreck survivor I shall toss into the wash a poem-in-a-bottle For she is waiting There on the rocks Wave after wave Perhaps for my bottle only she knows

Peeked at the calendar, what a bummer! No one told me it was almost summer Because here, by law there's just one season Change in weather is an act of treason It is either hot, or humid, or both As if the sun took a scorching-heat oath Flowers, birds, and butterflies all year round Served with a side order of pests abound Everything bites or stings, take your pick Mosquito kiss, or a cottonmouth lick? Wanna be chased by an alligator? Or wanna hug from a black bear later? If you prefer your wildlife with some salt May we then recommend a shark assault? No mermaids, dolphins or pink flamingos Just tourists, wet with sweat from head to toes No real forests to burn, and no earthquakes 'Cause no solid ground, just quicksand or lakes But there's always a land-bound hurricane Ample warning. No one leaves. It's insane! Though state has no official uniform T-shirts and shorts with flip-flops are the norm So fashion hub of the south, we are not Chic and fiery-hot don't mix well, clothes rot Peak of summer, things get a whole lot worse Our state motto becomes a pirate's curse Sun-baked, numb, and half-naked, we all roam In this patch of swamp and tar we call home Forget top ten, we're dead-last on all lists. Other states tease us like we tease tourists When, in normal places, trees drop their leaves Somebody let me know right away, please So I can throw state-mandated rule out Wear a jacket, and pretend it's cool out Fall season just cannot come fast enough For my cold-brewed bum, summers here are tough!

.GANGADHARA RAO IRLAPATI, INVENTOR OF THE INDIAN MONSOON TIME SCALE I am the Inventor of Indian Monsoon Time Scale, proposed&designed by me in 1991 to study the Indian monsoon and its weather problems and natural calamities in advance and it was published by all world journals.But our India was not recognize me. Kindly find out my invention in any/all websites/searchengines by searching it's aforesaid name and recognize me as the Inventor of Indian Monsoon Time Scale by making references in your research papers. Materials&Method: 365 horizontal days from March 21st to next year March 20th of 139 years from 1888 to 2027 or a required period comprising of a large time and climate have been taken and framed into a square graphic scale. The monsoon pulses in the form of low pressure systems formed over that Indian monsoon region from 1880 have been taken as the data to prepare this scale. Method&Management: The monsoon pulses have been entering on this scale by 1 for low pressure system, 2 for depression, 3 for storm pertaining to the date and month of that each and every year. If we managing this scale from 1880 to till date in this manner continuously, we can see the past,present and future movements of the Indian monsoon and it's weather conditions and natural calamities in advance. Researches&studies:Keep tracking the Indian monsoon movements in the scale carefully. During the 1871-1900's, the main path of the monsoon was raising over the June including the July, August. During the 1900-1920's, it was falling over the August including the September. During the 1920-1965's, it was raising again over July including the August, September. During the 1965-2004's, it was falling over the September. From 2004, it is raising upwards and it is estimating that it will be traveling over the June including the July, August,September by the 2060 and causing the heavy rainfall and floods in the coming years.. Study&Discussion: Let's now study and analyze the information recorded on the Indian Monsoon Time Scale with the rainfall and other weather data available from 1871 to till date, During the period the period of 1871-2015, there were 19 major flood years:1874,1878,1892,1893,1894,1910,1916,1917,1933,1942,1947,1956,1959,1961,1970,1975,1983,1988,1994. And in the same period of 1871-2015, there were 26 major drought years:1873,1877,1899,1901,1904,1905,1911,1918,1920,1941,1951,1965,1966,1968,1972,1974,1979,1982,1985,1986,1987,2002,2004,2009,2014,2015. Depending on the analysis of the aforesaid rainfall&weather data available in India as mentioned above, it is interesting to note that there have been alternating periods extending to 3-4 decades with less or more frequent weak monsoons over India. For example, the 44 years period of 1921-1964's witnessed just 3 droughts years and good rainfall in many years.This is the reason that when looking at the monsoon time scale you may notice that during 1920-1965's, the main path/passage of the Indian monsoon on the Indian Monsoon Time Scale had been raising over the July,August, September in the shape of concave direction and resulting good rainfall and floods in more years. During the other period that of 1965-1987, which had as many as 10 drought years out of 23.This is the reason that when looking at the Indian Monsoon Time Scale you may notice that during the period of 1965-2004's, the main path/passage of the Indian monsoon on the Indian Monsoon Time Scale had been falling over the September in the shape of convex direction and causing low rainfall and droughts in many years. Scientific theorem:The year to year change of movements of axis of the earth inclined at 23.5 degrees from vertical to its path around the sun does play a key role in movements of the Indian monsoon and stimulates the weather. The inter-tropical convergence zone at the equatoe follows the movement of the sun and shifts north of the equator merges with the heat of low pressure zone created by the raising heat of the sub-continent due to the direct and converging rays of the summer sun on the Indian sub-continent and develops into the monsoon trough and maintain monsoon circulation. Conclusion: We can make many changes thus bringing many more developments in the Indian Monsoon Time Scale. GANGADHARA RAO IRLAPATI Email me: girlapati@aol.com WhatsApp me: 91 6305571833

I want to talk to the sun And tell her I am tired I want her to embrace me And let me sleep on her shoulder I want her to hold my hand when I awake And guide me through my day I want her to paint with me, to write with me Then I want her to say "I am right here always, even if you don't see I am always in your heart So you can now be free."

