What Coming?
I can’t believe this world. Everything has changed. Why?
Just bad news from every media. Wars, catastrophes, death.
Unbelievable, the people. They don’t care about the negative things.
They live in their happy weekdays. Blindness is the ruler.
Day to day, week to week, more and more, the horror from the news.
People can stop everything. Only together. But how? Hmm. How?
Nobody sees the crisis. Hmm. Oh, happy weekdays and noisy weekends.
People love it. Barbecue, drink, party, night desire. Yeah, this is the present of humanity.
What about the future? What?
They don’t care.
Coming the last time.
End.
The sun will sleep.
Dark clouds in the sky.
Categories:
weekdays, fate, life,
Form: Free verse
The illusion
In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint
made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like
that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines
in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce
The Mesen who owned the factories had created this
park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons.
The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts
during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work
A boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae
The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated.
The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time
had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal
When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea
A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood.
No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.
Categories:
weekdays, abuse, age, blue,
Form: ABC
Some days are Mondays
But most of them were Fridays-
And then Saturday
Categories:
weekdays, age, humor, youth,
Form: Haiku
Who knew life could move so fast?
As if you're running a race.
I ask God why I am here on Earth.
My life is like an empty fantasy,
As I lay down cold in mud and blood.
My heart stores pain like a safe,
As lies there, hidden and bleeding;
It doesn't have a home to live in
Like a thing.... stabbed in the back,
My body is cleaned but my heart soiled red.
It's easier to be strong in my head,
As brave as a lion, yet intrinsically I'm weak.
The scars and wounds of my heart can't be healed
And I don't have a home for my heart,
The world isn't my dwelling place anymore.
Toiling all day, week and year,
From the cradle to the grave.
The weekdays where I learn to swim;
The weekends whenever I drink,
I go to sleep, the second I blink.
Every minute felt like years
As I stood in line;
While tears flow from my eyes.
May God never allow
That I die before I return.
Categories:
weekdays, depression, home,
Form: Free verse
TO MY GROWN CHILDREN
For my four children I've been working
Almost every day
There was never enough time to play with you
There were baseball games, dance recitals
That you wanted me to come to
But with all the time working
There was never enough time for any of you
On weekdays and weekends, I had to do my chores
So it left very little time for you four
I may always say maybe the next time
Which I might have said so many other times
Sometimes I had to work all night
And I wouldn't see you to the next morning light
I know our lives are short, and days go by fast
And all your children grow up in a flash
Then I finally realized that my children
Are no longer by my side
And now I no longer have to provide
I still have pictures I can still look at
Showing me the past and the laughter
I'm retired now and once I was so busy
Now all my body and hands are still
And for me, these days are too quiet and hard to kill
I wish I could go back into the past
And change all the ways I reacted
And for my four grown children
I want to say I'm sorry, and I want to say you are all
One in a million and I love you all
Categories:
weekdays, appreciation, blessing, child, dad,
Form: Rhyme
Sunday
Happy Sunday, said a lady, the telephone switched on.
Lady, far, but here, she lives in London, me too, alone.
Distance given, we will never meet, friendship leaves
Gone.
My life is weekdays. I have no weekend, never. No off
Sunday is empty, Saturday is empty, the bench is empty, off
No problem. I need only a touch from a woman's hand
Gone.
No life, it’s not exists, everything is an illusion, reality on and off.
An English woman ruined my life, my soul is faraway, gone.
God, please give me a good chance. I need a woman
Romance is gone.
Reality
February 04, 2024
Categories:
weekdays, life, love,
Form: Rhyme
Went on a little vacation
And plans we had proposed
We couldn’t do because
On certain days, some things were closed.
On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
Many restaurants and stores,
Plus museums. shows and galleries
Posted signs upon their doors.
Please stop by again on Thursday
Or the weekend; we’ll be here!
Were they short-staffed? I’m not certain
But to us, it was quite clear
That some businesses don’t need to wait
For customers to show
And perhaps on early weekdays
We’re not welcome; good to know.
Categories:
weekdays, travel,
Form: Rhyme
Lead me not into temptation
Well, at least not on weekdays
Deliver me from evil
For those temptations on weekends
Categories:
weekdays, evil,
Form: Free verse
A lovely moment
I sat on the low wall, near the steps, down to the training center, on weekdays, the pavement is full of young people going to train, and many smoke a last cigarette
before lifting heavy objects.
It is a beautiful late afternoon Sunday, the trees on the avenue are still green, and the leaves look endorphins
The day had been pleasantly warm, no, breeze at all which is a rarity in this town by the sea.
Yet, I know the scene will shift dramatically when the westerly wind brings rain and cold.
