Monday Morning
I often pause to contemplate
The sadly barren mental state
Of persons whom it is my fate
To meet on Monday morning.
They should be, after Sunday's rest,
Alert, clear-minded, full of zest;
But everywhere they are oppressed,
Bad-tempered, dull and yawning.
But I? I'm always strangely bright,
Primed with ideas and full of fight,
With brain alert and eye alight
With rare exhilaration:
All due, no doubt to my wise bent
To do no thing I should repent,
And to a Sunday wisely spent
In pious contemplation.
I do not wish to set myself
Upon some loft moral shelf
And treat my brother man, poor elf,
To haughty patronising.
And yet I feel I have to say
That I regard the laggard way
That men approach their work this day
As utterly surprising.
Oh, I could write, this gladsome morn,
With vigour of a man new-born
Rare verses, full of lilting scorn
About my fellow's failings;
Or I could write on politics
And heave a hundred verbal bricks,
Using the rhymster's thousand tricks
In homilies and railings.
But I resist; for, being kind
I know that human nature's blind
And weak and frail; I have no mind
To call down envious curses.
And, tho' I tremble on the verge,
I manfully resist the urge,
And sing, where I might shout and splurge,
These rather halting verses.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
I write for myself.
I write for a name and fame
and not for penny or tummy.
I feel well while I pen verses.
It fills me with a kind of pride..
I am alert by heart.
I am alert by intellect.
I love the young and live young.
I learn my mental faculty.
I spend endlessly my time.
And spend painlessly money.
I have feeling of well being.
as they buy me youth and health,
with head upright while I walk..
26.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Monday Then Sunday
It’s Monday, then Sunday in front of my eyes.
It seems like the calendar’s telling me lies.
Before I can live Tuesday, the weekend is here
With another Monday drawing ever so near.
Soon it’s Wednesday, then Friday. Another week’s gone.
Then a month falls in battle as time surges on.
This is a war that I know I can’t win,
So I’ll just pause and not fight this moment I’m in.
I’ll make the most of this day through happiness or sorrow,
Since the next day … one day … I won’t have a tomorrow.
No matter Sunday, Monday or what day of the week,
A loving, full fun day is all that I seek.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Marley Purt Drive
Sunday morning, woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the head and looked in the glass just to see if I was in.
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
That's how they are, so I grabbed out the car;convertible fifty-nine.
Headed for the freeway; tried to find the Pasadena sign.
Ten miles and three quarters more I wasn't feeling any more alive.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
I used to be a minstrel free with a whole lot of bread in my bag.
I used to feel that my life was real, but the good Lord threw me a snag.
Now I'm gonna be the same as me ,no matter how I try.
'Cause with fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Fifteen kids and a fam'ly on the skids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Turned 'round the car and headed for home; I guess I realized my fate.
Ten miles and three quarters more I pulled up outside the gate.
Twenty more kids were stood inside and that made thirty-five.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
An orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday drive.
Sunday morning woke up yawning; filled the pool for a swim.
Pulled down the glass and looked in the mirror just to see if I was in .
Went up the stairs and kissed my women to make her come alive.
'Cause with an orphanage full of thirty-five kids ,
I got to go for a Sunday
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Therapy
Poetry is a Therapy,
It makes me use my Brain,
During periods of inactivity,
I’d otherwise go insane.
When lack of work overwhelms me,
And I have nought to do,
Rhymes, scans, lines and verses,
Overcome Depression too.
Wisely I use this Therapy,
Constantly I think and write,
Hourly I write in verses,
Whilst I do so, I’ll be alright.
Depression is now a “No-no”
Before it was often there,
The future has all to live for,
As G-D has me constantly in HIS care.
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 30 September 2005
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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Sunday
your vision's blurred.. your mouth is dry
it is sunday
just another sunday
your body aches.. your conscience sleeps
it is sunday
just another sunday
you say... u don't wanna feel this way
u don't wanna feel
you say... u don't wanna feel this way!
u don't wanna feel
your knees are weak.. your heart's on speed
it is sunday
just another sunday
your senses lie.. your temple speaks
it is sunday
just another sunday!
you say... u don't wanna feel this way
u don't wanna feel
you say... u don't wanna feel this way!
u don't wanna feel
i think i'm outta my mind sometimes maybe
no room in my head cause it's filled with a boom
i think i'm outta my mind sometimes maybe
no room in my head cause it's filled with a boom
song performed by by Tommy Lee from Never A Dull Moment
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Page Stays White
I so want to write, but try as I might,
the words don’t come, this mind’s an empty drum.
