"saturdays" poems
I run downtown with the homeless on some Saturdays
Angelo and I ran together one sunny Saturday
He talked about the days when he ran track in high school
It was his high water mark of his life
top of the world then
the next year his mom moved to a different neighborhood
different set of friends going no where good
he never went anywhere good after that
running from the cops ditching the drugs on the ground
Angelo was a person trying to figure out how to get to a better place
to a new cycle, a new system
no good role model, bad friends, no support system and bad choices
he said the shelter is similar to prison, "the food they serve makes you fat at both places"
I don't know how to get out and no one listens to me he told me
If anything, I listened.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Saturday.
what a glorious time of week.
laundry hangs on the clothesline,
the ghosts of the week left to dry
as we softly stare out the window, chalky panels
between crusting paint. Attempting to
listen to the silence,
muffled by words, we discussed
a day free of demands, and the boy
in his blue shirt, with his ball.
If I were to wish anything on anyone
it would be a year full of
Saturdays.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
Camel crush cigarettes
Put them in a fancy box
No, I’m too poor to buy them
But if you pass’em
Then I won’t say no.
People say that it’s unclean
That you’re unclean
That they’re unclean
You smell like a hotel room
And it’s comforting.
Camel crush cigarettes
Your hugs speak of the habit
No, take your precious smoke break
**** it clean to dust
Barreling into death.
People say that it’s unwise
That you’re unwise
That they’re unwise
You smell like drunken Saturdays
And it’s delicious.
Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never felt addiction
No, I don’t think that I could
It’s a scarlet dreamland
With one-way tickets.
People say that it’s unkind
to lungs and mind
They’re right, I find.
But you look like abandon
And it’s inviting.
Camel crush cigarettes
I’ve never loved a smoker
No, I’d always been too proper
But if you tasted like that
I wouldn’t mind a bite.
People say that you’re catering
To your un-ease
With a disease.
You feel like contradiction,
And I’m depraved.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
Sunday, Jim would walk in the Park.
When he was young Mom and Dad would come too, but each
Sunday, Jim would walk in the Park.
Sometimes on Saturdays or Tuesdays they would go, but
Sunday, Jim would walk in the Park.
Sometimes through the rain,
sometimes through the snow,
sometimes through the fog, and
especially through the sunshine, each
Sunday, Jim would walk in the park.
When Jim was 12, his parents allowed Jim
to adopt a puppy from the Animal Shelter.
Jim named named the Puppy Al. Each
Sunday, Jim and Al would walk in the Park
Soon after Jim's parents stopped walking in the park
because Jim felt he was too old to walk with Mom and Dad . Each
Sunday, Jim and Al would walk in the Park and
Jim would think about his Mom and Dad and
carry them in his heart
Jim and Al got older and went off to College in Boston. Each
Sunday Jim and Al would walk in the Park.
One Sunday Jim met Sara in the Park, from then on each
Sunday, Jim, Al, Sara and Sara's dog Charlotte would walk in the Park.
Soon Jim and Sara graduated from College and found jobs and each
Sunday, Jim Al, Sara, and Charlotte would walk in the Park.
Soon Jim and Sara had a baby girl they named Emily, and each
Sunday, Jim, Al, Sara, Emily and Charlotte would walk in the Park.
But one year as Al got older he was unable to make the walk any more
and soon he passed away. But each
Sunday, Jim, Sara, Emily and Charlotte would walk in the park and carry the memories of Al and Mom and Dad in their hearts. And soon, Jim and Sara had another child that they named Bob. Each
Sunday, Jim, Sara, Emily, Charlotte and of course Bob would walk in the Park
And because dogs don't live as long as humans Charlotte too got older and and soon she too passed away. But each
Sunday, Jim, Sara, Emily and Bob would walk in the park
and carry the memories of Al, Charlotte Mom and Dad with them
in their hearts.And the years passed, Emily and Bob got older, but each
Sunday, Jim and Sara and sometimes Emily and Bob would walk in the park.
