Mondays are always blue
Tuesdays proved to be so too
never can find a way
to make it safely through
Wednesdays they came and went
now all the money's spent
yet wouldn't you know
it never even made a dent
Thursdays became a bust
and Fridays I just can't trust
they always let me down
leave me in the dust
Saturdays are shadow play
what more can I say
the less said the better
best forgotten anyway
but Sunday I look forward to
it's my day of rest
my salvation too
the one I love the best
tho' twenty-four seven's
OK for some
I'll get by
with twenty-four one
Diane’s dog Charlie is her baby; more than her son ever was.
He likes me better than Stewart did too, she tells me.
Charlie’s therapy appointments are on Monday.
On Tuesdays he has his nails groomed or his teeth flossed.
Wednesdays are open for luncheon engagements with other pups.
He gives me a break on Thursdays, Diane tells us. It’s my free day.
Friday’s are for Charlie’s aerobic and line dancing.
Saturdays he has yoga.
What’s Charlie’s Sunday schedule? I ask her.
Diane looks surprised that I asked.
We go to church in color-coordinated clothing.
I take him in a little matching case.
I should have guessed.
Mrs. C and Mrs. H. had a little competition
They did not call it that, but their husbands knew.
It was a baking challenge, not featured on TV.
and their men benefited big time from it.
Mrs. C. held a coffee at her house on Tuesdays.
She served scrumptious desserts with whipped cream.
One time there was a pastry with oozing blueberries.
Today her concoction was stacked high with pancakes.
Mrs. H. would ooh and ahh and comment, but secretly seethe.
Her coffees were on Thursdays, and it was difficult to top Mrs. C’s pastries.
The husbands begged to come along, knowing what treat was in store.
On Thursday Mrs. H. served a quintessential peach cobbler.
They have done it again! The men retired to their couches for naps.
The women congratulated each other.
That is two days a week we can do what we want, they agreed.
Loving that they had put their husbands into a diabetic trance of sorts.
Foggy monday
Mourning sunday
Saturday blackout
Death by boozing Friday bruiser
Thursdays web of mid-week loser
Wednesday filled with pills and shots
Drink it up with Tuesdays lot
Foggy Monday finds its calling
In a sweaty sot on the ground, crawling
Was it Wednesday ?
Partly closed, under a hide me peak
of “ Red Bull Inc “ His eyes shaded
cannot see further than his
half day Wednesday dream
expectation sits here ! It must be right.
Her eyes ! they drip the Moon and broken stars
and far, far away now, don’t and shan’t
their playing at it, hidden in shadows
bringing real time uncomfortably close
belief sits here, maybe a distance so near.
The longed for full Moon is half
the stars are hidden behind keyholes
wasted rolling minutes and empty hours
spread into Thursdays first light
it was a half day Wednesday, yes !
Must have been Wednesday.
//Superstitions//
I grew up to know;
// // // //
That a pregnant woman mustn't
be on street in the middle of a sunny day,
for the foetus her stomach houses might
be swapped for spirits from ancestral world.
That a grown up lad that bedwets
should pay twilight homage
to an upright tree
& twist butts in its presence.
That to trip over your left leg tells
/dooms/red light/misfortune/& bad luck/
&whenever I smash my right feet
o'er an hidden root,it's positivity & goodluck.
That when a star rushes down
& vacate the sky,
it's a proverbial way of telling
us 'bout the exit of an hero.
That ghosts find ways out of their beds
& come home each thursdays,visiting
their households & foods should either
be sprayed outside or placed in, uncovered !
That whoever urinates in river has
ignorantly dared Oluweri's wrath
&attendees at his ceremonies shall
be drenched by violent downpour.
That mothers that die aren't dead,
They loiter around,watching after their fruits.
That a sudden weird wave in the ear drum
is an evil call from the terrestrial world.
All rights reserved
Tasleem Fadairo
I am a dog: panting, suffocating, dying
Clawing at the door of the car
You trapped me in.
I am the next act of the play you’re watching;
You knew I was coming, but you chose to
Leave the venue before I came on stage.
I am all the days that you choose to ignore
I am the Sundays, the Mondays, the Tuesdays,
And the Wednesdays, but never the Thursdays or
The Fridays.
I am never the relief, never the sun, never the spring,
Never the hot tea on a cold day.
Instead, I am the dying dog trapped inside
your car, the worst part of the movie,
The disappointing end to the book you’re reading:
I am never what you look forward to.
I am the cat on its ninth life, the tortoise thrown
Into the bottom of the lake, the tiger with its
Teeth torn out.
I am nothing, nothing but trying
Trying to break the glass that covers your frame,
But instead of broken glass I am left only with broken hands,
Bleeding and broken from the picture,
The picture that I couldn’t be in.
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 used to mark the days by what
I’d scheduled to do,
Like Fridays with the grandkids
For our weekly rendezvous.
On Thursdays there was quilting
And on Wednesdays, never fear,
I’d be at the museum where
I am a volunteer.
On Tuesdays I’d play mah jongg
Once a month, or else I’d go
With my husband to a movie
Or museum for a show.
