Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nik Bland Sep 2021
Dear Saturday,  I write to you from foreign lands
I'm in a Monday I'm not sure I understand
The day is shining, yet I am in misery
All these strange people seem to be yelling at me

Oh, dearest Saturday, your ways are now my own
You hold me close in bed and say I can stay home
The other the days just seem to get in the way
The only mutual friend I seem to have's Friday

Dear Friday, you introduced me to my love
Out and about we where, trying to rise above
Monday through Thursday called me friend, bit caused me strife
But you showed me the day that would improve my life

Dear Saturday,  the way you treat me oh, so well
Has shown me heaven in a week filled with hell
I will hang onto Monday only for so long
But I'll miss you more than ever simply when you're gone
Washed away the sweat of my day
and now I'm squeaky clean.

Out on the balcony and
the Sun playing games with me
if I squint I can see her halo.
There's a lot to be said for
saying nothing and keeping
the thoughts in your head
and
there is much to be said about
something but we sit back and
listen instead.
Winding down
Seven Things Spoken

Seven things spoken,
three words for completion,
silence, then a cracking earth
and a temple veil torn in two.
James E. Roethlein ©2021
Jim is the author of two books of poetry "Musing on the Cricket Game of Life Part 1 1/2" and "An Extravagant Way of Saying Nothing" both available on Amazon
Lawrence Hall Apr 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

   Thoughts During that Famous Light Collation on Good Friday

This morning I mowed the lawn, the springtime lawn
Then messed about with flowerpots and bees
In this little safe space of happy green
A shadow of Heaven beneath wise Plato’s oak

This evening I will visit Jerusalem
And follow timidly the Stations of the Cross
Not wanting to be noticed by Romans or Greeks
(Setting aside the fact that I am a Roman)

Time stops - with faltering steps and a contrite heart
A journey into the dark, and then – waiting
A poem is itself.
Thursday Night

Body-blood
wafers-wine,
praises turned crucifixion,
a mother's milk gone sour
to boil its lamb son alive.
We lament, and remember
(upon this Thursday night)
the actual retail price paid,
the victory won from defeat.
James E. Roethlein ©2021
Jim is the author of two books of poetry "Musing on the Cricket Game of Life Part 1 1\2" and "An Extravagant Way of Saying Nothing" both available on Amazon
Dave Robertson Mar 2021
With mixed and barbed emotions
these thick and heavy days defy physics
individually grinding
yet weekly whipping by

But in this treacled maelstrom
Friday’s unique frisson
still brings a cheeky tickle
Shannon Soeganda Nov 2020
The scent of autumn

trespasses by the name

of our paths---

as our paths intertwine

with one another;

scraping its way out

to welcome the cold,

but warm, and familiar

wintertime.
Honey smells like a wintertime to me.
Goodbye Autumn, I guess?
hannah Nov 2020
It was Friday.

I did it again,
but just enough to numb the pain

to wake me up from a bad dream.

am doin' my best ever since..

bcs I fear
that one day

I might not scared of the most unknown.
I wish you'd tell me.
Next page