Then Emily left and went to College and soon after Bob did too, but each
Sunday, Jim and Sara would walk in the park and talk of Bob and Emily
and sometimes of Al and Charlotte and Jim's parents and Sara's parents."
Then Sara passed, Cancer, inoperable stage four, Still
Sunday, Jim would walk in the Park and think about Sara and Bob and Emily and and Al and Charlotte, some
Sunday's Jim would get a little tear, other Sunday's a little smile as he remembered the good times and the bad.
Copyright 2010 Michael Lee Williams.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 11:46 AM UTC
My dear friends
Go on and enjoy yourselves
Slumber the morn away!
It seems early on Saturdays
I've always far to much to attempt to convey
While my few kind heart-ed followers
Tend to sleep their mornings hours
Peacefully in and out of REM
While I'm at the computer rhyming again...
It's late
You passed your chance for early waking
Hell you miss out on a great early baking!
And now it's far past time for eggs and bacon
The munches, as you can guess
Have all been forsaken
And what did you achieve
With extra sleep
Morning dreams of distorted thoughts
Poetic themes now subconsciously lost?
I know, I know
You made wonderful love the night before
And you need your beauty rest
I read your writing, I get it
you are so blessed!!!!
I went to bed alone and played
With the thoughts of someone wanting me
I wish my poems could reflect
But all they do is bleed
How I envy all my followers
If I offend
Give me a holler
You've been hanging out late
With a habits to itch
We all have a role to play
Unfortunately
By the time you get around to reading this
I'll either be asleep
Or on my way!
.....
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
I am honest but I lie to myself.
I am vain & I am intolerant.
I am an active advocate of my morals
but I am unsure that they exist.
I am not convinced my friends know me-
I am not convinced that I know me.
Sometimes I laugh all day long
& then I cry myself to sleep.
I worry there are too many thoughts inside my head.
I worry I don’t think enough.
I call myself complex
but I am so simple on Saturdays.
I do not have a favorite anything
nor do I have a soft spot for anyone.
However, all I am is soft on certain Sundays.
I’ve been fearless & I’ve been terrified both on a Friday.
I answer “no” & then do it anyway.
I don’t believe in love but I fall in and out of it
as you think out loud.
I am consumed with emotion.
I am numb.
I like the way the sun feels against my skin
but I sit in the shade.
I am compassionate
& I hate everyone.
I am a wallflower
but I am obnoxious.
I quit smoking months ago
but *** me a cig & watch me inhale it.
I am 8 & I am 18 & I am 80 in an hour.
I cant do math in my mind
but I subtract you from
and add you to the equation twice every week.
I’ll pick you apart for hours
& then tell you that you have weak values.
I am a diagnosed insomniac
but I can sleep from 6am to 6pm on a Monday.
I preach self-love with bleeding wrists.
I will call you in the middle of the night
& then ignore you in the morning.
I am the most clear minded psychopath who ever lived.
I am so incredibly happy & so terribly sad.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
You can sleep at night.
I have to take tranquilizers
to stay asleep and
I'm not the one
proclaiming to be
"The Jerry Sandusky"
of the correctional facility
and I can't sleep at night.
Lately I toss and turn
thinking about the
deafening silence
after a single shot
and the dogs
left in the house to
clean up the blood
before anyone else
finds him.
Congratulations,
that you are happy with
yourself.
Congratulations,
that you are comfortable
in your
pederastic, putrid
wrinkled and washed up
skin.
Mine is white and soft,
and I can't stand
to be in it on
Mondays, Tuesdays,
Wednesday, Thursdays
and Saturdays
because half of that skin
is your skin, your brain
but
like I said,
congratulations that
you've declared your
noble head
"Grown Up" at 60, old man.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
I learned on the Saturday I met you that "love at first sight" is a serious illness.
It infects the body and consumes it whole, leaving nothing but happiness and affection in place of the empty, hopeless shell it once was.
I learned on Tuesday that good music and Star Wars references assist the speeding up process of a first kiss,
And just how good knowing that it would be your last first kiss ever felt.
