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September Roses Jul 2018
As the sun slowly sets
The precursor to the week
With deadlines,
                            Orders,
                            ­               Oh so bleak
The calm before the storm
  Too restless to enjoy
For everybody knows
     It's sunday's melancholy ploy

    Responsibilities loom overhead
     Our heart as heavy as the air
      The world has now gone silent
              We sit in subtle fear
Hope White Jun 2017
I didn't even ask
To be your sun
Or your moon.

All I wanted
was to be
Your Sunday afternoons.

How many empty calendars spaces
I wasted,
Waiting for you.
laura May 2018
she’s blazing ease
young summer, things
are kinda difficult
when i don’t know how to drive
says he likes my body
and i don’t know how to feel
when i don’t see my body
the same way he does

odd serendipities
the sun stupefying, thick grass
tangles beneath our thighs
and our ceiling is the sky
adrift in a reverie
but it feels so strange
sunday uncanny
playing around with odd satisfaction
s May 2018
The kisses get ******,
*** follows routine.
The dishes pile up,
waiting to be cleaned.
There are six fresh eggs
to be cracked and framed,
while the washing machine sings
its closing tune, unnamed.
Tea comes to a boil,
toasts drizzled with honey.
Geyser's warming up
the yolks are runny.
Breakfast at midday
and dinner's a supper
who's keeping time
when Sunday comes over.
Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

8/27/17
6:35pm
Tommy Randell Sep 2017
Sunday's always slow on HePo
I guess it's the morning after the night before
Poets on a binge downing cocktails of words
Knocking back shots of full strength adverbs
Roaming the streets looking for a Slam
Mixing it up with other writers on the lam

Authors and Copywriters, Journos and Hacks
Having a night off to get their mojo back
Mixing it up with the masters of Rhyme
The kings of metaphor and the fast ... punch ... line
A quick iambic with a Martian twist
Getting it down with the New Formalists

Can't blame them for having some fun
For not getting that daily poem done
But Hello? Poetry! Is now my goto place
When I wake up to my Hello<Poetry face
I don't want Sunday to be quiet and hung-over
I'm in bed and I'm ready and ******* I'm sober!

Tommy Randell 17th Sept 2017
Playing with all kinds of things here as well as referencing HePo's seemingly random ubiquitous titling games :
'Martian Twist' is of course a reference to Martian Poetry (qv) followed by another to The NewFormalists. Overall, the fact writing is some kind of drug for us with the (often) letdown after a writing binge!

'<' is as usual pronounced 'less than' 8-)
laura Oct 2018
Lazy sundays with the sad glow
there’s nothing to be sad about
except that it is all over
of course, my one day off vanished

outside blowing meager paychecks
emerald hillsides topped with leaves
abutting, climbing the city
plunged into histories soon gone

like the cold, gold sun gleaming off
the ribbon of the tarmacked road
we returned to from our escape
peering back through the car’s windshields
okay that last one was too pretentious and came off way wrong, so i deleted it. it’s dead now
Sam Hawkins Mar 2016
considering the lilies of the field
palms laid down

blue white arizona desert flower
sweet blooming oh

considering sunlight
moonlight

mourning dove
hello

i ride into my jerusalem
singing

beautiful moment
full everywhere
Breathless
You leave me
On a fine day
In the hot summer
Craving
Yearning for
A cool breeze

You’re majestic
A flower petal
Beautiful and sweet
The nectar
The pollen
In the summers heat

In the yard
Sunbathing
Soaking in the sun
Lemonade
And ice
Dancing on my tongue

Birds chirping
Bees buzzing
Bright and green
And blue
Heat wave
On a Sunday afternoon
Inspired
Nazrana Kalil Sep 2018
You fill me to the brim
Like coffee on a Sunday morning.
Ive always loved that about you, you never gulped, you never rushed.
You paused inbetween, inhaling the brewed coffee beans.
You dipped into the cup with love and wonder,
Always took little sips to make the feeling last longer.
Olga Valerevna Apr 2017
I've written you so many letters
"Goodnight" before bed, yellow sun
The first of the seven I cradled
my very first beautiful one  
you helped me to walk when I couldn't
I borrowed your strength when we left
we crossed every ocean together
so let me return every breath
Remember my arms when you're tired
they'll hold you up high when I'm gone
believe me when I say I love you
remember our favourite song
remember.
Mark Upright Mar 2015
an ample empty Sunday
nothing on the agenda,
the calendars cease their chirping,
it's a kinda free rarely heard

maybe will go see a movie,
walk alongside the East River currents,
rushing somewhere we don't have to be,
maybe we will practice rolling on the floor,
visiting and winding up the grandkids,
then escaping/leaving them with parents,
crazy high and wet & dry

maybe I'll cancel some credit cards,
crack open the briefcase of deferred questions,
have pizza for breakfast,
write half a dozen baker's poems,
finish some more of Dr. Zhivago,
that I started several years ago,
maybe, I'll keep her ******* in our bed,
releasing her when she releases me  
because I released her first

yup,
an empty day ahead
full of the oscillating,
a true east/west directionless
vibrating range of
ample possibilities
Paul Marfil Aug 2018
The moment my hands come
                                      to meet in prayer

     know that I am holding
        two broken fists             held together 

                    by lola's rosary beads            
       so tight against my skin        
                                             
you will mistake them
                          for blood clots.

                                 It is difficult to pray
  inside an unfinished church:

       A welder goes about
                              joining iron

                                 the way one gathers
his ironies before prayer.

  The sound he makes becomes too
           shredded it could be the sound of

metal screaming for mercy. At the back
             a woman stretches her hand

like a five o' clock shadow. Something
           holy stands frozen in time. Say pray

for us. She lights a candle.
                      When the fire went out, she is

pressed back into the dark. The last time
                         I was asked to write

            something for the Lord, I ended up
worshipping my own silence.

                           There is a sin a knee
          could no longer carry. I am sorry.

     Forgiveness is a room
                         with a door left ajar.

                                                    You are
         inside that room.

                   I know my chances will expand
          like an earthy bough, I know

one of them will break
                at the welcome of confession.

           You are...     

Perhaps hell is for those
               who used the wrong adjectives.

                A churchman opens a window,
   pours out a summer's worth of light—

    see it fall between the pews like sand
                 between one's fingers. Here

            where there is no light, anything
that shines will feel like a judgement.

Tell me how can one hold a prayer
          the way an empty hand can hold

     so much waiting. Tell me how can one
not weep in the shadow of a gospel

and see the light where it is aimed at.
              Somewhere down here

                    there is a worn down piano
            that never doubts

         the hand that plays it.
                                  It could be me.

     Perhaps at the worst end
                            of having a choice

          is the consequence of guilt. Perhaps
this is how things should have ended: us

        raising an amen
                                      
                     ­                         to our lips.
kevin hamilton May 2017
lost Sunday
i travelled light on cemetery rd.
flinching at every sound
of the whistling oaks
coming after me

i was sick but i didn't know
hushed by the fire
on the horizon
and the footsteps at my back
through crystal snow

believe me, i was sick
i was a drunken punk
in the soy fields
sleeping giant  
in a ring of salt
Savannah Oct 2018
Floral pattern grazing wood floors,
Into my tea sunshine pours.

Birds chirp and sing,
carnations sway and swing.

To my fortunate delight,
this is how I write,
early morning prose.
sonnets softly serenade
scenes surrounding sunday shade
strumming soothing subtle strings
sweetly singing songs she seeks
a poem
Glass Jul 2018
the incipient
has salvaged the insides of a
censorious pastiche, where moiety details the nightstand
of expectation and sudden camaraderie
simplifying the closure of starvation that “promethean”
is visual ‘orange zest’
a
honeysuckle caramelization where there are two
romantics buried with guilt, and a master chess player that
recalls to be a citrus therapy and every "Sunday paper" is filled
with oceanic opulence discussing religious iconography
and I visualize a yellow moon cactus
obscene changes in a grey prolific office;
an expostulate (rescind) but avoidance is in an empty
peach pit; an exploitation becoming a strange
admiration

- G
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