Tag Archives: #Sunday

Sunday Haiku

“Is it Sunday? Yes?

How? Where has the weekend gone?

Is it Monday, yet?”

Sunday, not a poetry day?

I tried to write a poem,

something, anything;

but, nothing could I write;

so, I went for a walk instead,

to consider the nothingness

in my head.

The Bells of St. Lalluwy (2020) – and a look back at ‘The Bells of St. Lalluwy (2019).

Sunday morning,

10:30 a.m.

and I can hear the bells,

thr bells of St. Lalluwy,

as their sound chimes

across the fields

that lay between us.

Unseen church,

I hear your call,

“Come to pray,

come one come all;

or just listen to my pealing sound

and pray at home;

for, there, I am also to be found.


‘The Bells of St. Lalluwy (2019)’

I can hear the bells of Menheniot

ringing out for prayer;

across the fields I hear the knells,

and, soon, I won’t be there.

I can hear the bells of Menheni

a-ringing in my ears;

they call the flock from off the land

to seek comfort for their fears.

I can hear the bells of Menhen

appealing all to come;

the faithful and the sinning soul,

the sentient and numb.

I can hear the bells of Men

though softer than before,

until at last,

the peals have passed,

and I hear the bells no more.

Sunday Haiku

A Sunday Haiku

is only for a Sunday

and not for Christmas.

If that makes some sense

go to the foot of your stairs

and whistle the wind.

Sunday calls for a…

Sunday calls for a…

Haiku, or a dearth of them –

how do I decide?

— // —

Please comment on this

If you want some more Haiku;

be silent, if less.

J On a Sunday Morning

There are many things that you can do

on a Sunday Morning

that begin with the letter J.

Joust, jump, jaywalk,

launch Javelins skywards

towards the Jorvik centre in York;

jog, jellify, jig,

or just joyously


It’s great to be jalive.

Juice (on a Sunday?)

How can I rejoice,

when I have never even joiced?

Did I have a choice

that I missed

and never made?

Did I fail

to make the grade?

And, if not mine,

at whose door can the fault be laid?

How can I rejoice,

when I’ve never even joiced?

Sunday Morning 3AM

Sunday Morning 3AM

Sunday Morning, 3am,

it is;

not ‘Wednesday’

I know,

I’ve checked;

I’ve checked my calendar,

checked my watch,

checked my bottle

of twelve-year Scotch –

half empty!

or maybe half full, to you,

depending on your point of view.

In the quiet of a Sunday morning

In the quiet of a Sunday morning

Silently, I set the fire aglow;

catch up on the washing-up;

fetch a brew for my beloved

(who still sleeps);

and pander to the dogs’ needs

(Rosie the cat has already had her ears scratched).

The chill air gains a hint of warmth,

and all seems calm.

Soon, there are walks to be taken,

and pottering to be done;

but, that is soon,

not now;

and for this minute

I breathe in

and my heart is content.

In the Garden

In the Garden

On any given Sunday

(for they are truly ‘given’)

you can find a person

(not a parson – they will be in a church)

in the garden;

or, if they are not there,

then they shall be found somewhere else.

I can say no more than this,

as even saying this

has stretched my resources

to near breaking.

PS this is not a poem

(even if it looks like one).