On Wednesday, I learned how hard it was not to say "I love you" out loud.
Instead, I resorted it to silently mouthing the phrase when your head is turned.
On Thursday, I learned that you like to swirl the New York Cheesecake and Red Velvet Cake flavors of frozen yogurt, just like I do.
It reminded me of the concept of being soulmates. Our secret dance reminded me of a movie from the 1920s. Thank you, Louis Armstrong, and the lake in San Angelo for providing the perfect atmosphere.
I learned on Friday how easy it is to talk to the person you love for seven hours.
I also learned that I don't care how tired I look in the first photograph we took together, because I've been a different person since last Saturday.
On the second Saturday that I met you, I learned how hard it is to watch a movie alone with you while your lips are so close to mine.
I learned a lesson on willpower, and also that it's easier if we watch movies in theaters. But even theaters can't keep us from sneaking kisses every once in a while.
That day I learned how easy it is to dance beautifully with the soulmate you've known only for a week.
I also learned that I'm not the only person who sees the beauty I see when we are together. I glanced over your shoulder during the Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, only to see our group of friends staring at us in awe. It didn't distract me from the butterflies I had from your arm being around me.
Later that same night, I learned how anxious I feel, slipping love notes into your pocket, and saying goodbye, if only for two weeks.
That week, I learned that two Saturdays is all it takes to make you certain of whom you want to spend the rest of your life with.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
A four-year-old was perched in front of
a boxy TV with eyes only open to
sugar-coated Cheerios and 80’s Transformer heroes
on the screen.
Fast forward to age
thirteen where she flipped through
dusty photography with
eyes searching
for substance
to prove reality from almost-forgotten dreams.
Scrapbook memories aren’t
all that she sees
because,
honestly,
she loses things.
Summer Saturdays and
Fall Fridays and
Winter weekdays spent too wrapped up in her
own head to notice, silently, spring rising
from its deathbed.
Honestly, she loses things.
She
loses
things that should be important
and real, but all she can feel is
the guilt of lost
and faded photography.
Scrapbook memories fabricate times of
color and scent and sound,
of spilled milk and Diet Coke,
of words too far gone to seep from
pen to page because
honestly,
she loses things.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
This way to the show, folks
The most amazing show you have ever seen
Bigger, wider, deeper
Wondrous and terrifying
More beautiful than your dreams
Uglier than you can imagine
And all for free
If you speak very loosely, that is
Watch your step son
Don’t trip on the unintended consequences
Step right this way
There’s no time like the present
In fact there’s no time left at all
Take a peek behind the curtain if you dare
What’s the worst that could happen
Probably best not to think too much about it
See the man without a plan
Watch him stumble through life
Be amazed as he defies death on the streets
His struggles with addiction will amuse you
Enjoy the bitterness of his regrets
Be stupefied by the clueless wonder
Taken advantage of at every turn
Thrill as he turns into the human doormat
Feel free to wipe your shoes on him
He likes it, really
Prepare your senses for the shock of
The compassionate woman
Stand bewildered as she is betrayed by lovers
Gasp as she weeps for people she does not know
Make her a promise as you leave fellas
You will make her day
You will be stunned by the man who is not like you
Be horrified at his minor differences
Criticize all his perceived flaws
Feel free to mock him, he is used to it
What’s that ma’am
No don’t feel sorry for them
They like it here
Three hots and a cot you know
Only some humiliation each night
And twice on Saturdays
Come one, come all
Leave the show smug and satisfied
About how much better you are
Than these miserable examples of failure
All this and more and not one penny to enter
The only fee is part of your humanity
Just drop it in the box right here
On your way in
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
What colour are Mondays?
Red? Well mine are.
The same colour
you’d imagine a headache to be,
tomatoes, morello cherries
or like a nosebleed.
Does that mean Tuesdays are blue?
That mouthwash shade,
brain-freeze after a Slushie.
Wednesdays? Perhaps purpley-pink
as burning potassium,
Parma Violets under your tongue.
Thoughts on Thursdays? Fake-tanned,
tangerine skin, the ugliest orange
for the ugliest day.
