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.
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.
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.
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…
Haiku, or a dearth of them –
how do I decide?
— // —
Please comment on this
If you want some more Haiku;
be silent, if less.
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
jive.
It’s great to be jalive.
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,
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.
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.
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).
“It’s Sunday, Silly!”
Okay, how do you get to be silly on a Sunday?
It’s not normally thought of as a ‘Funday’;
doesn’t measure up as a ‘Punday’;
hasn’t the uniqueness to be a ‘Oneday’;
and a ‘Sun’ day? Really? It so often rains;
A ‘Bunday?’ Hardly likely;
or a ‘Doneday?’ Well, it is at the end.
How about a ‘Gunday?’ No, that’s not going to happen, is it?
A ‘Hunday?’ Not, a Germanic one;
but a pet-name for your partner one?
Okay, a Nunday; a Runday, or a Tunday?
Can’t say that they are likely to catch on;
An ‘Unday’ – a lot of days are already a bit like that.
No, sorry, we are going to have to stick with ‘Sunday’,
or Dimanche.