Tuesday’s Scone
is now stale
and beyond edibility;
it’s hardened crust
has assumed the qualities of a stone;
and once where all was soft and sweet,
there is nothing now you’d want to eat;
and when a million years have gone;
an archaeologist will find that scone
and wonder at its grisly form,
and ask, ‘Was this a foodstuff?
Was this the norm?
Did they eat them cold,
or eat them hot?’
They would hazard a guess,
but would know not.
Only here today,
tomorrow it shall be gone
and soon forgotten.
Tuesday is here,
until it’s gone
(see Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ for more on that last part),
and it followed closely on the heels of Monday
(see Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ for more on that),
precursoring Wednesday
(precursoring is a made-up word)
and claiming to be ‘Hump Day’
(see a camel for details about ‘humps’).
So, should we worry about what the day is called,
or where it lays in the ‘seven’?
(or ‘eight’ – see The Beatles about ‘eight’).
Well, I may have a lot of questions;
but, answers?
What do you think?
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Humpday, #Monday, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #Tuesday, #Wednesday, @Days, words
‘Tuesday’s Gone’ sang Lynyrd Skynyrd back in nineteen seventy something.
Well, I don’t know which particular Tuesday they were alluding to, but, it seems to me, writing this on ‘a’ Tuesday, that Tuesday’s come and go, and whilst that is happening they stop for a while and say hello.
The fact that it can be Tuesday here, and Wednesday in Woolamaloo, or Monday in Montana, is also a bit weird.
I was listening to a radio programme recently where the narrator of the story (I think it was a TED talk) was saying that when the Millennium changed from 1999 to 2000 a lot of religious people foresaw the second coming of Jesus on the stroke of midnight. In the narrators congregation they sat and waited, praying and foreseeing, until midnight quietly slipped past. They were very upset. Then the narrator commented that it was strange if Jesus had to arrive at the stroke of midnight in all the different time zones in America. If makes you think. That was on a Friday, by the way, although it had long been Saturday already in Sydney.
One of the amazingly beautiful places that I see as I visit Oxford’s loveliness.
Tuesday Morning
Nearing Winter
Sat in the warmth
Of a Mercedes Sprinter
Darkness out there
To the nIghttime clinging
And all around a birds’ chorus singing
Another week is starting for me
Work to do (the hours adore me)
Travel here and travel there
Reach destinations everywhere
Travelling through time
(But, only an hour each and every hour)
And Monday through Friday
Keep on trucking on the Queen’s own highway
Mile after mile
And still I smile
I earn the pennies
To play a while
And as jobs go
I like the work
It’s tiring
But, rewarding
And hasn’t driven me berserk…
Yet.
G:)
Graeme Sandford 