Cells remain shut tight, ideas just won’t bite.
Brain’s full of bunkum, notions are struck dumb.
It’s an terrible plight, because the more you fight,
the less you succumb.
Not a single crumb will see the light.
I’m not sure why, quite!
But I’m feeling glum, I’m hitting a problem.
Can’t my wits be bright. My thoughts should unite
in my futile cranium, and that is saying some.
I so want to write, but the page stays white.
New poems ought to blossom, in a state of equilibrium.
But try as I might, somehow, my words seem to have taken flight.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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On This Sunday Morning
from a clear morning sky
a crow swooped down
a lazy packet of bisuits
on the parapet wall
a used tea-cup
all showed that
it's a sunday morning...
how amusing to see
the way he unwrapped
and made a clean sweep
no sundays for the ever alert crow
my sunday is his day of feast
11oct2009
09.23hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Half Blooded Brothers
You my blood half or full were brothers, regardless of what you do to each other, you my brother half or full, .
We keep each other good, you my brother half or full. We take care of each other, because we brothers half or full.
Imma stop trippin, it'll take a while, because im use to bullshittin and prickin, but you my brother half or full.
Stick together we will stay alive, all the bullshit I said, I've been a asshole, shit who hasn't, but you my brother half or full and I guess that's what family does.
Arguments and verbal brutality towards one another is what we do, because we will always be brothers half or full. Blood half or full, it doesn't matter, because we are brothers till the end of time, your my brother half or full.
poem by Arthur V. Miller III
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The Chronicles Of A Day Stranded In Nature Part 5 Resist Even Out Here
Resist... resist with all my strength
Sometimes i find it hard to resist
I find myself thinking thoughts not be thought
It seems that to not think in this way makes my mind twist
This battle has been fought
Many times before
Yet the thoughts that are there to abhor
Not to surrender to... they're pleasurable O
As i grind my toes inside my shoe
And steady my jaw I resist the urge
And thoughts of the other... I wish to purge
These thoughts of any candidate for my wife
The one with which i spend my life
I must resist even when I rest
And I cannot let my guard down even after a hard test
They plague and pervade my mind
Though I like these thoughts... I still must find
Some peace from them, because for me they
Often are evil... how fey
Resist...resist... with all my mind
poem by David Knox
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Red Alert
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Oh whoa
Na na na noo noo
Information
Is time to comfort the weak
Invitation to rock with you
They will freak
Ho-ho-ho!
Red alert
This house is a-rockin'
Red alert
Tearin' the walls down
Red alert
No way to stop them
Red alert
Give me more, more, more
Red alert
I'm amazed
All the people that walk down the tower
In a haze
A masseuse will trigger the score
No, no, no
Red alert
This house is a-rockin'
Red alert
Tearin' the walls down
Red alert
No way to stop them
Red alert
Give me more, more, more
Red alert
Oh tear it down
We've been bad
Not as bad as we could have been
Not so sad
Next week we're gonna do it, do it again
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Red alert
This house is a-rockin'
Red alert
Tearin' the walls down
Red alert
No way to stop them
Red alert
Give me more, more, more
Red alert
This house is a-rockin'
Red alert
Tearin' the walls down
Red alert
No way to stop them
Give me more, more, more
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Red alert
song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On right side
I have tested it all
Responded well with the call
Yet I remain on the back seat
People avoid to look at me and greet
I had been kind enough to people
To render all kind help in case of any trouble
Yet it all boomeranged on me like surprise attack
As if some of my interest was at stake
It is good quality of person if nobility is paid in same coin
Why at all good work must result in some kind of pain?
Is it so difficult to tell person a simple thank you?
Not in response to kind gesture but in recognition of truth
It is human nature to forget soon
Like we get relaxed after hot afternoon
Life may have faced many difficulties
But soon to forget when attained full capability
Elder may boost of having seen the age
They have lot more to tell and write on page
But what if you are given cold shudder?
Disregarded altogether and shown the ladder
You may know exactly what is to be done in course of time
You may be pushed aside in some of the cases sometimes
That may give you room to think and brace up for challenge
So it is mental state where you feel nothing and try to manage
It is good to be on right side
Acknowledge and if possible oblige
It is nice of a person if good things are remembered
Truth may always surface even if tempered
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sunday's Child
Sunday's child is always praying
for the right thing to come
what she can't see, is the truth
inside of her
not something else
Sunday's child is always praying
for someone else to come
what she can't see, is the source
inside of her
not somebody else
How do you contemplate outside yourself
when you are infinite?
Can't you see, come full circle child,
you are it!
Two hands clapping make one sound
where does that come from?
There's no one around
except, Sunday's child
Amen.
Copyright ©2004
poem by Adryan Rotica
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Theatre of Sidon (400 B.C.)
Son of an honorable citizen—most important of all, a good-looking
young man of the theatre, amiable in many ways.
I sometimes write highly audacious verses in Greek
and these I circulate—surreptitiously, of course.
O gods, may those puritans who prattle about morals
never see those verses about an exceptional kind of sexual pleasure,
the kind that leads toward a condemned, a barren love.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Full Of Life Questions
life is full of unexpected,
life is full of challenges,
life is full of bitterness,
life is full of strife,
life is full of contentious disputes,
life is full of revenge,
life is full of hatred,
life is full of mystery,
sometimes.....
life is full of sweetness,
life is full of joy,
life is full of happiness,
life is full of hope,
life is full of dreams,
you can have all this life when the soul is in body, and you will be able to feel everything because this is real life to creatures who call the''human''
Have you thought to life after death? ? ? ?
Writers Block
He was going to write a brilliant poem
probably the best one he'd ever done
but when he sat down at his desk
the inspiration just wouldn't come.
No matter how hard the poet tried
to get some ideas down onto the page
nothing worth writing about arrived
leaving him on the verge of rage.
Then an Eureka moment hit him
while listening to the ticking of the clock
he'd write a poem on the frustration
of that dreaded writers block.
He ended up writing five verses
about a poets worst nightmare
when your wanting to write a masterpiece
but end up pulling out your hair.
So the moral of this poem must be
that writers block isn't so bad after all
as you can use it as a poetry subject
instead of sitting there staring at the wall!
poem by Kevin Halls
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Sonnet 34: Come Let Me Write
Come, let me write. 'And to what end?' To ease
A burthen'd heart. 'How can words ease, which are
The glasses of thy daily vexing care?'
Oft cruel fights well pictur'd forth do please.
'Art not asham'd to publish thy disease?'
Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare.
'But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?'
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
'What idler thing than speak and not be heard?'
What harder thing than smart, and not to speak?
Peace, foolish wit, with wit my wit is marr'd.
Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreak
My harms on ink's poor loss; perhaps some find
Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind.
poem by Philip Sidney
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A Sunday Kind of Woman
I can only imagine for our worlds are far apart
How it would feel to hold this woman mouth to mouth heart to heart
I guess it's a good thing dreaming's free
What would a Sunday kind of woman
A Sunday kind of woman want an everyday man like me.
I've had lots of nightlife women you've seen one you've seen 'em all
And I wake up in the morning and I turn and face the wall
And long for someone special's company
But would a Sunday kind of woman
A Sunday kind of woman love an everyday man like me.
But would a Sunday kind of woman
A Sunday kind of woman love an everyday man like me.
song performed by by Charlie Rich, lyrics by Margaret Ann Rich from Behind Closed Doors (1973)
Submitted by Jeffrey Kosloske
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Tabula Rasa.
Rondel Prime.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Although I try my muse insists.
I take my pen and start to write.
I quickly find to my delight
My muse is ready to assist.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
An empty page a welcome sight
To a poetic formalist
Or even to a modernist.
To anyone compelled to write.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Sunday,14 October 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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