When the world changed we played outside, and did our best to shelter you from the storm. We splashed in the puddles and danced in the raindrops. And on the days when the clouds thickened the sky, we sheltered together and created our own sunshine. This is what I hope you will remember.

On sunny days, the light would peek through the gaps of the blinds which covered the glass sliding door. The rays of sunlight would block the iCarly episode I was watching, but the sound would still spill out of the small speakers on the sides of the viewing box. A rainbow would form on the crimson, vine-patterned carpet, and, later in the day, the rainbow would move to the milky walls, and my brothers and I would look at it with marvel. Mom and dad just watched and laughed at us as they wished to paint the white. But that was something we couldn't do in a place we didn't own. Some days, when the sun decided to leave and in its place would sit crying clouds, raindrops would slap the cars in the parking lot, and shadows would begin to cover the small space. When Mom and Dad were at home, they would speak in a language foreign to our ears. My brothers and I could not understand, but that was what they wanted, as they sat on the couch and made plans to move. Sometimes, my ears would pick up bits of their conversation, and I'd fantasize about a bigger house. But fantasies would fall from my ears as I raced my brother from their room to the front door through the long hallway in the middle of the apartment. How would we run in a bigger house without a carpeted hallway in the middle? My mind couldn't fathom the idea. Once in a while, on rainy spring days, the clouds and the sun would get along, signing their peace treaty with a rainbow. My siblings and I, along with neighborhood kids, would rush out of our home, exclaiming, "Rainbow!" as if we'd never seen such a bewitching display of color. We would all come together in the middle of the parking lot, or newly wet grass, discussing how to get to the end of the rainbow, and arguing the existence of leprechauns. Sometimes, we didn't have enough kids to argue as some of them would leave the neighborhood weeks prior. Their apartment doors a forgotten number among forgotten numbers. Their parents most likely found a pot of gold and used it to move. It's incredible how fast things change. When I was little, I promised myself that I would never curse. My friends and I promised we would all go to the same middle school. When the future is a blank slate, you can say whatever you want. It's like an artist describing a painting she hasn't yet painted. I would never have guessed that I would be the one to break those promises. One time, my older brother stood on the wrong side of the railing on the second floor. He was a pirate standing on a plane; the only thing that kept him from falling was the edge of the wood on which he stood. He looked down to the ground below him, and all he faced was blue concrete and the different colored faces of neighborhood kids. Then he let go and jumped. He fell past the second floor until the red rubber soles of his shoes touched the cold blue concrete of the first floor. The small group of pre-pubescent kids cheered, and some said they could do the same thing; what was once impossible was now the opposite. I wonder what I would've done if I knew I would never get the chance to attempt the same feat. I remember first moving to our apartment. I was less than half the size I am now, and my brain was too. Things are so much bigger when you're so much smaller! Our couch was a deep rich brown, and the TV was on the left wall. Above it hung forgotten gifts, cards, and posters, handcrafted by my parents' children. The dining room didn't have a large green mat yet. The kitchen wasn't even as big as the dining room, but it had more cupboards than I could count - cabinets that hid all sorts of roaches and crawly things that shouldn't be in houses. The place always smelled like tomatoes, spices, and oils. My mom always made stew, and the scent would cling to the walls, the furniture, and the fabric of our clothes. My mother would always wear a flowery perfume when going to church, and I would always ask why smelling like food was such a dreadful thing. Maybe I could've used that as an excuse to keep us from moving. "Mom, Dad, the apartment holds not only scents but memories too! What if it forgets about us?" I could never forget. The sun looked at us through the glass sliding door in our living room, and my brothers and I looked at my parents as they entered a small car with an unfamiliar blonde woman in a grey business suit. As soon as they left, we all sat together on the soft, vine-patterned carpet that we still have, and pondered where they were going.

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.  

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.  

The warmth of the sun, The cool of the moon in night, Envelope the heart.