But Fridays are a healthier green,
think telephone-pole celery,
cucumber truncheons and kiwis.
Saturdays then? Funeral black
speckled with brown sugar
though Sundays are white.
Hurts-your-eyes-like-snow white,
almost transparent, for they come
and dash by with no tone in-between.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Pastels and pretty pictures,
I lean back in the couch,
The elephant in the room,
She'll never know about,
How the critics wail over the way the paint falls off her brush.
I would rather drop-dead,
Than ever talk about
That night back in 07'
Teeth flying out my mouth,
But I think you would've liked me better then anyhow,
I'm curious...
I'm curious...
...I'm curious....
..Cause
I
just
wanna
see
what
makes
you
tick
Each year he writes a note
and leaves it in his room,
Key lime pie, Saturdays at the zoo,
Reminiscing flashbacks of better fast food,
Dead the day,
He scurries home in the dead of night,
Dragging his will, whats left, shaking off the frostbite,
Volunteers to play drunken clown for another night,
I think of their eyes and everything that they've seen,
Nothing that I see could ever be unique,
So don't you lie and say you see it shining in me.
I'm curious...
I'm curious...
...I'm curious....
..Cause
I
just
wanna
see
what
makes
you
tick
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Homophobia is not funny.
Care to hear what is?
The wrenching fear boring holes in your best friend’s once bright eyes
every Thursday afternoon, when she must enter a changing room filled with hostile glares
The violent purple bruise re-emerging beneath your brother’s left eye
the same bruise he told your mother about three weeks ago
that he’d “gotten in a rugby accident”
The gnawing feeling of loneliness in your classmate’s stomach as she lies in an otherwise empty bed
no longer able to hold her girlfriend’s hand in public
following a run-in with her mother at the supermarket
The boy next door who can’t bring himself to leave his bed
Immobilized with anxiety and wrapped up in the sheets
(it’s been six days, nine hours, and forty-two minutes since he told his best friend.)
The young woman who serves you your coffee on Saturdays
living on less than minimum wage for three years now
Since her mother left her to the streets
The kind boy you used to date, he’s been single for years
Caught and confused between miserable safety
and endless happiness
- - -
I lied before.
Not an ounce of wit lies within these words.
This is simply
an open letter to homophobes:
Find some ******* ******* originality for your jokes.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Sunday night is a dull hum
constantly buzzing in my ear
Sunday night is a broken clock
hands stuck at five to five
Sunday night is experiencing technical difficulties
bars of black, white, and other colors
Sunday is so high it can't get off the couch
was that somebody knocking at the door?
Sunday night is so drunk
it fell asleep in the closet
only to wake up thinking
this doesn't look like my bed
Sunday night is trying out for varsity
only to make the practice squad
Sunday night is a suburban strip mall
at five AM on a Monday
I took my Sunday nights
and poured them in a glass
downed it in one gulp
and projectile vomited
all over my Monday through Saturdays
I took my Sunday nights
and put them on a page for you
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
I learned on the Saturday I met you that "love at first sight" is a serious illness.
It infects the body and consumes it whole, leaving nothing but happiness and affection in place of the empty, hopeless shell it once was.
I learned on Tuesday that good music and Star Wars references assist the speeding up process of a first kiss,
And just how good knowing that it would be your last first kiss ever felt.
On Wednesday, I learned how hard it was not to say "I love you" out loud.
Instead, I resorted it to silently mouthing the phrase when your head is turned.
On Thursday, I learned that you like to swirl the New York Cheesecake and Red Velvet Cake flavors of frozen yogurt, just like I do.
It reminded me of the concept of being soulmates. Our secret dance reminded me of a movie from the 1920s. Thank you, Louis Armstrong, and the lake in San Angelo for providing the perfect atmosphere.
I learned on Friday how easy it is to talk to the person you love for seven hours.
I also learned that I don't care how tired I look in the first photograph we took together, because I've been a different person since last Saturday.
