Oh how I miss you everyday
your voice
your love
my son
'twas on a Friday
without warning
your name was called
one sunny morning
Oh how we wept
Oh how we mourned
No inkling
No ploy
as the new day dawned
afore the sunset you'd be gone
Did you know
my darling boy
the time had come
for you to go
As cruelly you were taken
too young to die
your life cut short
upon that day
so shocked
so fraught
your boy
your girl
your darling wife
and I dear son
your loving mum
Oh how we miss you still
As Fridays come we always will
Two years on since you’ve been gone
my darling son ~ my only one
I miss you every single day
Whence my time cometh
look out for me
let you and dad be first I see
Together forever ~ at last us three
Written on 28th April 2022
One more day before the weekend?
Awake early to do errands and befriend
Those Jesus loved or wants me to ...
Alas, with struggle, I managed to do
Now, as I recall the hard work, no lunch
Still, I didn't fry, the heat, the time-crunch
The body older, my faith bolder ...
I consumed water, juice, no other
Victuals until after six, this evening
First posting consumed, no cyberjoking
I ate the clock, very time consuming
Wendy noticed, when we wanted seconds
Prayed, thanked God; His grace abounds
I used to be excited on Fridays.
I used to have interesting plans.
My weekends were non-stop hectic,
my time was in high demand.
Now I live in repeated patterns,
I’m a servant to boring routines.
A fleshy teenage automaton,
waiting for science to intervene.
Oh, I'm readier than a girl-scout,
I’m more prepared than a marine,
I’ll be out the door like a cartoon coyote,
the second I’m shot with vaccine.
Today's Friday, no idea how awesome it could be
Ahhh now I know, it's as awesome as Friday of last week
That day was quite special
In self-amazement, I did revel
Put ice cream on my toast and coffee on my fried eggs
This run of good days is going to end
bad times are coming just around the bend
cash in your chips, there ain’t no tomorrow
future holds only worry and sorrow.
Armageddon of our own creation
as we burn in pyres of self-cremation
caught in words of convenient denial
grasp not the flash of the truthteller’s smile.
Yet from the rubble, a New Deal is made
Fridays for Future, a children’s crusade
as those whose time has come, now realise
elder’s inaction has darkened their skies.
We who’ve failed in our prognostication
pass the stick to a new generation.
7/9/2019
When I was young, my weekends started with
an after-supper bonus Friday nights—
soft drinks and candy bars. We watched one of
three channels while we relished these delights.
In college, Friday nights meant a reprieve—
a brief one—from those tomes that ruled my day.
Sometimes I dated or went out with friends.
I couldn’t let life be all work-no play!
Career choice is one key to happiness
and satisfaction. I remember great
rewards and challenges throughout the years—
and FRIDAYS. Sometimes I could hardly wait.
Retired, I’m now my grandkids’ driver, cook,
etcetera. I go that extra mile.
I’m not as busy as I used to be;
still, going home on Fridays makes me smile.
entered in Brian Strand's Premiere Contest 140 on April 12, 2018
T G I F - Thank God It's Friday!
This is a term kids like to say.
At three, bell ringing would convey
school's done...reward...TWO DAYS OF PLAY!
T G I F - Thank God It's Friday!
This is a phrase employees bray.
End of the day, they think hooray!
Work's done...reward...WEEKEND, PAYDAY!
T G I F - Thank God It's Friday!
ALL days are Fridays in a way.
Retirees now, with hope they pray;
day's done...reward...ANOTHER DAY!
Sandra M. Haight
~5th Place~
Contest: Friday Feeling
Sponsor: Silent One
Judged: 03/11/2018
Flashback to Fridays when I was a wanted guest
a common companion strolling the riverside
with more than just the moon willing to chat
where words resonated with hand-cut diamonds
lighting up my vision and your restful eyes
where missed lessons were backtracked
and praise was left to pigeons hiding
in the shadows pretending not to be seen
Harlequin days have passed us on by
and what once were sailboat dreams
have quietly motored ahead
I'm relegated to slip silently in the cracks
chasing down demons with a crooked stick
fighting off the famine in air too thick
left with thoughts lingering in a darkened sky
broken in heart and spirit I'm left to die
There’s nothing that I’d rather do
Than be with Henry,* just we two.
Of course, some moments might be tough
But still, I just can’t get enough.
To watch him figure out the world,
His sense of self become unfurled,
Is truly one of life’s great gifts;
My spirits soar and sorrow lifts.
And now a sister’s here, to boot,
Who’s smiley, sweet and oh-so-cute.
She watches every move we make,
Just waiting ‘til she can partake.
The day winds down, the baths complete,
The parents home, so we retreat.
We say goodbye and Henry cries;
A tiny part inside me dies.
*my 2 year old grandson
Clock-watching Fridays,
Bring sweet sanity to souls,
Weary of the rat race.
Fridays in the Spring
Fridays in the Spring
Linger longer than a season
Connecting reasons for the afternoon
To stay a little more
Almost standing still
Till I decide to raise the veil
It never was this slow before
Always hurrying from the rain
Always worrying with the coming of the day
Hurrying for the refuge of the night
Blending with the darkness
Stay with this day a little longer
Trade the heavens for the seas
Stay with this day a little more
Said hello on Monday
Married you on Tuesday
Said goodbye on Wednesday
Thursday there was blood
Friday’s child
No more drama
Between our Fridays and our Sundays some pine
For eternity to shield them from the work week forever
For Eden's pronouncement drag the soul through time
A rag to labor with soiled contempt of hands
Wiped on them, and a rude mark on their face
The factory floor, the office, the field make them shudder
Their soul without esteem pressed into littered mud
Yet each weekend the sun runs quicker it seems
And the clock like a whip
Pulls away families, friends, leaving the desolate hunger
That make us toil without being filled.
Between our Fridays and our Sundays we see clearly
The barren repose of earth's ambition
And these days there is nothing there for tomorrow
No pensions, nor savings, only wrinkling toil
The ancient slant against which the masses toil.
And here and there
There is no dream of revolution
The far satellites watches with such premonitions
Streaming masses shuttled in all direction
Confused as the ant disturbed while ascending its mound
Piling up to climb down
Between our Fridays and our Sundays I pine too
But for the eclipse of time
That keeps us like the poles apart
With mounds of impatience steepling my heart.