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Below are poems written by poet Jiril Clemons. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.

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If Monday Were A Sin

I would deny its existence and favor the second place
prediction of Tuesday; 
For the beginning is never subtle, and it tends to hunt
my off-beat verse. 
Such a consistent verse, as it never sits on time but 
rather abandons efforts to erect my sight, and coordinate
the following hours; 
The morning is fractured as a result, with recovery 
trailing on the heels of Monday much later. 

Perfect souls may interpret this honesty, as weak 
exaggerations of the first 24 pages of this week; 
Yet I preach on; as these sentiments are not falsified. 
Proof is present in the early missteps of the corporate clock; 
Slipping on the familiar concrete that knows me better, I 
can sense the mojo in brief retirement from these works 
of mine. 

And of course, there becomes the peers to impart misery; 
obvious is the choice of day in current motion for this 
conflict, perhaps too abrasive for Sunday’s mouth, 
and too eager to rest on Tuesdays lap. Still, there must 
be a critique of the deadlines that lose my attention, the 
method of effort undeserving of the title, and of course, their 
desires in opinion that extend to the hand that writes
the checks. 

But then again, occasional Mondays, comes to misplace
the common structure, such as this petty one. 
The blunt melody of this soundtrack played on till lunch, 
and by then, the issue of nourishment had exited;
There I followed. 

I assumed the particular way this day choose to
spread could not influence any longer, once the 
afternoon was mine. 
And yet, disagreement waited outside to shower
me with the precipitation of wrong guesses. 
There I stood in the creators tears, bathing in the 
mutiny of chance, entitled negativity. 

But then a turning stone became present, and the 
shower showed itself to be brief, and I found 
myself witnessing the drought of misery 

Perhaps my sentiments didn’t unveil the blueprint
of today correctly. Maybe the riddle cased in these 
24 hours reminds mortals that existing on fertile is 
a promise of tears and smiles, harmony and dysfunction. 
To expect a token of more or less would be devious. 
The mere shell of a Monday is irrelevant to the 
framework are diverse templates choose to be in, 
when dawn comes to visit us. 

A thought revises in me now. 
If Monday were truly a sin, I would advance in fault
and carry the unknown weight time and time again; 
For the challenge of life has its pleasure, and its 
aftertaste, assembled from the reminiscent images
is flawless. To speak of struggle that passed away its
tense is forever the compliment of living. 


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