Best Thursdays Poems
Everyday is beautiful, son,
and no that's not being optimistic.
You're here - you're alive - with one more day on your plate.
That's just being realistic.
Tuesdays are for Tenderness, for the little things found beneath the rubble:
a flower peeking or a new-dream seeking, even though its subtle.
Wednesdays are for Wishes --- like hoping on that pretty, pretty star,
for something just around the corner is never all that far.
And Thursdays are for Thoughtfulness, on those reflective afternoons,
where all of life hangs between your ears, as your heart struggles to make room
for all the love that's bursting inside of you ...
(I know it's there!
hiding somewhere ... perhaps beneath the dirt and muck)
Fridays are for Friendship --- to the ones who you know true,
and hold you oh so close, despite all of life's various hues.
Saturdays are for Sanctification from all of distraction's clutter;
an occasion to make small your piece of toast, for there's too much of time's butter,
spreading oh so thin on Little You.
And Sundays are for Sunflowers, and the smile that ensues on even the coldest soul.
Treasure it child, if you ever see it bloom, for she's a fragile beauty that makes you whole.
Yes, my son ... EVERY day is beautiful, and Mondays especially,
for that's the day we praise our Mothers,
for giving birth to us at such a time as this (God knows it wasn't easy)
And no, I don't need to see the Seven Wonders,
to know how beautiful life can be,
for I've got all the splendor I can handle ...
... seven days a week.
Image Used: The I Hate Mondays T-Shirt Picture
Written April 10th, 2016
For the Images Contest Hosted by Silent One
For some reason, Thursdays find me warped both in a space of inertia and hyperactivity. Perhaps the anticipation from hitting work deadlines on a Friday creates havoc within my frail psyche.
Half-awake, I forget the kitchen's GPS--where is it?
With lungs soaked on oolong tea leaves,
Fingers dribble on a Japanese mug, now cold
And jaybirds' drowsy talk wouldn't bring me to reality
Car keys jangle by the table's edge...
I am on auto-pilot mode:
Until a quick bath reminds me there's LIFE after 6 am!
Hair swept in a bun, time screams fashion alert
Lunch comes goes as I stare on a white screen;
THE boss hovers by that I piano the board
Racing project's notes on page 3
Yet every darn line seems inane!
Finally, I get my groove
Come late afternoon, an outgoing box is cleared!
Whistling, these hips zumba in the room, well, lightly...
How feet race uptown to view jazz events
Reservations done
For winsome friends--our Saturday's thrill!
Evening crawls while I gorge on pasta
Then mild breathwork to release drained energy--
Netflix? Not! Thursday is my scourge!
How Breezes' tune carouses
When in a flash, night stars blind me
That something knocks me out--
An impertinent Friday afterthought, maybe.
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8/1/2019
Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Con't from Pt 1
At two years old your motherly instincts took me away./ What could my "mother" say,/ she
was married to a man who had a violent hand./ I was too young to understand./ But being
with Grandmomma was God's plan./ There was never a time I was too old for you to hold./
You protected me from abusive hands./ You would take beatings in my place from your old
man./ Vile names would sting my young ears./ Your arms would comfort me and you would
wipe away my tears./
I remember as a child, Thursdays,/ being the best days./ A movie, then a toy,/ and ice
cream could be no greater joy./ I was Grandma;'s boy/ You kept my belly full with home
cooked meals./ You were the one who watched me ride my first bike without traiining
wheels./
You use to tuck me into bed./ Read me a story and kiss my head./ The times I was sick with
fever,/ you watched over me without catching a breather./
For twenty-nine years your love was unconditional and without end./ You were not only
my Grandmomma but my Mother, Father, my friend./ I pray my words spiritually reach to
you beyond those pearly gates./ Because like in life, and in death, God had made us
eternally Soulmates!/ I love you momma.....
Billie Jean Alexander Lopez May 1, 1937-July 26, 2007
Note: I just finally finished this piece for my momma, It took 2 years!
The form of poetry is "spoken work" Thought I would share this piece with you guys.
It's a deep personal piece and I hope it "reads well"
Jimmy
THE MEXICAN
I went over to my friends house last night.
I love it when he smiles with a grin,
He holds the door open, and welcomes me in.
With a style of a gentleman.
"MI CASA ES SU CASA" ~~~~~~(he says)
At first I did not know what he meant.
I don't fully speak Mexican.
I never got the hint,
when he called me his brown 'DULCE' medicine.
Funny how I thought he was a *WhiteSican* ~~(lol)
Always offering me 'TORTILLAS' with rice and beans.
OH! Now I now exactly what he means.
On Thursdays when we play 'CHALUPA'. ~~~~~(aka*bingo)
He'll remind me not to forget-
my 'GUACAMOLE JALAPEÑO' dip.
We'll talk and laugh and,
oops there he goes again with the gas.
Blames it on all them beans he eats.
Than he'll talk me into dancing "LA CUCARACHA," ~~~(with him)
Dancing and jumping to the beat,
he always steps on my feet.
MMM I love it when he makes "ENCHILADAS!" ~~~(all for me)
We sit and watch Spanish 'NOVELLAS' on TV.
I never complain, thinking he knew what they where saying'
It's not the right time to tell him I'm a silly Texan,
with a poor excuse when it comes to a 'MEXICAN!'
I'll keep it to my self and enjoy the cute things he does for me.
I love the words he speaks before I leave.
Like a gentleman he opens the door.
He hugs me and calls me his "AMOR!'
He waits for me, as I get in to my car.
Than he'll yell~ 'ASTA LUGO MI AMIGA!'
I'll smile and turn back and say,
~"ASTA LA VISTA BABE!"~
by;p.d.
Looked up and down, right and left
Wondering why life suffers a theft
Subtracted beauty from my chin cleft
If I deserved and preserved the best
My love could lavish to attest
Why my love passed a preset test
Under dodgy durations of circumstances
Pummeling endeavours made in instances
That diminished and dwindled distances
Acknowledged to reveal robust character
On a bus, on a train, on foot, on a tractor
Where we determined adversity no longer a factor
In consolidating the love we feel
Grows by leaps and bounds despite the bill
Your family sprang on me to deal and kill
The foundations you and I have built
Over the years to fight to the hilt
Any machinations to pour heaps of silt
Into our love cogs
Meaning love should don cogs
Saunter under coercion in bogs and fogs
To prove its strength
Walking on hot coals at length
If truth should pervade and invade love width
To delight your parents
So worried and harried by overdue rents
We owe for domestic tents
That accommodate our nights and days
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
Shared with supreme care
Far beyond compare
Even when evil eyes stare
Willing you and I could disintegrate
To delight the flight of the ingrate
Who wishes our relationship could migrate
Into Dante's Hades
Struck by full blown Aids
Enfeebled and disabled in beds
Where to detractors we surrender
Stuck owing bucks to the vendor
Who dares to crush our love in his blender
Administering his coup the grace
As we lie panting on yellow grass
Listening to soothing sounds of brass
Whispering osculation and consolation
Amid an attempt at immolation
Our love sustains not in isolation
But in tandem
With a hustled harem
Which sings its ultimate knell anthem.
Clyde's Fine Country Diner is located about a mile south of town.
If you're lookin' fer rib-stickin' grub, its the greatest place aroun'!
Clyde retired after cookin' fer twenty-two years in the U.S. Navy,
Servin' up gobs of SOS, more delicately known as biscuits 'n' gravy!
It ain't a fancy place, jes' some booths and a dozen tables er so,
Dominated by a friendly but saucy-tongued waitress named Ruby Flo.
Farmers in John Deere caps meet there fer breakfast ever' day.
The Baptist Ladies Aid Society meets each Tuesday noon to dine 'n' pray.
Country and Western blares from the juke box near the kitchen door.
Ain't no fancy carpet gracin' the place, jes' a squeakin' wooden floor.
The menu ain't changed much over the years but it is quite replete,
With homemade pies, toxic navy coffee plus plain good things to eat.
Sundays, he features fried chicken, peas and smashed pertaters,
Mondays, soup du jour and tossed salad with garden fresh termaters.
Tuesdays, Clyde offers Mexican with enchiladas and tacos in the shell
Wednesdays, the speciality is green chili soup, the hottest this side of hell!
Thursdays, you can enjoy all you can eat of macaroni and cheese.
Fridays, he features either chicken fried steak er a servin' of Chinese.
Saturdays, is his famous chef d'oeuvre, prawns and black angus steak!
