#sundays
There’s something about Sundays
I’ve never been able to shake.
A somber cloud
that speaks a silent sermon.
A low kind of weather
that doesn’t show up on the horizon.
I got out early,
figured I’d beat the crowd.
Shot nine over.
Nothing special. Nothing terrible.
A couple of double bogeys
that made me say ****
more than I’d like to.
Mediocre enough
to think I could’ve done better
if I went back out.
Keep the hybrid in the bag.
Use the four iron
on that long par five.
Spent the afternoon
turning that over in my head.
The course still there.
The pond with the ducks
on hole number one.
The day jogging by,
leaving me behind.
I just stayed in.
Made an omelet.
Drank my coffee slow.
Let the quiet settle
like a quilted blanket.
It’s Mother’s Day.
My mom’s been gone
a long time now.
I told my kids’ mothers
happy Mother’s Day—
told them they’re the best.
And I meant it.
Don’t know how,
but the sun shines on a bum’s ***
once in a while—
especially if his pants
are halfway down.
By the time I looked up,
the whole thing
had slipped away.
And whatever it is about Sundays
was still there,
same as ever.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 6:09 PM UTC
wax pooled around the wick
the faucet drips
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 12:36 PM UTC
Sundays always smelled sharper.
Tasted harsh.
Even the sunlight cut deeper.
It sounded like a
dark Wagner symphony.
I’ve felt it since I was five—
lonely in the quiet.
Maybe it was school tomorrow.
God, maybe it was school tomorrow.
Or maybe it’s the truth:
Life keeps rolling
while people vanish.
Yesterday, his mother handed out
vials of ashes.
He drank one too many,
another fire snuffed out.
The sidewalks glare bright.
Sunshine in January—
a liar,
faking warmth,
mocking the chill in my chest.
Puffy white clouds
sharpen the loneliness
like a fillet knife.
I think of her—
my daughter, far away,
the laughter I can’t hear,
the arms I can’t hold.
I sip coffee, bitter
as this empty room.
Lonely as this
quiet Sunday morning.
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 11:11 AM UTC
Sunday morning
tastes like coffee gone cold and almond joy creamer
smells like breakfast cooking
sounds like the Sims 3 theme music
looks like gentle snowfall and sun covered clouds
feels like nostalgia
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC
I still remember
the playground and the woodlane --
Boring afternoons.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 3:02 AM UTC
Sun-blanketed sheets,
a crumpled map of us,
our bodies
a single braid
beneath.
Yesterday’s coffee
- cold -
but still enough.
Dust waltzing
in the slanted light,
each one
a tiny planet
taking flight.
Your breath,
a slow rhythm
on my skin,
quieting all within.
No need for words,
no need to see—
just this
slow
breathing
symphony.
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 11:18 AM UTC
I love Sunday for its quietness,
I love Sundays, for there is no rush —
I love Sundays for writing poetry,
and I love Sundays for the hush.
I love Sundays for the calm before the storm.
I love Sundays because my mind reboots to norm.
I love Sundays because I can take my soul for a walk,
And let it roam across heavenly realms —
I love Sundays to be without an agenda that I have to chalk.
I love Sundays, to remember You,
I love Sundays, and that's where I will be,
Loving You more without animosity.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 6:39 PM UTC
Lost in sombre details, of what really hangs around morals
-Crucifix, hanging around a sinner’s neck; so choked up
While the devil speaks on my livelihood with his demons
Parading as unwanted guests; foundations of personal griefs
I am unguarded; not well versed in a couple scripture verses
Versions of my weekly self- a relaxed stance, trying to have
Faith in a life of ease. Setting aside everything else, in the
Way of being by my bedside- faithfully praying on my knees
Still if my faith is loosely based on modern people’s commitment
To their faith and integrity, I might as well be faithless as them all-
Seated in a church; behind on my many debts, sitting at the back
Listening to the loud laughs of the greatest hypocrites,
The usual Sunday gossip, sounding clearer than a church bell
Leaders who burnt me, quick to preach how I might go to Hell
As a failed sense of wholesome community in communal
Around church clicks of skin colour, for Sunday’s different cults
In what my conscious tries to say is a domicile sanctuary:
I’m a bit reluctant to fully agree with my own self
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 7:14 AM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
Where dreams are
under the tears of stars,
my eyes brittle brightsome;
child-like manner-aforetime adult scars.
"And as I look above,
cleared of thoughts-vile of ourselves
wrestling the mind in mud;
think of your God, for as His purity
...shall I too think in His ways"
So did she say;
torn out title cover of her bible at hand.
Sunday school teachers taught my
infanthood lessons, still in adulthood.
Jul 12, 2022
Jul 12, 2022 at 3:27 AM UTC
It reeks of sadness in this room.
I don't live in the same house, anymore
but I still got your shirt.
I look for you in every face I smile at every day,
they come and go.
So fast, that I wanted it to be you when I look away.
