"wednesdays" poems
The perfect night,
Full of light, not flight--
With dreams of olives!
(And feta in our sights!)
The drinks,
The dancing,
Rock n' Roll--
Naked Munchkin fantasy
Stole my soul!
I miss you my sweets,
It's been too long a week.
I'm pining for Cookout,
Divergent, and Wednesdays wearing Pink.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Big Red Truck
When I was young, a child still
My dad worked in the fields
Of our farm. He toiled
Away with his workers all day
Harvesting sod. It all would load
Onto the big red truck.
On Wednesdays at church he would
Drive the big red church straight
From the fields. I always begged
Him to let me ride home with him,
And he would smile and give in.
The big diesel engine would rev up
And I would bounce on my oversized
Seat. The smell of the diesel exhaust,
And the sound of the truck was
Haven to me.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:28 PM UTC
we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad
the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball
and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—
some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
i'm not at all a morning person, but,
could i be your morning person?
i could get up at seven on sundays and make your coffee.
and be up at 2am on wednesdays to hold you while you sleep.
and,
at 4am,
when you feel like your worlds getting too small for all your thoughts,
i'll wake up,
and stay up,
so you can let your imagination over flow into mine just to stop it from spilling out onto the floor.
i'm not a morning person; not at all,
but, could i be your morning person?
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
Imagine all the things I could have been
And all the places I could have seen
I should have married that girl
From Bethnal Green
A beauty queen
So serene
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
Imagine all the books I could have read
All those words now left unsaid
I went out and got ****** instead
Fell down the stairs and broke my leg
10 pints and I’m ready for bed
The day alcohol ruined my life
Mad for it Mondays
Two for one Tuesdays
Wet your whistle Wednesdays
Thirsty Thursdays
Back on the razz on Friday
Just some of the days
Alcohol ruined my life
I could have been professional footballer
One of the greats
And the League’s top scorer
Up there with Bobby Zamora
Sponsored by Adidas and Diadora
Scored an overhead kick
From a ******* corner
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
I should have been a movie star
Champagne and caviar
Me and Arnie in the Terminator
Sunset strip and the boulevard
******* hookers and fast cars
Enough money to fly to Mars
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
The day alcohol ruined my life
I lost my kids
And lost my wife
I woke up in East Fife
On the day
Alcohol ruined my life
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
I hate labels.
so you may ask me why do you compulsively put words and purposes and dates and times on everything you have.
I hate labels but I love organization.
The problem with labels is they rarely tell the whole story.
Labels are short, just a snapshot of the essence that the thing or person boils down to
but I don’t believe anything can really be that simple.
Labels can make everything easier.
You get the main point, the thing that stands out, FAST.
but that’s like starting a story at it’s ****** you get no previous information and that high point that holds so much meaning if you've read the entire story turns flat.
A flat character doesn’t grow or change or feel all that much but they usually have a label.
Labels turn real multidimensional, complicated, interesting people into flat characters.
He is not gay.
She is not a cutter.
and He is not transgender.
They are real people and you cannot possibly fit a person into a single worded description of the thing that stands out about them or makes them different.
That is not enough for me!
The gay guy likes ice cream and romantic comedies, he's afraid of commitment, that scar is from his own blade and he volunteers on Wednesdays.
The cutter is seventeen and she lives with her grandparents. Almost everybody shes loved has walked away.
She has hair the color of sand at the beach and she wants to work in security at the airport so she can finally have control over who leaves and who stays.
The transgender man never felt trapped in the wrong body, the world just told him that his body was wrong. He’s a freshman in college and nobody ever told him how hard it would be. He calls his mom every night because he knows she worries and he cares. He has skin the color of caramel and he desperately wants to get married.
I hope you now understand that a label is never never enough.
You could argue that I’m afraid of being defined and of defining others with just a word,
but if you ask me a fear of labels is a very legitimate, considerate, and justifiable fear to have.
Labels are simply not enough.
And that's why I hate labels.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 3:17 PM 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
I was eating a
burrito
in the kitchen
listening to Bob Dylan
& thinking
about
the taken girl
who shows up at
the bar
on Wednesdays.
She is the last
great
wonder of this world.
I smiled
at
the ceiling and then
turned off
the
radio.
The song was over.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Wednesdays and Fridays:
The only days I jump out of bed
Filled with
happiness.
Passion.
Patience.
Excitement.
I walk into the classroom,
Trade my sadness for a dose of jubilance.
I feel alive again.
A dozen 3 year olds swarm the room,
the melting ***
Labels such as: typical, Downs syndrome, autistic, deaf
Come together to morph into a magical classroom.
“The Tree House Room”.
Differences are not feared in the eyes of these little humans,
They are
embraced.