It ain't a 5-star café but Clyde serves great grub, of that there's no mistake!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Some days, I am a dreamer of the future.
I tend to imagine myself treading paths
I've always dreamed of taking.
At night, before I sleep I try to
Envision myself in a court defending
A client with all my might and knowledge
Mondays, I am an attorney.
Tuesdays, I step on stage and hold a
Microphone as I stand before the eyes of
Thousands of international public speakers.
Wednesdays, I am an artist.
I like to think I have this magic within me
Where I'm capable of making a whale
Fly freely up above the sky or the
Power to make eyes talk and be alive
Thursdays, I am a poet enchantress
Full of metaphors and languages
One wouldn't learn immediately.
Fridays, I am a creative writer
My fingers tremble as I release the
Monsters in my head and alter reality
On weekends, I am a broadcaster, a hunter
Of news and caster of truths with my voice
Heard and listened everywhere you go
But most of the time, I am just a girl
With an ambitious soul living inside this
Lackadaisical body and I keep walking on
A treadmill facing a single direction making
Efforts with seen and heard footsteps
But no signs of movements forward.
I am stuck in a labyrinth of self-doubts and
Insecurities with a lack of energy to climb its
Walls and try to see what's out there
I am in a continuous cycle of hallucinations
My mind wanders to different dreams and paths
But my body is in a frozen state of carelessness.
I am a stagnant river, calm and still
When I'm supposed to be flowing endlessly.
Between Sundays and the week to come,
it’s Thursday wondering where the days have gone.
The flow of tick tocking the passing through,
when the rushing of the important is to pursue.
Days just disappear to wondering grieve,
while nights to sleep are to short to believe.
Moon tides smile growing full of restless sleep,
when that exhaustion only ask for that deep.
The tragedy about time that just perish,
when we cannot get hold of the now to cherish.
Taking life by the day that forever last,
so that we can celebrate it with a blast.
No more promises for tomorrow as hope,
and yesterdays regret a habit interlope.
Thursdays from Latin is Jovis related to Jupiter,
called the remover of all obstacles for the better.
Then as we know everything can happen,
on Thursdays even when you don’t know Latin.
I only pee on Tuesdays
I only pee on Tuesdays
Thursdays is for the other way
I only eat on Sundays now
Global warming has come to play
………………………Or so they say
We must do our part
Or better yet do no farts
For global peace and harmony
I used to shower Mondays
Now I feel so so guilty
For now and then I would cheat you see
And when that shower was running hot as can be
I’d have me one extra wee… wee
Shocked was I, when I got me fine
That inspector was in the loo
They sure don’t give you any room
To sneak even an extra poo
No more hot water allowed for now
It’s not politically correct
With all these cold showers
The population will diminish yet
Life used to contain a little fun
We used to have a gas
Now you can’t even let out a little
As you pray at local mass
Note: Inspired by none other than Jan Allison!!!! hope she is smiling!
Ray Ventre
even Loved by me,
his smallest acquaintance.
Want the ow to go away, want to
go to last Thursday,
To see his joy
Again.
Ray was my teacher
On Thursdays, four to six
He taught patterns and continuity
Of the literary past, EN 281.
A big name for the
Enjoyment of
Literature.
He died Wednesday,
The day before Thanksgiving
Two thousand fourteen.
Many are sad,
I too, am
Sad.
Rate my professor
Rated him a four point eight,
Good, even great, but read what
all students said for him
to know his rank,
to know our loss
to know our sad.
I was a late addition to Northern Michigan University
I had planned another year at community college, but
a job opened up for my wife in Marquette, so I suddenly needed, two weeks before they started:
classes, guidance, a mentor, I needed someone to care about a situation they never heard of till now.
Ray Ventre was the head of the English department, Ray cared, he set me up with classes including 281.
A more enjoyable class would be hard to find.
A more enjoyable teacher, impossible.
To find.
The joy he had
The special kind
That never fades, but grows
Like cancer of the heart
Spreading into all
Who Love
laugh
And live for
The happiest days.
His heart was
Too large to last.
Goodbye Ray, and thank you for teaching me.
Thursdays that disappoint !
A sadness reigns .
Some Thursdays come, most by, do go.
Why everyone does not flow ?, I do not know.
A lube job for you, an oil change for me.
No consistency, why ?, this I can not see.