Your smell lives in my head like a song I never liked,
but the chorus screams your name, not the title.
I remembered when you clenched your teeth,
to me, it sounded like the crickets outside my window
that I never thought of closing.
It's cold but I still had the door open for you.
and yet I thought,
there's nothing left to come home to.
the tore down the walls we used to draw on and built a higher one.
the lights... there were none.
Only the blue light coming from a phone so bright that I never thought of putting it down,
in case you call.
in case you wanted to visit the emptiness.
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 8:11 AM UTC
Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday
the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace
technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies
in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 6:09 AM UTC
love is
our unkept bed on a Sunday morning
clothes thrown on the floor
candles burned down to no wicks
sleeping off last nights tangled limbs
on the grey leather couch
infinity in crystal blue eyes
palm to palm, fingers entwined our lifelines cross
counterbalancing personalities complete the circle
protective of what is within
so familiar our anatomical embrace
we breathe shared air
beats in autotune, universe intact
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
the sunsets and the sun rises
creating each day and each night
and not once does it ask permission
the night will still be pink with light pollution
because of the single office illuminators,
found in every breathing building
the night shift family I never met,
will still glow behind little screens
or candle light thought bubbles and ink
the morning will still spill coffee all over him
but only on mondays, when he’s running late
mondays will always come
sunday mornings will still petition against alarm clocks
and sunday, hereself, will always win
it will rain and it won’t
either way, without me
a.m.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
I dream of Sundays with you
In the next life after this one
Where your snore will awaken me
And your spiral curls tickle my eye
We'll lay in your bed under sheets
Witness the light of the sunrise
Decide on where to have breakfast
Feel too lazy to get up and dressed
I won't be void of your affections
In the next life after this one
You'll be my sweet baby
And I your greatest love
-DS
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:43 AM UTC
Ohh it’s the second and last,
Tomorrow is again the start.
Got to make it count,
Don’t let it get you down.
Forget what is to follow,
It will ruin your day if you do so.
Go exploring,
Keep those ideas pouring.
Time is in your control,
With every thought and idea it is sure to lift your soul.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
It is Sunday
Sundays are rest and wrestling
Are knots knotting in stomachs
Are heavy with food and feelings with no space left for settling
Is a farce, is a distant fallacy like freedom
is not mine to have in the world
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Memories,
Masses,
Sundays,
was there really ever a clue
how to stand
against them
or get through?
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
I think it’s the Sundays that hit me the hardest
Coming down from the high of the weekend only to realize
Oh.
Right.
I have school tomorrow.
And don’t tell me to get over myself
That I’m just
“Overflowing with hormones”
And
“School isn’t that bad,
You just feel the way you do because you’re a teenager”
I mean,
I’m sure that’s part of it,
But really
Who wants to go to a place where they feel stupid and ******
Overwhelmed and helpless
All the ******* time
School isn’t really even about learning anymore,
The average student doesn’t retain the information,
We just cram it into our heads day after day until that glorious time of the year comes--
Summer
And then we forget
But on these tense Sunday evenings,
When i feel the weight of everyone’s crushing expectations of me,
How i should be,
What i should be doing,
What i could be doing RIGHT NOW
OVER
AND OVER
AGAIN
I just feel like going to my room to cry
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
I could wake up next sunday, just maybe
if i make it through these weekend nights.
Anyone could tell me about what I should do,
but maybe I wouldn't push and pull through.
It's a different story, one I couldn't write anymore.
Somber's all I am recently, wish I could be sober.
It's hard to get up in the morning and not wish
to have so much more I could do about all this.
And I've paced my elbow room a couple times,
it feels like I'm a stranger in my own company.
Been vexed by the holy ghost behind my back
about faith I don't have and a father I can't see.
Won't take you a miracle, they told me once.
Said the cigarettes and lighters would suffice.
There's also the aftertaste of saturday's vices,
you'd know how hard it is, wanting to just go.
Because everytime I've told anyone otherwise,
I'm no longer surprised to be called thankless.
Though I've settled with pennies for thoughts:
my talk's cheap, arms open, but i'm still selfish.
Rid the virtues from my system, all but patience,
since I've been waiting on all my oppurtunities
but not for the home I've settled to call my own.
There's a way, I know, that's not how I want to go.
Today, I cried when someone asked about my day
because I've been like this whole weekends long.
My thousand tiny terrors yet again take their toll.
Wait for my sunday matinee, it's the last you'll see.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
Sundays are for writing.
When the excitement of the weekend’s dance has come and gone.
When the laughs and tears and smiles have all been spent and done.
The truth still lingers.
It lies in wait for you to notice it.
“write me down, take note of me,”
it begs and pleads you desperately.
It partners up with happiness and creativity.
The inspirations come flooding in from left and right and down below. With no distractions to bother me, I’ll never tell them no.
My mind is lighting up and racing round at such a speed,
but really,
I’ve most likely smoked a little too much ****
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC