Best Weekly Poems
I had a “me” day on Saturday,
the kind of day I live for.
Ignoring all the have to’s,
concentrating on the get-to’s
Dirty dishes? Who cares?
Food on the floor.
Big deal.
I do not see a mouse.
Boxes? Piles? Junk drawers?
All can wait for summer.
I only have two days to get replenished
And feel refreshed.
I make the most of it
Being the most joyful, enthusiastic me
I can be. Treating myself to all “get to’s”
Worrying not a whit about any have-to’s.
It is my way, and it helps
Monday madness not stress me in
the least.
I highly recommend it, my friends.
I am a small lantern
in a vast, breathing dark~
a pulse of light
that remembers itself
only when the night
leans close enough
to ask.
I feel the world
in flickers~
the hush of grass bending,
the cool brush of dusk
against my wings,
the way shadows soften
when I rise.
My glow is not constant.
It is a pulse,
a question,
a brief confession
to the sky.
I shine
because something inside me
refuses to stay hidden.
I drift between branches,
a wandering ember,
watching humans
mistake me for magic
when really
I am only trying
to be seen.
The night carries me~
a cradle of crickets,
a chorus of quiet things
that know how to listen.
In their company,
my small light
feels enough.
And when I land
on a child’s open hand,
I feel wonder
rise like warm air~
a soft recognition
that even the smallest spark
can change the shape
of darkness.
I glow
because it is my nature.
I glow
because the world
is gentler
when something shines.
I glow
because for one brief moment
I can show you
how even a tiny life
can light its own way.
on the lawn green grass
stands at attention waiting
for that fatal shear
by Marty Owens
Constance's contest "Haiku me some nature, please"
Her knuckles sore as she spat and swore
whipping the cloth back and across
Crouched on her heels on the stone cold floor
The newspaper used as a rug
Her forehead smeared with black polish galore
She does her weekly chore
As she polished and shined four pairs of black shoes
On the eve of the Sunday mass
Miserable MONDAY
Torrid TUESDAY
Woeful WEDNESDAY
Terrible THURSDAY
Frenzied FRIDAY
Sorrowful SATURDAY
SUBLIME SUNDAY....carpe diem PRAISE THE LORD
Dear people of the world,
Be ready to live an awesome week
For,
On Monday, you shall feel butterflies
Running wild in your heart
For,
Awesome shall be the day!
Yes,
It shall be a day,
Grand as a full moon night itself,
Imbibed with fragrance
Emanating from the gardens of Eternity!
On Tuesday,
Allow yourself some time to stop your chores
And to dance in the rain
For water, it shall be,
Flowing from the rivers of potent power,
Having in them,
The ability to cleanse one of every ill
That may be clinging on to their soul!
On Wednesday,
The night shall be so clear
That angels and witches shall play together,
Games known to them solely,
Games usually played in the secrecy
Of hidden gardens and magical ponds!
Yes,
Be ready, on Wednesday night,
To receive blessings
As the mood shall be jolly and sweet!
On Thursday,
The sun shall shine so bright
That it shall dazzle us all
And it shall be a great day
To light a candle in a chapel
Or even on our home altar
To seek healing for the many ills
That our diseased world carries upon her skin!
Friday shall be the day to connect to the celestial realms
For the portals of our hearts shall be open
To receive the energy of the divine
And it shall be the right moment
To sit and meditate in the silence of a sacred place
Letting our heartbeats be overwhelmed
By the grace of mercy
As we know it not on Earth!
And the weekend then,
Shall be two days to let go
Of our unexplained connection to a power
Which we shall never understand for ourselves!
Yes,
On Saturday and Sunday,
The opportunity to spend time with closed ones;
Family, friends and relatives,
Shall present itself upon a cheerful note
And best would it be
To party together as each one of us would want to!
Be ready,
To live an awesomely poetical week,
And I shall be back
For another forecast,
As soon as I shall be done
With playing with my telescopes and with my crystal balls!
