Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sundays Past
On Sunday mornings you would wear a dark suit
With a tie and shiny shoes you are ready to en route
The church bells would ring calling for morning mass
While you check the weather through the window glass
A last glance in the mirror and you are on your way
You join the church goers without any further delay
Walking over uneven cobblestones in our small town
Children would jump on the sidewalks up and down
Dressed up for church everyone is wearing their best
Thinking about the priest and what they have to confess
Men lifting their dark hats as they wish a Good Morning
Then pass by the cemetery bowing heads as in mourning
The church bells now ringing louder and more demanding
Calling all sinners to mass without misunderstanding
I always knew that right then the decision was made
And it was agreed to skip church without being afraid
Through the old alley you and others took a known detour
Heading straight to the pub on the corner that is for sure
Around noon I would go to meet my father by the church
And he would talk about mass having done some research
At home my mother would just smile and shake her head
While my father gave her a wink that was hardly misread
Joking around we would eat lunch smiling with every bite
Keeping my father's Sunday secret and the world was alright
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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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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A Sunday
4: 30 you rise
and kneel down
you chant the rosary
and mumble
your prayers
i hear vespers
oh, whispers
of your secret
wishes
i cover my ears
with this
thick blanket
then you leave
for church
and you find
it unnecessary
whether i must
go with you
5: 57
silence reigns
i cannot bear it
i turn on the radio
the news start
bombarding
about the flood
the storm
the waves that
roar of evacuation
and some deaths
i turn off the radio
i turn it on gain
i try the hip hop
on another station
i dance i sweat
things out from
my system i filter
what must come
in
i open the windows
and door to let light
come
in
i am ready now
to face the day
on a washed face
and brushed teeth
without breakfast
and coffee
let them see me
clean and happy
i am on a hunger
strike i am on
a strike for life
i take my walk
without you
i pretend that
this world is one
lonely man and
he does not wish
to talk
like the trees
like the pavement
like the leaves
that now with the
strong wind
keep on falling
blown away
yet uncomplaining
this is sunday
this is still a very lonely day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Old Woman That I Know....
the old woman
goes to church everyday
reads her novena, spends more time in church
than in the house
she is close to the parish priest
gives sums of money to the
religious activities
noted for charity and
enjoys many indulgences
from the Pope
always she is dressed in the proper
whiteness
her head covered by
the required embroidery
her movement restrained
her poise reserved
holy and
silent
what they do not know
(and this is her secret that i have discovered)
is that
just this morning she slapped her maid
because her coffee was served
and no longer that hot
to satisfy her
cold longings
exactly the opposite of what she is
in society
this old woman takes away the faith of
the maid
from the same God that she adores
in her Sunday church.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Open Line Off Line
she pops up in my messenger window
i say hello
and she says she jsut got out from her bathroom
and i tell her
wow fresh flesh
wet body still filled with so much desire
and you said 'i look like a blank paper
got to have make-up and dry myself
and comb my hair'
and you ask if i have eaten my breakfast yet
and why am i not in church today?
then blackout, as usual in my place
on an early morning sunday
8: 39
offline.
i am thinking about what you just said.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Another Long Walk To Life
do not mismate
your shoes. try fitting
in what fits you.
tie the lace.
stamp your feet.
tighten your belt.
stand up.
comb your hair.
wear the warmer shirt.
take the cap
and put it on your head.
smile in the mirror.
take the watch.
wear the white socks.
eat the banana.
and wear the Ipod.
sounds of chappel
in your ears.
it is 6: 05, now
you are ready for
the usual walk
at the oval this
morning. The leaves
of the trees and
grasses are still
rich with their
dews. The sunrays
are slowly coming.
the air is fresh
scented with
the smell of the
rice paddies.
good morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Bow To Simplicity
you go to church every morning
model catholic of this town
you listen to the sermon of the priest
you take the body of Christ
in your body
somehow these matters give you
comfort and so you have no time to
ask for more answers
because there are no questions asked
anyway
in any way, you dwell in the comfort zone of
religion
you are not a philosopher with all the wrinkles
on his forehead
you do not envy all these
search for wisdom
you do not need it anyway in your everyday
morning existence
about those joys you claim you have
the contentment of an achievement
no wars
no confusion even in small matters about
real happiness
in some ways you smile
and by all means we think that you are the child of God
smiling to everyone
sometimes i envy you
as i tremble over my thoughts
grinding every bean of coffee
in the machine of my mind
hot temperatures here
like hell
are questions part of hell?
doubts and regrets
they come together
trying to hit me with their fists
me, the philosopher
still unable to hold the beautiful arms of an
answer
i talk within and there are many selves talking
within
you pity me
for thinking too much
on such a simple existence
as breakfast and lunch and dinner
that you serve on my table
and for which
due to my self-inflicted fever
on a trembling mouth
i cannot eat
and then
i decided to keep silence in the middle of this
turbulence
i wash my face
comb my hair
and face you
saying the words that i do not mean
just to please you
like
i love you and then you smile
and you do not bother
what wisdom is
nothing bothers you
what more? what more is there?
you tell me
there is nothing more between the two of us
not even space
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reality On Sunday Mass
the sunday sermon of
the priest on tv sometimes
becomes noise
to me but in reverence of
the church
i do not switch if off i
do not change the
channel
like the life we live
we tolerate
the religion of the angry
self-righteous and
always soliciting
church
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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4: 59 In The Early Morning
the church bells nearby
toll
for whom, for you,
some prayers
broadcast on the microphone
in this place of
little christianities,
you wash your face
put on your clothes
church this morning
i forget, we used to
have church every
morning when we
were newly married,
changes, time,
ebb, high tides,
moons and more moons,
moorings and more moorings
mornings and lots of boring mornings,
i have changed and you have changed too.
i walk, i walk away, and you will pray,
i will pray too but in other silent places
far away from us, from you, from everything
familiar
too boring, but not sad yet, we are anticipating sadness
like noontime
lunch with so much chili and pepper,
and cold rice, the one we had
for breakfast,
these kinds, you know, are not my favorites....
yet without any word, you will serve them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Minute Ago
just a minute ago
i hear the church bell ringing
inviting me
to hear mass this Sunday
i decide to just stay in the house
sit on an easy chair
open my personal computer
read the news of the day
about the typhoon coming
somewhere in Luzon
learning about a wannabe president
of this republic
advised by a rival to quit smoking
have some charm
talk like a leader and walk like
a true leader
to pause on some speeches
not to cough in between
and marry.
something unpoetical too early
in my cold morning
is creeping in the marrow of my bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Makeup
When you wake up in the morning
And you put the makeup upon your face
Do you try to cover up the age and lines
Or only the sins and deceptions and the disgrace.
Do you try to place on a happy smile
By putting bright lipstick upon your lips
Or do you try to cover up your own hard life
Something that someone like you never forgets.
And as you look into your mirror
Do you powder the many lines upon your face
The lines that has stretched from years ago
Unto the present days of your life and waste.
Do you try to cover up the bags under your eyes
From all the many restless and sleepless nights
The nights when you cared not where you went
As long as you went and held on to someone tight.
Do you place the powder upon your cheeks
To make you look so cheerful and so very nice
But as they say you cant judge a book by its cover
And if they knew you, they need only to think twice.
And as you are preparing yourself for the day
With your makeup in front of you and on the shelf
Does it take you a little longer to put it on each day
As you try to cover yourself up and become someone else.
The makeup you have will you pass it along one day
And then show someone else how to cover up their lines
Maybe your sisters or even maybe your daughters
That is though if they need to cover up their lying.
And do you ever step back away from your mirror
Do you ever try to look at yourself as a whole
Does it ever bring tears into your heart and eyes
Do you ever wish that you still had a soul.
So as your prepare to start your brand new morning
With your lipstick and powders and so much more
Do you ever wish that you could just wash your face clean
And never have to cover up your ways and lies from the nights before.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Sunday morning
Through a
filth-laden
plate glass
window,
I saw
her standing.
Wearing her
Sunday best.
Her thick black
hands hung down
in front of her
meaty thighs,
each grasping
on to her purse strap.
Patiently waiting
for the bus.
Shining off
of her
ample face,
a sun which
suggested
faith's glowing
promise
in the afterlife.
