Best Sunday Poems
Sunday Morning
Piano intro:
Verse:
Can you see the sun is shining down
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you feel the rain upon the ground
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you feel the wind upon you face
Did you know that time is not to waste anymore
Verse:
Can you hear the trees the wind is swaying
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you hear the song the birds are saying
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you feel the wind upon you face
Did you know that time is not to waste anymore
Chorus:
There is so much out there waiting for you
Take a breath of fresh air deep inside
All the things provided by the father
No sense for you to run and hide.
Can you feel the wind upon you face
Did you know that time is not to waste anymore
Verse:
Can you hear he’s calling out to you
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
There is so much more that you can do
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you feel the wind upon you face
Did you know that time is not to waste anymore
Chorus:
There is so much out there waiting for you
Take a breath of fresh air deep inside
All the things provided by the father
No sense for you to run and hide.
Verse:
Can you hear the little children crying
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can feel the flowers are you trying
On Sunday Morning, on Sunday morning
Can you feel the wind upon you face
Did you know that time is not to waste anymore
On Sunday morning, on Sunday morning (Repeat)
Judgement
You light the fire, then play the victim.
It's not my fire, yet you let it burn.
Rage and pain drive you insane,
creating a parody of hypocritical lies.
Judgemental eyes ignite in fumes,
ignorant to another man's shoes.
Silent emotions
They say he shows no emotions,
yet fail to see the flow of tears,
crying from his poetic pen.
Poetry is only silent to ignorance.
It's the pain keeping him alive,
breaking all figurative chains.
He realises there is not shame,
when the sorrows of lost time,
become burdens he can't let go.
Yet the hurt makes him stronger.
She
I always knew she'd be the one,
from that novel, whose name I fail to recall.
When I read those words,
her image burst from the page.
I always thought lucidity of my imagination,
was a slightly cruel curse;
until i saw those eyes,
which moved closer in crystal definition,
merging true colours into my heart.
Even in the silence of my dreams,
I called for just one kiss from her lips.
Misunderstood muse
There won't be any poetry tonight,
nothing to say, to see nor to write.
An absence of subtle reflection in words,
become a substance of subsistence.
Confused with silent existence of timeless distance.
Insistence of your resistance,
seems like a waste of emotions,
in a false dawn of devotions.
Learn to create perfect harmonies
through simple sincere symphonies.
Then your predicament will not breed,
nor succeed in its egotistical need.
Simple Musings
Silent One
8 December 2019
Twenty first of October in two thousand and eighteen
Was the worst disaster poetry soup had seen
Poems wiped off the website as all the poets slept
When the disaster unfolded many poets wept.
Some had spent hours composing their verses
But no backup made, the air soon filled with curses
Contest entries too vanished without trace
Sponsors left fuming they had nothing to place.
And the beautiful comments people said about you
Into a cyber space black hole they all vanished too
The next night the poems, to everyone’s dismay
Returned to the site, ‘twas like Groundhog day.
Some blamed the Russians, some blamed the C.I.A.
Others wanted revenge for what happened that day
But do rest assured, soup said “have no fear
Free membership for everyone, for a whole year”
Now that’s a kind act I’m sure you’ll agree
Remember worse disasters have happened at sea
The moral of this verse is to remind everyone
Make a backup of your work when it is done.
(This did happen, not sure about the free membership though lol.
But it is a wake up call; always back up your work.)
Sunday Morning
I try not to wake him, though he stirs slightly
As I crawl out from the warmth of the covers.
I'm tempted to change my mind, and stay awhile longer,
But a glint of sunlight peeks through the blind and calls to me.
If I burrow down again, and drowse too long,
This glorious time of day will be gone...until it comes again tomorrow.
I tiptoe quietly and begin the morning ritual.
The splashing of water on my face, of letting the dog out,
Of brewing the dark, hot liquid that will help to
Open my eyes and recharge my reluctant brain.
The inviting aroma finally wakes my senses, and after
The first sip, I begin to feel the desire to join the world again.
I go outside, step onto the weathered porch, down the steps,
Onto the wet grass to retrieve today's bundled news.
Within it comes a page-by-page account of disasters, obituaries and comics...
I decide to forego all that gloom, and lay the paper beside the front door.
Instead, I drink in the morning air.
The new day is slowly coming alive. There's a slight chill.
This coolness will be baked away later, when the sun is high.
I pull my robe around me tightly, and sit down on the stoop.
Birds are chirping, and soon, I see that neighbors are beginning to embrace the
day.
