I woke up this morning…
(da dada da da!)
and it was… (fanfare)
It wasn’t one of the other weak
week days (Monday, Tuesday)
or one of the stronger ones (Thursday, Friday);
nor was it the delicious (to my mind)
weekend ones (you know which ones those are)
which seem to pass by at double speed,
when all I ask is to chill and relax,
tootle upon my (altogether non-existent) alto sax (the Baker St. solo)
and melt some soy wax (for the business’s need).
Anyway, ‘Wednesday’ is here,
so alliteration means
it’s a wonderful weekly Wednesday –
April The Twenty-Ninth
April The Twenty-Ninth
arrived with a plomb.
I was a lert;
others were, variously,
a droit, a fraid, or a miable.
Disregarding all that,
April The Twenty-Ninth was,
variously, wet, dry, stormy, calm,
an irritant, a balm,
hot, cold, young, old
and liable to amuse, confuse
and leave us all wondering how and why
a day like this could call itself anything other
than a day of ease…
Thursday’s Gone Haiku
It’s Friday Morning;
it’s no good mourning Thursday,
just get over it.
How the day will dawn
is something that I know
not. I shall have to wait and see
what the future brings for me.
The Day, Today.
The radio is talking
the outside world seems to be on ‘mute’;
I pass from one realm to another.
A bird calls, is answered, responds accordingly.
Clouds scud across the sky, lazily following their heart’s desires.
The wind has gone AWOL;
but, will be back when its batteries are recharged.
The sun shines down weakly upon those seeking warmth – but, they remain chilled, only their minds are warmed.
I pass amongst the inhabitants of the Earth
and watch as they process their lives
in many valid ways.
Where is my Saturday rhyme?
It’s been stolen, that’s a…
but, I must use tic-tac-toe
and be subtle;
flying off the handle
never got things done.
An Acrostic Sunday
Sunday starts with an ‘S’ and ends with a ‘Why?’
Until it’s over, the day is full of content.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; so there.
Don’t think that this is going to make sense, scents, or cents.
Actually, I have only the highest regard for Sundays
Yesterday wasn’t Sunday: Today is!
Is is Wednesday?
Is it Thursday?
Is it still Tuesday?
Well, it all depends
Upon where in the world you are
Or I am.
You might be on the previous day
Or the next
Or the same
But, teetering upon the brink of changing the date upon the calendar.
As might I.
If you are in my time zone
You might not be in my rhyme zone
To steal a moment
You could be in a crime zone
Or a lemon and lime zone
If that’s how Cockneys might describe it.
All I am saying is
That wherever you are
And whenever you are
Please spare a second to think of those that are currently languishing in the past
And also those that are ploughing their furrows in the future.
Just a moment though;
You wouldn’t want to waste your rhyme
Contemplating just any old miment in time.
I wanted to write you a poem today
But, I’ve been working much too hard lately
To earn money to pay the bills
And words – like thrills – don’t always come easily
And rhymes are in short supply
So, I am sorry to say
That today is not a poetry day.
Tomorrow, maybe, I shall write you words that melt hearts, move mountains… flow like coins into various Trevi fountains
or just cause the vague possibility of a tear to consider falling from your eye.
Until then… I, shall continue loving you
And thinking of you
Just because I can
And, sorry about the lack of a poem
There is only so much a poet-writing man can do.
This ‘is’ the image G:)
When the lids of my eyes
Struggle to stay aloft
When my enthusiasm has diminished
To the ‘least likely to do a thing’ stage
When I’m feeling my actual age
When the day has a way to go
And my body thinks it’s finished
When instead of speech I produce sighs
And when I was going to say something important
And just coughed
I knew my daze