Accepted.
Loved.
These are the days I live for.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
middle of the week.
a little further than Monday, a little closer to Friday.
in between all the school days.
I am so tired
tired in a Wednesday morning
I just want to get back
to bed and sleep til
Friday greets me
hell week.
the week approaching
the dreadful exams
the week where
students are tortured
and suffer
the week with no guarantee
of sleep and relaxation
but only stress.
I'm so fed up
with the things I'm
supposed to do
many things to be
nervous about
stressing about
complaining about
but it seems that Im
running out of care
to do them
I just want to get this
to get over with
Wednesday
please,
carry me to friday
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
there are a lot of stories happened
in wednesdays.
i met you for the first time
in wednesday.
we become close
because of wednesday.
since then,
wednesday's became my favorite day.
in wednesday,
i see your laugh.
in wednesday,
i laugh because of you.
in wednesday,
we talk much.
but also in wednesday,
we met for the last time.
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 7:58 PM UTC
My blue virtual notepad
My ever willing companion
It's comforting and loyal
Ready to serve at a gentle touch!
Yellow notes are for grocery lists
Red notes are Domino's alarm codes
Purple is my WiFi codes
And orange is for Bible verses
But Blue!
Blue is my old leather sofa
Comfortable, familiar,
Available
Blue is the warm orange log fire
That brings comfort and gives life.
My Blue notepad, like the fire,
Devours what I feed it.
My raw emotion
Unspoken hurt
Anguish, disappointment
Love, Joy, hopes and dreams.
Blue understands that Mondays are red,
Wednesdays are green and Fridays are black.
Blue doesn't mind that number 5 its blue too
Nor that the colour yellow
Is for number two.
Blue knows Enya sounds brown
Vivaldi sounds red
And Vanessa Mae white.
Blue is my blank canvas
My faithful companion
My listening ear
Blue is no mere colour
Blue is Me
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
He was the Weekender Boy
with lips that tasted like salty sea caramel
on lovely Saturday mornings
and caresses that felt like soft warm sunbeams
on lazy Sunday afternoons
Mondays she sat behind him in lecture halls
watching the back of his black-haired head
as he flirted in the front row seats
Tuesdays were him walking past her bench
pinning her in place with those glacier blue eyes
that always turned away to porcelain redheaded dates
Wednesdays it was his calls that came at 3:05AM without fail
and she'd listen patiently to his drunken rants and giggles
that sometimes ended in tears and incoherent apologies
Thursdays he exhaled alcohol breaths one-two-three-four
while laying her down across his green vintage car hood
gentle as she moved lithe and languorous beneath him
Fridays they broke dorm rules and shared a room at night
they stayed up over beer and banana milk
and at sunrise she'd wake up in his arms to his smiling eyes
He was the Weekender Boy,
and she was the only girl who ever owned him on weekends.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
1
The hardest thing you will ever do
Is care for someone who has no interest
In caring for themselves
It is grocery shopping at 2am
Shortly after work
When this morning I realized
There is no food in the house
It is a week’s worth of food I can barely afford
2
Growing up there were 2 churches in my neighborhood
On Wednesdays
The one closest to the elementary school gave away bread
On Fridays
The one near my grandmother’s house gave out canned goods
It was always fun to see what arrived in the big brown boxes
It was like Christmas
Except if it was close to Christmas
Because the boxes were always a little more full than usual around then
3
She sits all day in a robe
Mismatched socks
A cigarette between permanently pursed lips
She is the closest thing to crazy cat lady
That I have seen in real life
Except
These are not cats
These are children
Still dumb enough to not see that something is wrong
4
He is an old man
Doing what old men do
Around the time of forgetfulness
And the time where your body stops doing what you tell it to
Like to not **** your pants
5
They are like houseplants
And goldfish purchased from the same market
Living things whose only interest is dying
Like sheep open mouthed at the beauty of the rain
Sheep sometimes drown in the rain
6
I feel like I’m drowning
In a shallow pond
The kind of drowning that takes effort
And humility
The kind where the gasps of air are enough
To fill me with hope for a little longer
It is water-logged hope
At the bottom of a drying well
When the mouth at the top
Look so much like laughing
7
I know
Airing out your ***** laundry in public
Doesn’t clean your clothes
As much as it lets everyone know how bad you can smell
Which reminds me
I have laundry to do in the morning
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 7:02 AM UTC
Splashing in the salty foam
I caught sight
of a whale.
Not just any whale
but a humpback whale
and I realized
It's wednesday
hump-day
humpback whales swim even on Wednesdays.
Then I realized
it's my birthday
I'm 18
I am an adult
for the first time
in my entire life
& it's gonna be great.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.
Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
I never believed much in a god,
after my dad's death especially.
But then I found her,
and it was like I saw God in her face.
She took me to church,
on Wednesdays, sometimes Sundays.
And we held hands through the service,
so tight, I thought, the angels would have to tear us apart.
I loved her so much,
and I started to believe again.
Then her pastor started to shout,
words of negativity about our kind of love.
My heart fell,
for I could not believe a loving god would hate us just for that.
I slowly drifted further from believing,
and found something new.
But I still went to church,
and sat through the fire and brimstone services.
Then one Sunday, as I got up to leave,
she chased me into the bathroom.
And what happened there,
led me to never again go to church, as a believer.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
if my pen were a surgeon's blade,
cutting edge,
razor-made
to excise secrets suppressed
in closets of guilt
or shame;
like the married bishop
with the mega-church and
tera-ego,
trading ****** fluids
with choir boys
in the 9th grade
on wednesdays,
after bible study...
like the senator
with two right feet
preaching chastity
while playing footsie
with perfect strangers
on public seat # 2...
like the donald's high-ranking apprentice
who pulled the plug on mc
as he slept
then wept like boehner
all the way
to morgan stanley and
dean witter,
allegedly...
like the mayor out west
with pinocchio's nose
and jefferson's zest
for extra-marital ***
lies
and belligerence...
like the late king
of pop
who so hated
his beautiful black skin,
he beached it white
then paid m. lester
of similar hue
a loot times two
to weave a blanket,
conceive a prince
and deliver a french city,
allegedly;
I would be a lyrical surgeon
with a passion
for incisive prose,
spilling truths hidden,
whole and half
with the cutting edge
of a poet's pen
~ P (#Pablo#ls)
(8/14/2013)
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
in twenty one days, on the twenty first of may, you will be turning twenty one.
twenty one seemed so far away when you were growing up. i remember how you pictured twenty one year-old you, with wavy jet-black hair, thin bones and a radiant smile.
your hair is wavy right now, thanks to the rain that hasn't stopped falling; your bones are the thinnest they've ever been; and i think you've got a pretty radiant smile. so, three out of three, i guess.
and your life is better than what you dreamed.
you are surrounded by so much goodness.
your mondays, tuesdays, wednesdays, thursdays and fridays are filled with the laughter of fifteen children that steal your phone to take selfies and give you hugs that leave you breathless.
you have the friends you have always wanted. it took you a while to find them, but they're here now. they are your home.
you are doing beautiful things with your life. your words are in books, in journals and in people's hearts.
your life is more than life. it is light and fire and bravery and hope and a song.
and you are loved.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Polly had a delicate situation
Was zinged by a witch last spring
Which engendered a condition which did cling:
On Tuesdays she was a girl
Who liked scented candles and flowers
And stickers of dragons with magical powers
On Mondays and Wednesdays she was a boy
Who loved dirt bike racing & spicy bok-choy
Thursdays she was a socialist vegan
Fridays a long armed gibbon
And on Saturdays she became, to the chagrin & horror
Of her pets and paramour
A Tea Parti colored Republican!
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
"Monday morning, oh no, not again,
Still 5 days of school until the week-end",
That's what I hear every now and then,
And I'm the only one who doesn't complain
Because I know that today, and tomorrow,
And every day of the whole week,
I'll see your face, your smile, and also
I'll hear your laugh that makes me go weak.
And my friends tell me all the time
That it's weird for me to feel attracted to you,
Because well, you're different that anyone
You're not like the others, that is true.
You don't look like the girls I dated before,
You have nothing in common with them
But on wednesdays, when I walk through the door,
I feel the love I lost coming back up again.
That's what I like about you, as you can see
I forget about my problems and my broken heart,
I just like you being close to me,
I always look for you when we're apart.
But... This feels like something forbidden,
This king of thing never happened to me,
It's scaring me and I'm like frozen.
Is this... Am I... ? No, I can't be...
I fear the day I'll have to admit it,
But being with you makes my mind jump with joy.
I think I like you, maybe a tiny bit..
My God, save me, I'm in love with a boy.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Face like the button on my shirt he undoes with his teeth.
Autumn shortly, middle of the week
Your voice a charming, warm day at the beach.
His eyes chocolate, melting treat-
yet cool to the core
I bet your sugar tastes so sweet.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.
What a view.
10% me
90% what I never thought I would be
"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."
I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.
I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.
The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.
There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.
The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...
I think it's time for a walk.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
One
Two
Three
Sundays are grey
Mondays are blue
Wednesdays are green
Bright and light
Black and white
Rainbows reunite
Stars
Stones
Diamond
Gold
Shimmering
Splendid
Wave
Through
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 5:16 AM UTC