House by house, there is evidence that awakening has occurred.
A car is cruising by our house. The occupants, wearing their
Sunday best, and on their way to an early service to praise the Lord.
While some are sitting in pews, singing Alleluia,
A man down the street is starting his lawnmower.
Not mindful that the Sabbath is a day of rest,
Or that he may wake a late sleeper.
Inside my house, I hear the sounds of water running and dishes rattling.
Then someone calling my name. In a moment he appears
Carrying two steaming mugs of black coffee, one for him, and another for me.
He's come to see what this new day has offered, and sits down beside me.
We sit together quietly, and soak up the morning sun.
It wraps its warmth around us, like the bedcovers we had abandoned.
No words are needed to enjoy this moment.
However, toast and jam, and bacon await us. So we turn and go inside.
As I claim my own parcel of solitude
from yesterday's banging boom,
I see heaven expanding through you
in me: fireflies glow rare as Sunday’s bliss,
never mind if there is a call for patience
when holy hours rise upon the lines of your mouth;
resting on the ledge of a private oasis.
This I cannot enter... the night curfew drifts
gently and quietly yet full of love's spaces;
O the hush of your mouth tender as harp's rhythm
I want to kiss.
My parcel of quietude becomes yours
while we listen to the same monastic silence,
gazing at clouds alone and together
until we rest lovingly inside our gentle, holy world.
Into near midnight with eyes closed, we slumber and then...
John Hamilton's Your Best Free Verse Love Poem--2
2/19/2017
The final leaf falls
And I’m bare
It’s me you’re reading here
What I am I’ve always been
Even if I decorate my tree with colorful crystal balls
I've braved a winter’s pain
A summer’s swell
I can spring anew and I do fall
I cry like a baby and laugh through it all
Cause I am who I am standing tall
Seasons come and seasons go
My branches reaching out to touch you
Welcoming what life unfolds
My roots firmly planted by a river that flows
In a conscious garden
The soil of heaven feeds my earthly soul
Sun is hiding behind glimpses of grey.
Through the window
naked trees,
their bark covered in green moss,
seem frigid and grisly.
Their bird less branches leafless,
but debris of broken nests and feathers remain.
Forgotten by mother birds who's fledglings have long flown away.
(those that did not fall from the nest or became prey to predators)
Isn't it interesting how our eyes see things differently?
I see so much change whilst sitting in the auditorium of Autumn.
In this season of diversity some admire the beauty,
whilst others see death and destruction.
Seasons can be a reflection of personality and character.
Which season are you? Do you know yourself?
My Dahlia heart has never been a lover of the cold.
If I could sleep like hibernating squirrels,
or fly to warmer climates like migrating geese -
I would - I should - If only I could.
Yet I feel it would be selfish to leave my mother bird -
so I sacrifice my own happiness - but wait patiently for permission.
But, I'm struggling to sleep among lifeless souls.
My eyes perturbed by fake guides with false words.
Scorned minds who believe everything they see and hear,
plague me with their false prophecies -
why is it ok to burn some nests,
but there is an outcry when yours is damaged?
Are some fledglings more valuable than others....
Tired from the injustices of life,
I ponder do we ever learn from the lesson?
Revenge and retaliation are never the answer.
Hypocrites with blood on their hands
should not cry for peace - one life has no value over another -
nor does colour, religion or gender.
Yet we remain lost in the disorder.
Seasons change, but some minds remain the same..
Simple Sunday Musing.
10 December 2023
Possess
have
hold
enjoy
control
dominate...
Baby choose your verb
this Saturday night I intend
to explore so very many of them...
You taste sweet
like oranges
liquid sunshine in my mouth...
Let us drink from the fountain of love
where every drop
is eternal passion...
Let us supernova
creating new worlds
as we crash into one another
upon the soft surface of my mattress
a cloud in the darkness
our bodies falling together like rain...
Let us be animals
as animals
don't know sin...
I LOVE you
that is a beginning
that is the end
that is everything...
On Sunday morning
brown and silky soft
Sermon
of your skin...
The altar
of your hair...
The goddess curve
of your hips
will have me
speaking
in tongues...
~ ~ ~
I feigned taking a bite
attempting, of course, to convince her
oatmeal was yummy, "good for her"
necessary etc.
I made rhymes of moons
and spoons
oats and boats,
little girls wearing coats
She smiled, but refused to take a bite
as she had nearly every day now
for months
I turned to reach a paper towel
to mop up the inevitable drips caught in the palm of my hand
spoons and cupped hands
they are the same thing, right?
I never heard a death rattle
of course, these old ears of mine...
The hospice nurse gently closed her eyes.
I said, "Goodbye Mother,"
and wondered how it had happened so quickly,
those sixty-nine years we shared.
I drown you in wine, the goddamn squatter
who lives in me. Flow, Lethe, dark and deep!
But even through a drunken dreamless sleep,
like a nude drowned man in see-through water,
the memory is seen… That very sunny
day on the river, tender girlish hands
doing my back with sunscreen, lots of plans
for future, reckless air, easy money,
the coolness of the depth… All of a sudden
a spasm! a cramp!
a zigzag
lightning
pain!
that lit up something? someone? I would fain
forget but the remembrance, mixed with blood in
my veins, with coldest sweat in my nightmares,
stayed in for good… The rescue team did well:
I’m still alive but, tell me, why the hell
I often feel like going downstairs
to river beach, undressing, diving deeper
under the water and taking a breath?
The habitant inside of me shrugs: “Death
is quite familiar to every sleeper
and swimmer. Death is, so to speak, a river
which flows from the future to the past,
a metaphor of time. Don’t look aghast
at this phenomenon but you should quiver
in fear just thinking of the one you saw
down there, at the bottom of your soul.
Who could this be? Don’t look through the keyhole
of the imaginary but real door
between realities”…
Or I just think
he says it, and the truth is I did sink
long time ago.
Sunlight leaks
through the curtain
after I’ve thrown off the covers.
Downstairs the television flickers
as a roommate sleeps
on the couch.
He was talking politics
last night.
I went upstairs
and read a poem.
This morning
I walk into the kitchen
and turn off a dripping faucet.
The furnace hums
to fight off a chill.
The calendar says spring
as if my life has just begun.
I go out for a leisurely drive
where the countryside
speaks to me.
I come back home
and make a quick brunch.
Words dancing in my head
cry out for me
to put them on a page
as the cat sits on my lap.
The roommate rolls to his side
saying, April’s the cruelest month
while I say the cruelest thing
is writer’s block.
A jet passing over a crown
of trees at the end of the street
streaks the sky.
The roommate talks about a movie
he watched in the middle of the night
and its philosophy.
Did you like it, I say
as a bird outside the window sings.
I was as high as the eyes could see
A giant dark cloud of pure misery
I seemed to roll as one with the wind
A giant black wall that had no end
I stripped the land and left it bare
Of the lives I destroyed, I didn’t care
Those who stayed I covered in dust
As their children died I broke their trust
From my hell many families did flee
Left to wander homeless in misery
I changed the word these words are true
Black Sunday brought darkness on you
I didn't see any direct link but just goggle
pictures of the dust bowl and you will see
what i have written for Brian's Contest.
The Dust Bowl - Alexandre Hogue - 1937
The ground was strewn with fragrant,
freshly cut grass,
blue sky shined like glass,
cool breeze stirred the willow tree,
birds chirped beneath the window panes,
loveliness for everyone to see,
houses surrounded by flower beds,
charming landscapes, a rich day,
regal in every way,
eyes can’t seem to turn away,
something glorious
on this Trinity Sunday
This is where I indeed, do live!
With many churches, to support and which to give.
Murder is a most rare occurrence here.
No riots, no drunks, walking about, slugging down a beer.
Trees are luscious green, all year round.
Flowers grow in lovely silence, not uttering a sound.
Bunnies, opossums, cats at happy play.
Would that our world were as sweet, as this peaceful valley Sunday!
3/21/2021
~1~
O' lovely maid, in solitaire
so fair of cheek and silken hair
A wistful look upon her face
It matters not that she is late
This Sunday morning at the gate
she halts as if to hesitate
and looks around with hopeful chance
as if to take a second glance
for someone whom we cannot see
who stands in shadows out of view
to join her in the morning dew.
Perchance her love will join her there
and stroll with her in autumn air
She waits a moment at the gate
with silver threads laced over blue
a shawl of pink and flowered hat
in pastel shades of vast array
Blended scents of wild bouquet
where grasses grow beyond the road
in golden waves of amber hue
Flowers sprouting here and there
A steeple sits upon the hill
A stroller on his way to church
admires with secret glance
I wonder if she'll stroll the path
or if she'll turn the other way
to walk until she finds a place
to sit and pray, or fall from grace...
Or worship God in her own way
embraced by Sunday's autumn day
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Inspired By Isaiah Zerbst's Contest: Edmund Blair Leighton Paintings