A beautiful,
too perfect,
blue-skied
Sunday morning,
contrasted the
depressed ghetto
surroundings
and the stench
of the
laundromat
I was cleaning.
Suddenly,
a knife
plunged
in to the side
of her head,
just below her bonnet.
Her thick right hand
covered the wound,
as her left refused
to surrender her purse.
She screamed
and cursed at
her assailant
as he ran off,
empty handed.
Wailing uncontrollably,
her hysterics equaled
the brutal attack
she had endured
Blood continued
to run
down her face,
between her
fingers and
onto her dress.
Her purse was saved.
Her life spared from
the vicious attack.
To the assailant,
the contents of
her purse meant
more than her life.
The ambulance
came soon-after.
She lived.
I wasn't
the only
witness
that morning.
God was
watching too.
She lived.
And her after-life
didn't occur
on that
fate-filled
Sunday morning.
I finished my
bologna sandwich,
sipped my Pepsi...
and went back to
sweeping the floors.
by
Tim Labbe`
Your dressing table in the hall
In the house in fifth avenue
I put a small pink white marble table
below a mirror in the corridor
with a bowl with flowers standing on it
that acted as your dressing table
and as a place of display
where I saw your face smiling back at me
while you were doing your hair
teasing with curling tongs
or reflections of the rows of paintings
with the wood floor fading into the distance
and now that mirror and table
is probably still there,
but you are living alone
in that big house
and will never again
smile back into my face.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Chaperone and Granny flat
The middle-aged woman lives in this apartment with her far relative girl.
She goes to work early in the morning and comes back late in the evening.
The woman left in the house alone the whole day.
She is a spinster in her late forties.
The story begins in this lonely house with two spinsters.
Yet the girl is a teenager.
Once in a blue moon a boy with emerald eyes who comes to see her in blue patchy denims.
“Nowadays he comes very seldom
But very soon the day comes
That he will be here everyday
And one day he takes you away.
Then no more news from you
And I would be the loner again.”
One Sunday morning the girl woke up late as it’s a holiday
And she found those lines written on a serviette which has kept on the kitchenette table.
Nobody knows about her aunt’s whereabouts
And her name was registered in the missing person ledger nearby police.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Sunday Papers
Mother doesnt go out any more
Just sits at home and rolls her spastic eyes
But every weekend through the door
Come words of wisdom from the world outside
If you want to know about the bishop and the actress
If you want to know how to be a star
If you want to know about the stains on the mattress
You can read it in the sunday papers, sunday papers
Mothers wheelchair stays out in the hall
Why should she go out when the tvs on
Whatever moves beyond these walls
Shell know the facts when sunday comes along
If you want to know about the man gone bonkers
If you want to know how to play guitar
If you want to know about the other suckers
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Brothers heading that way now I guess
He just read something made his face turn blue
Well I got nothing against the press
They wouldnt print it if it wasnt true
If you want to know about the gay politician
If you want to know how to drive your car
If you want to know about the new sex position
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Read all about it, sunday papers
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild Man
Ive never tried these reason my crest(? ),
I got tired of those administrations caught
With their trousers down,
Yea poor fools just to exercise their intellect,
Power matters rift,
Looking for another kicker, yeah yeah.
You call me a fool when I laugh at you,
But how do you know you wont put me in
The drink,
And sit behind an empty glass.
How long must we show the world,
Blah blah blah mumble mumble
Chorus
Im a wild man, dont you know it,
Im a wild man, dont you know it,
Blah blah blah mumble mumble
Im a wild man, dont you know it,
They cant capture me.
Im a wild man, dont you know it?
Im a wild man, dont you know it.
I think Im going soul,
And I think Im gonna retire,
Mumble mumble mumble so terrified to see you.
At least inside mumble mumble mumble
An endless sea of misery,
With every single word of scripture, yeah yeah.
How do you know what to do,
When theres so sickness in the world?
How can you sleep when theres mumble mumble mumble
Blah blah blah mumble mumble
Blah blah blah mumble mumble
Divisionary policies.
Chorus
Im a wild man, dont you know it,
Im a wild man, dont you know it?
[you didnt actually think I could understand what hes saying, did you? -- dte]
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Togetherness Is Gone
My wife,
Stop cleaning the house
Please come here
To accompany me
My husband,
The house is dirty
We aren't able to pay the maid
You've already retired
My wife,
Don't cook
It's a holiday
Let us eat outside the home
My husband,
Don't eat outdoors
We need efficient
You've already retired
My wife,
Let's keep me company
Why the rush to sleep
It's still early
My husband,
I have to get up early
To clean the house
And prepare breakfast
My wife,
I have to go this morning
My friends were waiting
Long we don't meet
My husband,
Be careful on the road
Greetings for your friends
But, why not breakfast?
My wife,
You have fallen asleep last night
I see you sleeping soundly all
I don't have the heart to wake you
My husband,
I'm sorry
I don't welcome you home
But, why should sleep on the sofa?
My wife,
I have to go again
I have social activities
With my old friends
My husband,
Don't forget dinner at home
You look very dapper
Although not wear perfume
My wife,
sorry, we were very busy
I had dinner with friends
Happy dinner, dear
My husband,
I woke up too early
But you're not at home
Where are you?
My wife,
I came home at midnight
I have to go early in the morning
I don't have the heart to wake you
My husband,
I just finished washing clothes
I've found the clothes that you wear today
But, why the smell of perfume?
poem by Hasanudin Sofyan
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Sunday Morning
Maurice white, sheldon reynolds & allee willis
Intro chorus:
Ooh, sunday morning
You;re gonna find my love shining on you
Oh, Im waiting
And my heart is anticipating
Your face
On my pillow
Feel sunshine pouring through the window
Like the grapes on the vine
Love gets sweeter with time
You were made to love
Chorus:
Ooh, sunday morning (Ill see you sunday morning)
Ooh, sunday morning
Its like the best of everything falling on you
Your eyes
Shining on me
Youre the brightest star, that ever could be
Your kiss
Oh, Im so thankful
The love that we share, Im sincerely grateful
The wind blowin in the tree
Singing love songs to me
Singing you were made to love
Chorus:
Ooh, sunday morning (Ill see you sunday morning)
Youre gonna find my love shining on you
Ooh, sunday morning
Its like the best of everything falling on you
Ooh, sunday morning (Ill see you sunday morning)
When we shared sweet love like no other
Ooh, sunday morning
Like a summer day with your lover
Ooh sunday morning (Ill see you sunday morning)
When we shared sweet love like no other
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nutbush City Limit
A CHURCH HOUSE GIN HOUSE
A SCHOOL HOUSE OUT HOUSE
ON HIGHWAY NUMBER NINETEEN
THE PEOPLE KEEP THE CITY CLEAN
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
TWENTY-FIVE WAS THE SPEED LIMIT
MOTORCYCLE NOT ALLOWED IN IT
YOU GO TO THE STORE ON FRIDAY
YOU GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
YOU GO TO THE FIELDS ON WEEKDAYS
AND HAVE A PICNIC ON LABOR DAY
YOU GO TO TOWN ON SATURDAY
BUT GO TO THE CHURCH EV'RY SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
NO WHISKEY FOR SALE
YOU CAN'T COP NO BAIL
SALT PORK AND MOLASSES
IS ALL YOU GET IN JAIL
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
LITTLE OLD TOWN IN TENNESSEE
THAT'S CALLED A QUIET LITTLE OLD
COMMUNITY
A ONE-HORSE TOWN YOU HAVE TO
WATCH
WHAT YOU'RE PUTTIN' DOWN IN OLD
NUTBUSH
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Easy
Know it sounds funny
But I just cant stand the pain
Girl Im leaving you tomorrow
Seems to me girl
You know Ive done all I can
You see I begged, stole
And I borrowed
Ooh, thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
Thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
Why in the world
Would anyboddy put chains on me?
Ive paid my dues to make it
Everbody wants me to be
What they want me to be
Im not happy when I try to fake it!
No!
Ooh,thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
Thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
I wanna be high, so high
I wanna be free to know
The things I do are right
I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
Thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
Thats why Im easy
Im easy like sunday morning
Because Im easy
Easy like sunday morning
Because Im easy
Easy like sunday morning
song performed by by Lionel Richie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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