Now taking two hours, sometimes more
When it used to be twenty minutes to my door.
Slipping the head of the family into the crevice.
Sliding effortlessly into that moist, dark cave.
Penetrating, feeling, touching walls that gave
shelter – for a time – to little solders on the run.
In search for that nest of eggs, now only for fun.
For the years have taken, as did a medical device.
Knowledge of, know full well that this cave is barren.
Representing only a portion of its former self.
The rest placed upon some medical shelf.
Gone is the time of productivity, into space, staren.
In search of, becomes the joy, the adventure,
the desire and the pleasures, during a time.
Times of closeness, not always, are they mine.
That is alright, I guess, with this families head.
Not alight are the excuses, the reasons I am fed
for the loss, the denial of Thursday night,
the searches, resurrecting of the hunt I might
continue - in that beautiful cave – searching.
Trying to find the right door, reaching.
Searching for those none existent eggs, to ply
the pleasures found in the hunt – denied, why?
One has to wonder, what was your game.
To know all the others, to know their name,
Would not comfort, would not make things the same.
No !, and should the hunt come to an end ?,
know, that no matter what, I will still be a friend.
Know that consistency is the spice of life,
as is spontaneity and desire without strife.
Has life in the spice jar, been forever lost ?
Celibacy, indifference, aloneness the cost ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 10th 2005
There once was a woman named Pam
Who entertained men with her cam
She'd pose in her undies
On Thursdays and Sundays
And used up her excess of RAM..
Mondays,
I sit in the parlor and write a few poems
Reflections of an outer and inner world in turmoil
It need not rhyme to describe the pain between the lines
Tuesdays,
The hand surfs the Internet to read and study other people's rhyme
To get a clear understanding of what I should or should not do
My best friend comes over and we spend the afternoon talking
Conversations about what is clear but unsaid in our lives
Wednesdays,
I take a drive to the beach and stroll upon her singing waters
Lying down on the sand and just look at the sky
Watching the tide of the air go swirling high
My parents and myself go off to the cinema and enjoy Woody allen
Thursdays,
Going horse-back riding in the Berkshires and fish near a stream
skipping a rock on the waters as a bittersweet John Denver song
is playing in my ear and mind
Fridays,
An afternoon at a local book cafe,reading a few works from
well-regarded local poets
Discussing Life and music with my therapist
Saturdays and Sunday,
I am off and sleeping
It's been a good while
Since the last time we talked
I'm definitely better off for it
And hell, I hope you are too
I've realized a lot since then
Since we took a shovel to the spine of our relationship
It's not like a golden ray of light after the night
But more like a fog has been lifted on this highway
You were apparently the sole remaining thread
That tied me to my past so heavily
And as I gaze upon my old kingdoms
My Falconia and Crimsonia are a lot more ruined than I remember
No longer are my memories pure bastions of a Golden Age
No longer do I exclude them from my current point of view
There was plenty of bad amongst the good
And to fetishize them as such was only hurting me
My Full Moon Queen isn't just a concept
Not a long-dreamt dream of an unobtainable goddess
But a woman I loved seven years ago
When I was a child and love was a foreign concept
We've both grown up in different ways
Much as I've gone through countless trials and tribulations
Surely she has as well
Nothing remains static, and all dreams must be woken from
I poured the depths of my mind onto pages upon pages for credit
And turned them in to a man who couldn't hope to read them
Among the sea of similar pages he'd have to read
And yet the concept was enough to shake me from my reverie
It's been a strange few months
No more constant anxiety, which in turn causes anxiety to form
After all, I'm not used to not having something to worry about
It's a strange, empty feeling that I both love and loathe
In a sense, part of me died with you
A part of me that held onto childhood with an iron grasp
That saw everything, even hell, cast in deep twilight
Was it a Golden Age or just gold tinted lenses?
The sun's set a little past twilight
Atop this dusky hill where flowers are starting to bud
I've dreamt this same hill covered in dead leaves under twilight
Same time, same Thursdays, same hill
But with a part of me gone and a new part growing
To fill the hole you left behind
To fill the gaps that growing up left behind
A being of scar tissue and hope, left behind to begin anew
Pope John Paul II instituted a new set of mysteries
To the Rosary called the Luminous Mysteries.
It is suggested by the Church
Say these mysteries on Thursdays.