On the second Saturday that I met you, I learned how hard it is to watch a movie alone with you while your lips are so close to mine.
I learned a lesson on willpower, and also that it's easier if we watch movies in theaters. But even theaters can't keep us from sneaking kisses every once in a while.
That day I learned how easy it is to dance beautifully with the soulmate you've known only for a week.
I also learned that I'm not the only person who sees the beauty I see when we are together. I glanced over your shoulder during the Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, only to see our group of friends staring at us in awe. It didn't distract me from the butterflies I had from your arm being around me.
Later that same night, I learned how anxious I feel, slipping love notes into your pocket, and saying goodbye, if only for two weeks.
That week, I learned that two Saturdays is all it takes to make you certain of whom you want to spend the rest of your life with.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Do you remember when I was younger?
Do you remember when you would wash my hair because it was too long for me to do it myself?
Do you remember taking me to school in the morning and buying me breakfast on the way there?
Or maybe when we would go to yard sales on Saturday and you would buy me old prom dresses and costume jewelry for me to dress up in?
Do you remember when I developed separation anxiety and had to sleep with you every night?
Now, I wash my own hair because I cut the long lengths of it off.
Now, I take myself to school in the morning and buy myself breakfast on the way.
Now, I work on Saturdays to save up for my prom dress.
Now, I sleep alone, clinging to my pillow.
Now, I miss you more than ever before.
I miss when you had hair as long as mine.
I miss when you would do my makeup and tell me that I hardly needed any at all.
I miss when you would play outside with me.
I miss when you would rub my back and hold me, whispering that everything would be okay.
I miss when I had someone to talk to, someone to tell how my day went.
I miss your smile, the way your lips curled into thin lines and your gums showed.
I miss your eyes, the same deep dark chocolate brown as mine.
I miss your voice, the soft yet raspy one that would wake me up every morning.
I miss you, mom.
And I don’t think there will ever be a day when I don’t miss you.
Some days are harder than others.
Some days I can hardly function,
And others, I wake up as if there is nothing wrong.
But deep in my heart, there is a hole.
One that can never be filled.
It just slowly drips out loneliness,
And it makes me miss you more and more.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
I love rainy Saturdays
Laying in bed all wet
Thunder booms
Lightning strikes
Little Droplets fall
Between my thighs
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
(not much of a poem)
Thrice awake, asleep, again awake
Something always wakes me up
The phone sounded, nobody answered
Procession and vigil ended
Late fireworks echoed through this Black Saturday night..
I'm deciding: to cease, or not to cease
I can't find my desired peace
To find lost journals, or just burn what's left, old and new
To start or not to start, a life anew
To rise, or just lie through this hot evening
My late mother said then: Black Saturdays are days...rarely ending
Black Saturdays are for resurrecting...celebrating...
This late night, it is segue-ing, to an Easter morning
While dogs are barking, while gecko is calling
Cats are quiet, where are they stashed? where could they be hiding?
Here...now... I am a car, my motor is hushed...but i am still running...
Sally
Copyright April 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
words in my mouth
Democracy
is like poetry
only nice
when it flatters us
French culture
is about the female believing
she is beautiful
Perfume
even the expensive one
is not about cleanliness
the Louvre
had everything
except a proper loo
Small hotel in Paris
hot water for shower
only on Saturdays
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Sometimes I think poets are full of ****
Because so many of them use beautiful words,
When talking about birds.
I mean I only notice birds:
When they wake me up at nine am on Saturdays
Or **** on my dark colored car
Or mock my bored-eyed cat
Or beg for my sandwich at the beach
Honestly when you talk about listening to birds tweeting,
I think first of Twitter.
And when you talk about birds playing,
I think of professional football.
And even when you talk about the cool birds, the night birds,
I think of a particularly disturbing YouTube video of an owl's head going all the way around.
