“Is it Sunday? Yes?
How? Where has the weekend gone?
Is it Monday, yet?”
By the Book (sic)
Bardly Writ
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Tag Archives: #Sunday
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
jive.
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).
Graeme Sandford 