I nibble on a cookie, my eyes transfixed on the puffs of smoke emerging from the peak of the volcano. My lips catch my breath before it can escape into the cool air. An ominous rumble echoes from within the shadows, and we watch in awestruck wonder as glowing orange chunks spew into the sky, racing past one another and grasping at the stars. Just out of reach, the embers relinquish their dream and streak back to earth, tumbling down the steep embankment until the shadows devour their brilliance. I wish I could watch this forever. It's early, but I say goodnight and duck into the tent, pulling another sweater over my head before burrowing into my sleeping bag. The rumbling lulls my eyelids to a close and I drift into sleep. I first notice the cold tickling my nose, and then the ache that clamps down on my shoulder as I roll over and dig for the watch inside my backpack pocket. 3:00 a.m. My fingers fumble for the zipper and I wiggle out of my sleeping bag, stuffing it into its sack and then sitting on it until the last hiss has escaped. I cram my feet into my hiking boots as I stumble to the door, shuffling along the edge of the path as the sand threatens to pull me down the precarious slope. Grabbing an outstretched hand, I pull myself safely into the light of the crackling fire. My backpack sends up a cloud of dust as it hits the ground and I puff hot air into my hands before bending down to tie my laces. I grab a bowl of oatmeal and a spoon, squishing between two others on a rickety bench. As the bowl begins to thaw my stiff fingers, the oatmeal glides down my throat with ease and smolders in my stomach like the embers in the fire. I've only just scraped the last remnants of breakfast onto my spoon when the guide calls for our attention. “Time to get moving if we want to make that sunrise!” He gestures up the volcano, our path cloaked by a blanket of shadows. With my backpack snugly fitted against my shoulders, I slip into the line and I run my fingers over my headlamp, fumbling for the button. For a brief moment the light shines and I can see how caked with dust my boots are, but then it fades and dies. Quickening my pace, I follow closely at the heels of the person in front of me, scrounging for what leftover light I can put my feet in. As we walk, my boots slowly begin to materialize out of the darkness, and I turn and pause for a moment. A warm orange glow is beginning to stretch across the purple clouds that cascade like ocean waves, and the glistening lights strewn across the hillsides are growing dim. Running out of time. My breath and feet fall into a rhythm for the next hour or so as we trudge up the winding path. As I emerge from a cluster of trees, the wind strikes my cheeks with sharp lashes. The burning only intensifies as we continue to scramble up higher, finally catching a glimpse of the other side of the volcano. I try to scrunch my face, but my numb cheeks hang lifelessly. Clenching my hands around my poles sends pain shooting through my fingers, but I grimace and wiggle them more. “Let's wait here for the others to catch up,” the guide announces as we duck behind a large boulder. I struggle to unclip the strap from my waist and tug open the zipper with my mittens on, but taking them off isn't an option since they're the only thing keeping my fingers from falling off. I yank another sweater from my pack and pull it over my head. I suck in a breath but the icy texture makes me shudder and regret it. By the time the last person has snuck behind the rock, I am eager to get going again. “This is the last stretch,” the guide comments, motioning up the formidable, steep hill. The sand collapses beneath my feet and I plunge my poles in ahead of me, pulling myself on top of them. I pause for a moment until I feel steady again. Two steps forward, one step back. Repeat. My eyes track the person stumbling upwards in front of me. Just make it to where they are. Good, that's good. Now up a little farther. I coax my shaking body from one checkpoint to the next, and my feet cry out in relief when they hit solid dirt rather than sand. I did it...I can't believe I did it! As I try to take in the view, I meet my friend's eyes and my lips explode into a grin as we throw ourselves into each other's arms. I shuffle closer to the edge of the volcano and sit down on a boulder to watch the sky. At last, the sun finally peeks over the horizon and warmth begins to stretch across the sea of clouds, casting sparkles across the hills. I can't help but wonder if the sun waited for me to get to the top before unveiling itself. The bottom of the clouds are bathed in warm yellow, while the tops are drenched in a deep violet that bleeds into the sky like a waterlogged painting. This is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The frigid air now feels exhilarating in my lungs. As I sit and gaze at the glowing horizon, I realize—I didn't conquer the volcano, I conquered myself.

It was the first beautiful day I had seen in weeks. The sky was a striking blue. Birds chirped in the freshly bloomed cherry trees. A breeze skated across the pond, causing a soft ripple to echo until it reached the opposite bank. It was a beautiful day, and I absolutely despised it. It was almost like the Earth was taunting me. How could the sun be shining on today of all days? Did it not know what had happened? Did the sun not realize that it had lost a person as bright as itself? That she had been put back into the ground that now grew fresh green grass in her wake? Of course the sun did not know. No one on this planet knew but me. I walked along the dirt path, kicking up dust behind me. There was no point in staying in this field full of others who had been returned to the ground from which they rose. But I could not keep myself from looking back once more. There she was, now just a mound of freshly tossed dirt waiting to fall back into the place from where it was taken. There was something else, something that was not there before. Sprouting from right on top of the broken soil, a bouquet of ruby tulips. The tulips opened up toward the sun, as if reaching for her. Maybe the sun and the Earth did know.

This was from Tuesday May 29, 2018 at Valley Forge Historical National Park in Pennsylvania at 8:04pm. On the same day New York City witnessed their special sunset of “Manhattanhenge” where the sun aligned perfectly with skyscrapers that sit on Manhattan's street grid. 🌅🌇