After a long week it is Friday,
and that means it’s time to go
to a corral twenty minutes off,
the weekly circuit rodeo.
Get there early ’cause they always have
a barbeque before it starts,
also basic line-dancing lessons
for ladies and their sweet-hearts.
Drifting through the nearby western store
while things are getting ready,
buy a new belt with an eagle print,
it’s both rustic and steady.
In the ring they’re warming up horses,
preparing them to ride slack,
a teenage girls talks on her cell-phone
while perched on a gelding’s back.
It starts off with some nice pageantry,
a dozen riders with flags,
anthem plays to the stars and the stripes,
makes a free man’s soul feel glad.
I sit way up high in the bleachers,
bronc-busters the first to ride,
unbroken horses don’t like the weight,
they buck, they spin ’round, they dive.
The riders always will get thrown off,
it’s just a question of when,
next the ropers go line up to ride,
chasing steers loosed from the pen.
Lassos flicker in stadium lights,
and slowly they scribe a path,
then swoop down low and seize on a hoof,
how the heck do they do that?
Now the steer wrestlers leap from their mounts,
never fails to bring a cheer,
wonder if they put on resumes
‘Am adept at wrestling steers’?
Things slow down, the trick-roper comes out,
spins a line as if born to it,
then pops balloons from a woman’s head
with a swish of his bull-whip!
Then pony-tails fly behind women,
barrel-racers ride compelled,
moving so fast you’d think they were chased
by the damned devil himself.
Finally men, more crazy then sane,
sit themselves on a huge bull,
two thousand pounds of angry muscle,
testosterone flowing full.
One by one the riders are thrown off,
then the clowns distract the beasts,
buying the rider just enough time,
to scramble back to his feet.
But one young man will not break his hold,
he passes eight second by luck,
just enough to win the night’s small prize,
a hard way to earn a buck.
The crowd is drifting back to their cars
as the sunlight settles low,
cowboys and girls I’ll see again at
the weekly circuit rodeo.
The dreaded weekly full staff meeting,
Every Thursday, straight after school.
Where each teacher sits through mind numbing talk,
That’s neither fun, intriguing nor cool.
The new teachers sit, pen in hand,
Hanging on every word.
Whilst the other teachers sit, falling asleep,
With their eyes becoming a little bit blurred.
Power points, microphones, projectors and pens,
Graphs, stats, and annual trends.
Let’s not pretend these are interesting ways,
To develop strategies among teaching friends.
These weekly full meetings where everything’s said,
And nothing ever seems to sink in.
It’s my relaxing mental therapy session,
Where all my mental junk goes to the bin.
Five days a week we always use
For working and taking abuse
From bosses and co-workers too
We hold on-- Just getting through
Waiting for two special days
All our troubles melt away
No work pressure on your mind
Two days you can just unwind
With friends who can't wait to relax
Extreme fun to the very max
Fourty eight hours to explore
Your craziness and so much more
Never stopping day or night
From sundown to morning light
Until it all has to end
And "mean" Monday comes again
But you know it will not last
The weekend is approaching fast
"I'm talking in rhyme during our weekly group session
about panic attacks, schizophrenia and depression.
I can't stop rhyming, it's becoming an obsession.
I can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session.
Hello Carl, Hello Barbara, Kathy and Donna.
Want to talk about smoking marijuana?
Perhaps a different substance abuse?
Oh what the hell, what's the use?
I just can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session.
Let's talk anger issues or maybe passive aggression.
Will I ever stop rhyming during this weekly group session?
And hey, did I happen to mention
that I can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session?
How are you today Kamar?
What do you think of all this so far?
All of my rhyming during our weekly group session.
Will my condition get worse if I continue to converse
in poetic verse during our weekly group session?
Would medication do the trick or would it just leave me sick?
Sick here still rhyming during our weekly group session.