Yeah, I think what you guys like most about birds,
Is that they're easy to rhyme with words.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
Years will pass, and I will become a man
I've always thought of you as a woman
Your sophistication as a person amused me so much I could study you all day and not learn anything but the love that has always been there
Every step you took, was a line of beautiful poetry
Your life is an endless poem, and everything you did for me dug a whole in my heart and filled it with care and made me feel silly
You were the drug I didn't want to let go of
I didn't care if you made me go crazy, because it was a good kind of crazy
The kind of crazy you're proud to be
The kind of crazy that people envied
I don't remember much when I'm touching Gods feet
But I do remember when I used to call you and I used to talk about the stupidest things
My eyes were red, and everything in my room was blurry, but the sound of your voice made everything so simple, clear, and it soothed the ground I was stepping on
You made my Saturdays worth dressing up and cleaning my room to impress you
My mother told me you were the most joyful person she has ever met, I guess she saw the happiness you brought to my house
When you came over, you made my environment feel like a home
I always thought my room was missing something, now I know it was your laugh and love that filled up the rest of my room
You gave me house a Christmas feeling, I really don't know how those feelings are, but I read on the internet that it those type of feelings make you feel happy
I guess you were my Christmas feeling, I'm sure of it
The way you sat on my bed, the way you laughed at me acting like a fool
You're the poem I'll never get tired of reading
You're the movie I'll never get tired of watching
You're the TV show I'll keep up with every series
You're the social network I'll be addicted to
You're the lips I'd love to kiss every morning
You're the person I want to bring orange juice to when we wake up
People asked me why I let you go, the truth is I'm more of a giving person
Honesty is pain, but someone was dying, and I had to save them
I didn't care If I lost everything, I just wanted her to be happy because I knew we'd be together someday
I'm overjoyed at the thought that she's happy for accepting who she really was
I'm overjoyed that you have someone now
If receiving meant being alone in terms of being with somebody
I don't care
I see both of you smiling in the hallways, and It's fine
I'm more of a giving person like I said
It's 10 pm, and I don't think I'm getting any sleep today
I've been meaning to write this for a while
I can't tell you this in person, neither can I text you it
So I write to the people who scroll down on this website to see peoples vents and forms of expression through the art of writing
I miss you, and I love you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Abandoned Love!
I thought our love was more than material things;
the fun times we had, laughing at each other silly jokes.
Sending you messages every three hours everyday!
I prayed for our love to last every minute of each day.
Finding excuses to be in each other’s presence;
The long hours on the phone,
the sneaky getaways on Saturdays to the movies
Our rebellious but clean acts!
I thought every ounce of it was real!
But then it happened!
Insecurities kicked in!
The want for material things took precedence over the love I had for you!
Through trying times, you had no remorse!
The skeleton exposed his dry bones!
The heart I thought was sacred, was just old wood waiting for a fire to catch!
Your heart turned to coals!
And your reflection on love was dark as evil!
Can't believe I placed my trust in the hands of the joker
And not the King!
I ask myself " What does it profit a man to gain the world and loose his soul?"
The lost of loved ones and eternal life!
How could the lifeless have preference over the living!
That shows you are another heartless being.
'Greater love has no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends'
And I neglect this unfailing love!
For a bag of dry bones!
I took his love for granted; the Creator, the Father, the true lover of our souls for flesh!
I guess my playing small serves me right!
But his greatness made me new!
Afroray
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Fridays are my saving grace
driving from my end to yours
finally feeling your lips against mine
Saturdays are spent in your arms
in your bed and around town
smiling as though tomorrow'll never come
Sundays are when it all ends
spent trying to pry me from your clutch
and praying for Friday to come again
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
(fictional tale of real beverages)
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin
*
they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
I was born at night tall like swagger cane
A Friday's child - delivered with muse
That was fortunate enough for my parents
Oral poetry poured plentiful in the morning
That's what Saturdays are good for
Teachers worn their loincloth lose
As wine and fish soup flowed at ease
While farmers set out to burn in the sun
Now you'll understand why I chose not to be
a Saturday's child, I dread to be a farmer
Heavy drinking may not be my fate as well
It sure sets the mood right for what's right
I took sides with either of the two vices
I pitched my tent where grace and virtues lies
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC