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Sky Yang Jan 20
.
                                                               ­                where are my clothes...

she wakes with a start,
your little robin and her
bare-breasted sunday morning

                                                        ­                       where. are. my clothes?

the sweet, white milk,
coffee barely missing her lips, i am pushed away yet
cascade down her sweet chin, neck, and out my window
onto the clothesline below

staining her
song: "Creep" by Radiohead
Just big enough for Sundays was Cyril
In his grey shirt and v neck sweater
Following his wife up the road, closely,
He helped carry the shopping from the red bus
The few minutes walk home;
Then as it was Sunday, chicken roast
Then meringue, fruit and cream.

The sitting room was comfy
With two brown velour chairs
Cyril and Joyce sat together
One in each chair to watch the box.

Love Mary ***
Robert G Page Mar 2015
by
rgpage

hollow now my world has grown
with age that time has ****** on me.
from carefree childhood days i'd known,
from days of climbing in a tree.

from summer sunlit mornings
from sundays in the park.
i didn't see time's warnings
or see the sun grow dark.

i didn't see the stranger
who followed me one day.
i didn't sense the danger
as i went off to play.

with eager youth i left from home
the world was my shell.
i didn't see the stranger
who'd lead me to my hell.

i'd lifted weights with youthful ease
these weights now known as life.
did what i wanted as i pleased;
i took myself a wife.

and with my wife we had a child
we had a baby boy.
with carefree sundays in the park
he filled our lives with joy.

we watched his life as he grew strong
'til off to war he went.
he told his mom, "it won't be long
until my journey's spent."

and as his ship pulled from the pier
i saw the stranger's face.
with deep set eyes he blankly starred,
he seemed so out of place.

i felt as if i'd known this man
had known him all my life.
in parks where as a youth i ran
and when i met my wife.

it wasn't long our son had gone
my wife had passed away.
and in the war he followed her
just six months to the day.

old and lonely now i sit
and watch the children play.
on carefree sundays in the park
until that final day.

a day in which the stranger comes
and takes me to my rest.
to my loving wife and son
upon my final breath.
tomorrow you will carry my corpse
I won't say goodbye
10w
Marya123 Feb 3
The scent of coffee lingers in the air
As the poet writes her heart out with flair
Caffeine gave her strength when life made her sad
Her words held her up when no one else had.
remington carter Oct 2016
knocking on hell's gate—
heaven isn't open on sundays
sorry
India May 2018
We perpetuate heartbreak culture,
teaching girls the man who holds her loves her despite the bruises,
or it was her fault; she looked older.
We fetishes shoulders,
prize youth from the young in return for pre-chewed gum,
swallowing tired ideals from those who still wield them like flags,
waving their patriotism on poles of bone before a throne of medieval *******.
They chant mantras with beer stained breath about how 'our' country 'bested' the rest,
but what about the brutality?
The blood split on foreign soil in return for prehistoric oil?
Our land is deemed pure so long as the violence on our hands never reaches our shores,
but the ocean is red and staining our sands.

How can you have pride in a country who's sole identity is based off having the worlds largest navy?
Congratulations. You bombed your way through countless continents, collecting cultures to gather dust on pedestals and alters
We sin on Sundays, drink till we're ****** then wave at the seven deadly's (they don't apply to us here).
We teach preschoolers nationalism before they can walk,
indoctrinate our children before they can talk.
George killed the dragon.
Hood gave to the poor.
we all jumped on the bandwagon before we realised the princess had no choice and the rich still ruled.
There was no voice in the tale for those whose wail could be ignored.

What about those without lines in the script?
Those kicked to the curb, then kicked from it?
Our pavements have no room for nonconformists,
they're tailored to for same mind, same mindless wanderer,
squandering on the lasted polyesters even though that mouth on the street hasn't eaten in over a week.
'God save the Queen' from the vermin;
the homeless have been tossed out of the trash.
Why help them when you could save your cash by turning a blind?
After all, out of sight, out of mind.
Welcome to England, we hope you like what you find
Because we’re not changing it.
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
Johnny walker May 12
As I awoke to Sunday morning  to me Sunday as always seemed a dead day nothing going on such a useless boring
day
For me a very lost and lonely day since Helen passed away I just hate Sunday mornings with
a passion
It's the one day I hate to wake upon with nothing going on and know where Inperticular to go Oh hohate Sunday
mornings
Sundays ever since a kidho always been a dead day
with nothing going on
and no where Inperticular
place Since Helen's been go
Azaria Sep 2018
enfolded in
your abundant legs
i find all the good
things etched
on the surface
of your
skin
like an egyptian
relief painting
you are worth
enough tears
to flood the nile
and re-write the
way the marsh unfolds
like the way i found you:
verdant discoveries
on sundays
and new ways
to say shadane
pragmatic star girl
i add your name
to my mental thesarus
like a new favorite
word
adoring and
absorbing your
lower-case
expressions
like second
nature
come here often?
Alicia Dec 2018
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.
temporary title
T R S Jun 21
Scissors used to be a tool I'd ask my mom for
So I could clip comics from the paper

Sundays were colorful, and full of ads
and deals, and payments for the lives that we had.


Older.
Older and older I learned
that's lives aren't made out of food and water.
But paper and paper ideals.

I spilled on the floor
my heart bleeds on papers

and i bleed on it more and god how I hate her.
L B Nov 2016
Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community.  Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.

Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.
aneeshans Nov 2018
We had a white tea ***,
And some random Sundays
Only a teapot between us
Near an autumn lake
In a faraway places
and endless cups of tea
Where did that go?
Now the only thing that
I can see is someone?
Paint blue in the white sky
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