For the leaves on the oaks, I can do nothing, they will turn chocolate brown then get the red taint of someone dying consumption and silently scream before falling on wet asphalt, dragged along gutters, and drowned in a drain.
My wife came and sat beside me; we sat in easy silence
I love her more than ever before, now as our days are getting shorter, but for now, we enjoy sitting here enjoying our silence
Categories:
weekdays, angel, anti bullying, best
Form: Blitz
you picked me up at a currys in Beckenham
I liked your ear rings
We started our affair
you confessed to have addictions
if not tobacco then alcohol
and how you missed your chance at acting school
It seemed losing ran in streaks
Your father collected anchor butter
as you shot off to your Bayswater sub let
on weekdays
Going to say goodbye to Suzanne
the river flows
its summer but feels late autumn
The contention school is over
There's breath outside Beckenham
Categories:
weekdays, anger, angst, anxiety,
Form: Free verse
They called me a Communist
When only just a teen
Nothing much has changed in
Those Sixty years in between.
My village once had fourteen farms
Now it’s just got one or two
Those employed in the village
Are now very far and few.
It’s commuter land these days
Almost deserted on weekdays
An almost soulless place
With modern village ways.
There was Social Housing then
Now it’s mainly owner occupied
Very few common folk there
Now it’s well and truly gentrified.
The old Falcon Inn once well used
As village meet and social club
Has been renovated and become
A stylish seldom open Gastro Pub.
My dad’s old cottage still stands
Only because it’s been listed
Next door has been knocked through
As though it had never existed.
Two hundred years the family home
Now any trace of us long gone
It’s what these days they call progress
As life ambles and stumbles on.
A place of many required lessons
Which I never did manage to learn.
Only old family graves there now
So I seldom bother to return.
They called me a Communist
Because I wouldn’t doff my cap
To the Johnny-cum-lately Squire
Touring the village by pony and trap.
Categories:
weekdays, change, culture, power, society,
Form: Rhyme
If I had to do it again
I would replace my dead dog with a parrot
which would no doubt outlive me.
Maybe stop drinking on weekdays.
Make some kind of deal with the living,
so that they will always be around when I need them
and not be anywhere near me when I don’t.
Fight socialism and capitalism and any other ‘ism’
that claims they can change anything at all for
the better.
Be a nicer person just in case.
Be more tolerant of the intolerable.
Gamble that the parrot will self-combust -
flame out before me,
so I can regret or mourn something real.
Categories:
weekdays, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Waking up
Feeling light
Knowing it is weekend, baby
All I want to do
Lots of things
Like finally
Fatigue pulls me
Back harder
Laying on my bed
Deep daze
Damn
Still feeling tired
Anxiety knowing
In my head
Back to work
Mistakes and unfinished business
Heck go away
Needing my own days
The most
Struggling through weekdays
Desiring to breathe
For the weekends
I love you so much
Craving for you way too much
Burst my bubble state
Dragging my weary body
Out
Of
Bed
Getting up
Zombie wannabe
Maybe as calefare job
Sigh in awe
When sunshine appears itself
Real light
On my skin
Wind blows my hair
Real fresh air
To breathe
Good to be at home
Feet on the carpet
Being at my own pace
Humming the music
Brings me joy
Hugging pillows
Embracing its softness
Rubbing all over it
Looking around
Smiling
Walking
Jumping back
On my bed
To sleep some more
Ahh so productive!
© Sue Sanzz 2020
Categories:
weekdays, fantasy, fun, good morning,
Form: Free verse
My dream included a solidified me.
I was hard like an oak from stern to stem.
My favorite tall tree had nothing on me.
Immobile, I felt the wind in my hair.
My limbs were lithe, light, and bare.
A lumberjack cut a bit of me down,
Gave my branches a soak,
Tamed me into a table and chair,
I was oak solid, folks.
Bustled into the back of a van,
Delivered to religious fan,
A solidified me, made into something useful.
We pray every Sunday, and on weekdays too.
Part of me in the forest, worshipping with birds.
The other part in a kitchen, with a couple of nerds.
My dream included a solidified me.
I was as solid as I will ever be.
Categories:
weekdays, dream,
Form: Rhyme
Weekdays are when most folks work,
With weekends set for rest
And so their spirits start to perk
As workdays have progressed.
When Friday rolls around, there's joy
And also some relief
That finally, at last, oh boy!
From work, they can debrief.
It's strange, but even once retired,
Fridays still rank high.
Though work-type stresses have expired,
All good thoughts apply.
For me, there is an added plus -
It's babysitting day.
Explaining is superfluous
If grandkids come your way.
Categories:
weekdays, day,
Form: Rhyme
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