Short Weekday Poems

weekday wants to sleep,
winter's lull-by starry night
white  snowy comfort...

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her six kids
lined up for school bus
mom waving them off




posted on June 2, 2018...

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The sun's away
  The skies are gray
If I get my way
  I'll sleep all day

Don't want to play
  This drab weekday
My instincts say
  In bed I stay...

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HEAVENLY KISS XL1


My dynamic paraphrase  translation excerpt of one of Quirinus Kulhmann's (A Christian sonneteer) series depicting the union of the soul with Christ...

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daytime in August
in the middle of the week
scents of lavender

the sun came golden
on dinnerplate dahlias
blooming in all hues

afternoon August
weekday wandering in sun
in the jasmine boom...

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How to say bye-bye to a little girl:
     
     Honk ten times,
     Wave,
     Honk five more times,
     Blow kisses,
     Back slowly down the drive waving.

Repeat every weekday morning.
 
Inspired by a TV ad for car insurance....

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A rainy weekday afternoon 
Thoughts of you do make me swoon
I think about your lovely face
In my mind's eye fills every space
I long to kiss you on the lips
Softly, two mouths tip to tip
Inhale your breath into my soul
My heart is for you to unroll...

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Craft me a tiffany
that others may see

Cut out a matisse
for my mantle-piece

Throw me a pollock
to which others will flock

Abstract me a rothko
I can keep on show

Sculpt like epstein
this profile of mine

Draw like da vinci
a portrait  of me...

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When they come near.
We jump here and there.
No fun no friends.
But our joys never end.
There starts a bright new day.
Which reminds us no school today.
All sixty-one days.
Filled with bright fun filled weekday.
We play and play.
And that's what meant by a real 'Holiday'....

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It’s a gloomy day ~
All the clouds are grey
They seem in dismay
Sun’s not come to play
The wind does not stay
The leaves do not sway
No charming display
A drudging weekday
What do they convey?
 ~ It’s a gloomy day



written on 08.17.2021
...

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On Sabbath eve, the Moon shines brighter
The door now closed on weekday time
As angels enter earthly realms
On Sabbath eve, the Moon shines brighter
The Stars do twinkle in the skies
Light Man's way to Sabbath Castles
On Sabbath eve, the Moon shines brighter
The Door now closed on Weekday Time......

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Alone for a moment
 measuring
sound
Frozen pieces
in a
particular way
to wonder 
about
myself
To relax for hours
 as in
a childish dream
and revolve 
in
all directions
this prolongment
of self
limp..lonely..lost….
then
instantaneous
three pieces in form
with picturesque preludes 
I open my mind
 notice
&respond...

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(This is a fictional poem)

I loved watching South Park on weekday nights.
But my cousin caused me not to be able to watch it and we got in a fight.
He smashed the TV screen and I had to pick up the glass.
When I got done, I kicked his ass.
I liked watching Cartman, Kenny, Stan and Kyle.
My cousin will be in the hospital for awhile....

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The sun plays peek-a-boo with blinds in my room.
I roll over in bed to the other side.
My alarm clock goes off with a whining boom.
I can no longer stay in my bed and hide.
It is the beginning of a brand new day.
There is no time to go outside, run, and play.
My job at a busy building calls my name.
The nation's economy is what I blame!...

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Listen to poem:

I so don’t miss
the con and hustle
of business meetings
hidden agendas

concerted strategies
never being one for games
never good at them
nor striving to be

I was just a pathetic player
without an ounce of
playmanship or deceit
and proud of it
as I could be



AP: 2nd place 2020

Posted on February 24, 2021 (thought I posted a while ago)...

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I want a daily dose of Perry Mason
(with a sweet side-dish of Della Street thrown in),
the episodic filmed in black and white one.
Give me just one hour every weekday mornin'
of charming Mister Drake detecting where, why,
when Mason's hostile witness will tell a lie,
and then confess murdering his evil boss
without remorse and not counting it as loss.
...

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Every weekday Monday through 
Friday starting at 10:15 to 11:00 
I sit by myself at my desk. You come 
In with you fast long strides.
You make your way and sit next to me. 
You don't look at me my heart cracks a tinie bit the others 
Come in and take their seats. The bell 
has rung and you leave never turning
back. The sun goes up and 
Leaves just like you....

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Freedom is the dance floor,
loving every beat,
weekday world forgotten,
left out on the street.

Freedom is the music,
finding higher ground,
in these rhymes and rhythms,
a symmetry of sound.

Freedom is togetherness,
knowing joy that’s shared,
another dance floor Friday,
living without care.

Freedom is in all of us,
stepping through the night,
reaching for a new world,
in the morning light.
...

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Bewitched by Marsha Brady
And three's company too
Every weekday morning
My eyes were glued

Pop tarts, burnt and buttered
Cotton p.j. Dress
I can't speak for the others 
But this was my summer bliss

The sprinkler on the drive
Back and forth, I ran
Happy to be alive
Didn't have to have a plan

The woods outside my window
Went on, it seemed, for miles
They led me to a meadow
The memories make me smile...

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multi-cultural mecca
Farmers' Market at the United Nations Plaza,
San Francisco

water fountain sculpture
misting through the
jazz audience at lunchtime, 
during the weekday summer concert series

poetry gives me new eyes
situated right in front of my 
heart ~ sigh

A wiley seagull bathing
under a pressure close to a full
blast, water sculpture mist curls my hair

And I forget the littered alley I walked through
a second ago...

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All through that long September
as seasons were arranged, 
I marveled at the wonder 
of how her colors changed.

It was about the time when 
most other leaves would fall, 
she stood up through the rain storm, 
ignoring harsh winds' call. 

She trembled through October, 
but still would not let go. 
I wondered why she lingered 
through crisp November's snow. 
 
It wasn't 'til December, 
one frosty cold weekday, 
she'd had enough of winter, 
shook loose then flew away!...

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Listen to poem:

Pray for us Sinners Mother Mary 
David J Walker 

The best lies are wasted on 
The oldest sleeping priest seated

In the confessional 
As paid-for candles are 
Blown out  in the 
Wind of an opened door 

The sins omitted are represented 
And reserved  for a weekday night 
recommitted out of sight 
Of the shuttered stained-glass windows 

The liturgy turned to an elegy
Seemingly with me in mind

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners  
    again 
         and again...

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