Long Mondays Poems
Long Mondays Poems. Below are the most popular long Mondays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mondays poems by poem length and keyword.
So I joined the " social committee"
because they said it would be lots of fun.
But after barely an hour
all I wanted to do was run.
I suggested Friday night poker.
they said "we'll play bingo" instead.
I said "how about group bungy jumping".
They said I was sick in the head.
So I started to yawn and to fidget,
my patience had run out the door.
I held up my hand to ask about wine.
They said I no longer had the floor.
Apparently I am not social.
There are bartenders who would disagree.
I haven't given up on my ideas.
I'll win them over, you'll see.
Margarita Mondays will soon be here,
Tequila Tuesdays as well,
'cause if the committee doesn't like my ideas
they can all go straight to hell.
Did I let you go, or did you fade first?
Or maybe I loved you beyond the worst.
Maybe the ache was all my own,
a ghost I built, and lived in like home.
I’ve moved on, I’ve grown, I’ve learned to pretend,
but memory doesn’t know how to end.
And when night folds its quiet wings,
you’re still the echo that softly stings.
Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it’s true,
but did I ever stop wanting it to be you.
I love someone else now, in color, not gray,
but when I hear a knock, my heart still sways.
Not every hour, but most of the days,
maybe every day but Monday’s haze.
But Monday’s a mask, a practiced tune,
a lie I hum beneath the moon.
You were a storm that never rained,
a love half-born, yet unexplained.
We never touched, not skin, not breath,
but you still haunt the air like death.
You lived in the pauses between my words,
in the thoughts too fragile to be heard.
And somehow that distance hurt much more
than anything I’ve ever reached for before.
“Some people live only in your mind,”
I tell myself, but you’re not that kind,
you live in the things I never said,
in the poems I thought I’d never write instead.
The way your name hums low in my chest,
like a prayer that never found it's rest,
you linger quiet, sharp, and deep,
the kind of wound that learns to sleep.
You were a maybe I mistook for fate,
a closed door I still await.
And I can’t un-see what you never did,
or un-feel the life I only lived.
Every day but Monday,
because on Mondays I try to be new.
But come Tuesday morning, it bleeds back through,
the truth I carry, the ache I’ve learned to keep,
some loves are born just to never leap.
You hurt me the worst, though you never tried,
and maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s denied.
Because nothing cuts deeper than “we were almost real,”
but my heart swears it remembers what it never got to feel.
Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW and is used with permission.
Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth,
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt.
For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig,
keep getting so much bigger that they pop off their skins.
The final time they’re off and up: up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
Kids collect the shells they leave, stuck with claws on curling feet.
Buzz, buzz, buzz: cicada wings brush past my nose.
Their raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.
A thousand bodies cling on sticks and twigs and leaves.
Above my ringing ears their yellow wee rains down me.
Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad -
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.
But, this year there are - none.
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?
Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses -
Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.
Mondays were school days.
Mondays were rule days.
Mondays can be cruel days.
Sundays make me sing
but Mondays bring
open books,
a crooked look from the boss,
leaving crying children
with their first strangers.
The outlook for Monday
might be blue
or overly optimistic.
Moms love Mondays,
circling the day
with a fat red marker.
Moony-eyed Mondays,
for lovers
separated by the weekend.
Their love-mobile
yellow bus, reunites their lips.
Shy Mondays
hide behind rain clouds,
and binders and backpacks,
and inside lockers,
and behind thick glasses.
Fridays make you tingle.
Mondays are the starting line.
The race is on!
You step over the line
and yawn and sip
coffee with reluctance.
Your t-shirt speaks loudly,
“I don’t do Mondays!”
No one hears you.
7/30/2018
Tania Kitchin’s Contest
I know for certain that memory’s a virus
We’re susceptible to in varying degrees
Infecting some, randomly chosen, like us
Memory drifts in on a gentle breeze
I’m switched to the channels of subtle perception
It’s due to the memory my life carries on
I flick through most precious of my recollections
They’ve been given to me until I shall be gone
Then I’ll be removed to the isle of the dead
There I’ll meet you, thanks to our memories
Something will be missing, though it must be like that
After long separations and many calls missed
But I reckon, subconsciously we’ll reconcile
With the loss of those lovely details, for we managed
To save some of them in our favorite style
Aren’t we also the details that time couldn’t damage?
Remember we gazed upon the green hills
From your bedroom window with breathtaking view
In our case they’ve been grinding too fast, those fab mills
So we’re not that exceedingly small to come through
Many trials and hindrances, daily calamities
All those stormy Mondays and Sundays alone
Here we’re bound to wait now, among the tall cypresses
For the ferry to moor, to deliver us home.
In the steppes of central Russia
Lives an old theater usher,
Igor Ivanovsky is his name.
In his youth he had ambition
To gain wealth and recognition
And be a star on stage and screen, that was his aim.
He studied acting, mime, and ballet,
And could sing like Rudy Vallee,
But from talent scouts he never got a call.
There is one thing I ought to mention
That I'll now bring to your attention---
He was a mere three feet eleven inches tall.
Why it should be no one was knowing,
But at age ten he just stopped growing,
The doctors guessed it was a phase and it would pass.
But as he waited to grow taller,
His dreams of fame kept getting smaller.
He feared he'd wind up washing cars or pumping gas.
But Fate was not yet through with Igor
And to help mitigate his rigor,
The job as usher came along and saved the day.
While it required no special training,
Nor was emotionally draining,
It was still a kind of show biz…in a way.
To movie-goers satisfaction
He has become the main attraction
As he shows them to their seats with great panache.
Now at three score ten and seven
Each day is one step nearer heaven,
And though not Broadway, dreams like his are hard to quash.
He works on Saturdays and Sundays
And occasionally Mondays,
But does it just for fun and not for wealth or fame.
Now throughout all of central Russia
There's no more celebrated usher,
And Igor Ivanovsky is his name.
She was a wily cigar chompin' gambler with the moniker of Poker Alice,
Renowned throughout the west for her skill in many a gamblin' palace!
Poker Alice had a good head for countin' and with her very cunnin' guile,
(Plus her beauty), she mesmerized her opponents, amassin' quite a pile!
Poker Alice worked in saloons across the west as a faro and poker dealer.
She worked in Creede, Colorado for Bob Ford, that notorious stealer!
Because of her pious rearin' as a girl, she refused to work on Sundays,
But she was back smokin' a two-dollar stogie and dealin' cards on Mondays!
She drifted to Deadwood, South Dakota, where her notoriety was well known,
And married a house painter named Tubbs who was a deft gambler on his own!
Later she established a brothel near Fort Mead Army Post with her ill-gotten gain.
The place was small and she needed funds to fix the 'house' on Pleasure Lane!
To expand and recruit 'soiled doves' from Kansas City she applied for a loan.
The banker scratched his skull sayin', "I dunno! That's a risk into the unknown!"
She convinced him notin' that The Grand Old Army had an encampment near,
And for the soldiers' bent for visitin' hog ranches, he had nothin' at all to fear!
Things didn't go well since she plumb forgot The Methodist Preachers' Convention,
Convened each and every year and she hadn't figured on that intervention!
Poker Alice's fame and notoriety followed her well beyond her wanin' years.
She died after a gall bladder operation with her 'house' payments in arrears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Don Johnson's " Your Old Ballad Or Rhyme - Best Of All Time" Contest
July 2011
I’ve always envied men with curly hair,
men like Jim who receive compliments from strangers.
When we were young, women adored him,
failing to notice me.
I guess my hair has been a life-long curse,
looking like England’s Boris Johnson at a young age,
growing into a porcupine as a preteen,
and resembling a toilet brush for the next ten years.
My father took great pride in cutting my hair,
but managed to trim my sidewalls to the exact length,
where each short hair stood at attention.
I would go weeks without looking into a mirror,
until my mother gave me a home permanent one day,
leaving me with uncontrollable curls.
It was heaven for three months,
followed by a depression too deep to describe,
comforted only by a small lock I’d saved when it was over.
Jim was a drummer on weekends, playing mostly at weddings.
He’d arrive at work on Mondays wearing a smile,
but appearing a little fatigued,
his curls hanging a little lower on his forehead.
He was eventually fired when our employer discovered
his music business card had their phone number
and that he booked gigs on company time.
Now that we’re both in our mid-seventies,
I can only hope he’s bald,
while I glory in my full head of straight white hair,
minus the growing bald spot in the back.
Of course, baldness is now chic,
leaving me at the curb of fashion
once again. So Jim, I haven’t seen you in fifty years,
but I envy you still.
How do you feel about Mondays? The ultimate best psychiatrist would ask if he cared.
Not about your mother, or your childhood, ridiculous lovers, or feelings never shared.
Monday feelings are the top dog meter, to discover if you are living life as you.
Do you leap out of bed, ready and happy, or do you clobber your alarm clock with your shoe?
If you cannot wait to put on your clothes, throw open the shudders and do the happy dance,
If Mondays makes you smile, giggle, and laugh, possibly skip, hop, twirl, whirl, or prance,
If your heart leaps up with gladness, because you consistently get to be the-real-true-blue-you.
It is possible that you are doing what makes your heart and soul brand new,
If Mondays cause you to feel more joyful and smile bigger than every other day of the week,
If Mondays bring more hope and cheer than any other day, and make you want to sail, fly, jump and leap.
If Mondays are the best days, the ones you look forward to with the most gigantically good feelings of all,
It may be that you are living your life as a human being, fulfilling other’s buckets, so tall.
Yes Monday feelings are the top dog meter, to find out if you are living your soul’s heart dream.
The lessons you begged for when you left those cheering angels, who sent you down the heaven stream.
If your Monday feelings are not like this, the good news is, it is never too late.
Run away from the job you are doing now; clear away the slate.
Monday is the most fabulous barometer, loud and true.
You are the only one who knows if you are living life as the real honest you.
Written July 30, 2018
Contest: Mondays Poetry Contest Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Soup Contest
The day was Sunday
The time was just after noon
Church had just finished
The choir that day enchanting
You could feel the anticipation in the air
A Soup contest like no other
Everyone in the village was there
Young, old, the happy and the sad
All where hungry though
Who would be the winner?
Of the Magical Soup Festival
Who Who Indeed!!!
Seven finalists, all nervous and shaking
Will it be me, of she or she over there?
You could smell the flavors of competition
Beautiful aromas floating in the air
Now I was the judge in this contest fair
I too nervous, how to choose a winner
Did I even Dare?
Then a thought dawned, happy was I
Mondays prize, to the Chicken veggie soup
Tuesdays prize to the Cream of mushroom soup
Wednesdays prize to the Wedding broth soup
Thursday prize to the Noodle and beef soup
Fridays prize to the Bergen fish soup
Saturdays prize to the Barley and Oats Soup
Sundays prize to the Corn Chowder soup
I placed 7 beautiful first prize ribbons
On the happiest smiling faces I had ever seen
My heart this day warmed by soup and the kindness
Of all these giving cooks, proud and content
The contest over
All the village sat down
To the festival of Soup
Full stomachs and happy souls
A winning event all around!!!!
Notes: Often we create our environments and realities with our conceptions of life, For one to win, it dos not mean another has to lose, competition is great, however, kindness and compassion, are also great traits.