On Mondays, with some friends, I’d meet
To walk and have a meal
In places in the city that
We’d heard had some appeal.
The weekends often took me
With my daughter and my spouse
Out to rural Pennsylvania
Where we own a country house.
Yet now the days meld into one –
No differentiation –
With all of my activities
On permanent vacation.
It’s meaningless to call each day,
Like Sunday, by its name
At least to me, for in my life,
They’re sadly, all the same.
I am feeling sick today, I drank too much tequila and now my stomach is churning in a sickening way. I was supposed to go explore a cave but instead am writing this poem to say that I am also quite groggy but don't pay it much attention. Did I forget to mention the moscato? Last night I drank that too. I don't know why maybe that is just who I am on Thursdays with friends, although now I feel like the nauseous and am wishing it would end. Now, even as I sit here on this bed, I can't pretend to be someone I am not. Too many shots in too little of time. I tried to make a mix drink, maybe a sex on the beach or tequila sunrise. I can't remember. This was also how I spent my September, October, November and December but for now it's March and spring is soon to come. Maybe the flowers will numb the young fire in my soul and console my heart that withers in gold.
A lion of a headache I have.
It hurts to think for this is Thursday
The morning I always call my mother
Her voice lifts me
Her attitude is delightful
She is carefree and fun
People all agree she is hilarious
The headache is an awakening
A reminder that I can never return home
There is no home now
For Mother is gone
She departed eight days ago
To go to her heavenly reward.
I have no doubt about that.
She was the most spiritual woman I ever met.
I am homesick for my mother now
Knowing she has traveled beyond the realm
Thursdays are bitter now
This is my second one without her
My headache reminds me.
This is the morning I used to call my mother.
I want the day off to lie in the grass and
watch the deer in the distance.
I know it’s selfish, but I don’t care.
School can call a sub.
Other teachers have had them.
I can too. This one time.
I want the day off to paint a self-portrait,
to dance in the rain, to write a novel.
I want the day off, to find out if there is any “me” left.
I want the day off to not bring home papers.
I want the day off to not spend four hours grading homework.
Other teachers do it.
I can too. I will ask. I really will.
I want the day off, I tell my boss. I need it tomorrow
or Friday if it’s more convenient.
A Friday! She screams. No! Not a Friday!
Everybody calls in sick on Friday!
Please, if you really need it, take Thursday.
Thursdays are redundant.
Thursdays are normal.
Thursdays are easier days to get a sub.
What are you going to be doing?
What I do is not your concern, I say.
Tautologies always repeat themselves in non sequential order
All philosophies revolve around the suns of tautologies
There are endless suns orbiting Earth all named Henry
Shoes wear feat and feat wear shoes to bed
Vending machines dispense Pez and Pez does likewise
All time machines are created equal
Total eclipses happen seven days a week in Egypt
Egypt is a word without letters or envelopes
Everything is closed in an open universe
Thursdays are open to suggestions of being months
That time of month is not this one but another
All things being equal are equal to one when added to two
All people are one foot tall and only come in one color
Yellow is God's favorite color but not on Sunday
Three thousand pounds of feathers is never enough
Governments are worth their weight in gold
If you sell your children you will go to heaven twice
Everything on this list is true and leads to enlightenment
Why else would someone write it
Why else would anyone read it through
*In logic, a tautology is a formula that is true in every possible interpretation. Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein first applied the term to redundancies of propositional logic in 1921.
May succulent grass upon buds of June
I walked alongside you September arrived in you October,
it began in December and ended in January
I slept in February woke up in March and danced in April
July lingered in August leaving out December
The weekdays bleared Sunday struck the last Saturday followed by Monday...
I walked naked my feet alongside the earth my hands weakened by Tuesday and yet I still dance this weekend by the sun-drenched fire fly’s
Wednesday seemed to lust Thursdays by Friday I appeared to walk alone.
Last dampish autumn
For a stormy, light sea prowls
betrayed by the stone
macrocosm Down, down, downwards into the darkness of the carnal mind forget the adult light sea prowls
Misty,
dense
Clouding,
skein,
sewing
murky
but
Daze
Charlie told me that for fun
He watches a terrorized mouse
Get chased down and eaten by his corn snake
Jake, the Snake, every Thursday at two.
I met Charlie the first day of school
My third year in the district.
His twelve foot friend Jake was being wrestled in by....
Five giant guys who were carrying a glass container
Large enough for a couple of elephants and a wrestling mat.
Jake was inside, red and yellow striped, fat as my wrist.
Charlie was the nicest teacher, and he loved science.
Loved his children, but the snake thing bothered me.
He let his sixth graders watch the hunt every Thursday.
I knew when it happened because they would all yell
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” in unison on Thursday
I asked him once if they were given a grade for watching this.
He laughed and said he had never thought of that.
But he was certainly glad that I had.
One prissy boy named Sam never watched.
I rescue Sam on Thursdays at five minutes before two,
pretending he has a giant counseling issue.
Dreading the first Thursday I am sick.
Glad that Charlie was military, as the hunt is always at two.
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