I must get in control of this soon or I'm mentally doomed.
I'm exhausted from rhyming during our weekly group session.
I can't take this anymore. I'm marching out that door.
I'm relieving you all of this annoying obsession.
Please don't take this personally but I'll keep on rhyming obsessively
if I spend one more moment at our weekly group session.
I think I just learned a very valuable lesson.
I should never speak in rhyme during our weekly group session,
because as you all can plainly see I ramble on endlessly
whenever I speak in rhyme during our weekly group session."
...then I walked out the door and said no more.
On Monday…..
I grilled a grizzly groaning garoar
Which I’d encountered glued to the floor
So I’d taken it home
So I wasn’t alone
But now the poor thing is no more!
On Tuesday…..
I baked a bold bellied bereat
Which I’d encountered squashed on a seat
I did try to lend
And make him my friend
But of course in the end I had to eat!
On Wednesday…..
I fried a ferocious furry feremendoo
Which I’d encountered swimming round me loo
This chap made me smile
But for only a while
Then I found him so difficult to chew!
On Thursday…..
I poached a prickly patterned paragoof
Which I’d encountered perched on me roof
His feet were all funny
His breath smelt of honey
I’m sure that’s why he’s still stuck in me tooth!
On Friday…..
I roasted a rude rolling rackee
Which I’d encountered whilst fishing at sea
It’s skin was all hard
I needn’t much lard
And he still turned out lovely and crispy!
On Saturday…..
I woked a wiggly walking winnibower
Which I’d encountered wondering just past noon hour
He was covered in fleas
Jabbering Chinese
And by far the best companion of sweet and sour!
On Sunday…..
I steamed a silent stiggle sparan
Which I’d encountered stuck fast to me gran
I know at this rate
I wont gain a mate
But for sure I’ll always have a full pan!
JD
Do-si-do, arm-in-arm, amidst friends, armed with wit,
wisdom, smiles, engaged; to each other, commit.
Every Sunday morning,
Sunlight softens her corners
Awakening colors of purple and blue
Red, gold and amber shine through
Glass stained by the artist’s creative brush
Her doors are sturdy and accepting
As a mother’s loving gaze
Welcoming her children back home
After they’ve gone away
Somewhere beyond her comprehension
There sit pews who are delighted
To be worn by affectionate hearts
Who sit quietly with high hopes
Of hearing God’s most intimate thoughts
His promises that endure forevermore
There at the front is the choir
Blessed voices singing hymns
That brighten the faces with sentiments
Of sweet joy, hope and faith
Praises lifted toward heaven’s gates
With great words from the Bible
His minister brings words of vision
From behind the awaiting alter
His voice lifts up the scriptures
Appealing to His glorious Holy Spirit
Prayers fill up the building
Bringing it to life with thrilling jubilation
Requests and praise mixed together
Reaching beyond the sanctuary
To the heavenly realms where God lives
As the service ends for this week
The building seems to want to speak
With a light of love and true peace
It’s secret reaches out through the week
Revealing the truth that we seek
It is insider her, alive with insight
That God seems to enliven
Each service preached
Every prayer, each moment of worship
So that we truly love to enter into her
Love drinking tea hot or ice cold
Monday through Sunday each week day
Never enough flavors for me
Overtime working is tea time
People around the world love tea
4 o’clock on a Sunday, shadows skate
on cinder block walls.
Calico cries crease and fold
the still evening air.
She pushes a cart, plastic wheels
grating warped concrete.
Dry dust stains the stones,
as she shuffles slippered feet,
silent as a snowy alley.
The cart parks on the corner of Hill and Nottingham.
She sets ceramic saucers on the wall
and fills them both with seventy-year-old
dexterity and homemade tuna salad.
The meows pour forth in a matted wave.
We all sip lemonade and smoke long
cigarettes from the porch as we watch
Miss Dowry’s Stray Cat Buffet.