Archive for Sunday poem

The New Sundays

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on January 3, 2016 by dc

They carried the rocks here,
Nothing dropped from the sky
Except ten million years of rain

And all it ever did
Was cry directions
And form its accidental shapes
Oh so slowly.

Now people are out here
Hunting for new truths,
Alive with wit and guile,
Bright eyed and slightly crooked,

Walking dizzy down pathways
Just trying to regulate heartbeats
And find lost, simple thoughts
That unlock their identified traps;

They’ve been told
The fresh air helps
And epiphanies yield better
From up high.

They are dots on a hillside
Freckled under the shadows
Cast by migrating birds
And all they all really want is peace,

The ferns to stop rustling
And the bushes to settle,
The air to stay crisp
And the numbers to lessen,

Wired up to silence and clouds,
Dizzy and ready for baptisms,
They are the new Sundays,
The mass slowly scattered adrift.

A Sunday All Bent

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 23, 2012 by dc

It’s that humdinger comedown,

In the back of our minds
We’re driving meat wagons into rainbows,
Sectioning clowns in the eye of a storm,
Chasing vampires into the sky
And singing our war songs.

In the here and now
There are percussion troupes playing,

Staring out into the aftermath madness,
Alone in a monochrome box room,
Slumped on a window sill,
Watching a glorious misfire all tangled,

We are bruised and over-ripened,
Soft bellied and worried.

Mayhem sits throbbing
On the reverse of the city,
A cornucopia of sun bursts and screaming,
The rioting of the forgotten
Is ongoing,

An angry earthquake of thoughts
Smeared on the back
Of a million torn postcards,
Flapping across pavements
And spinning down side streets;

A b-side apocalypse
With sinister echoes,
‘Beware of the coming!’

Sunk in the flipside of paradise
All strobe flickered greys
And pigeon-holed thoughts,
It’s a new flat world dawn,

Gravity drops amidst the sighing
As puritans tip-toe
Through our guilt,

And the juxtaposed worlds
We create in our hell holes
Sink into dribbling
And afternoon cat naps,

Growling and smothering
Odd dreams across our eyelids.

We have feet in our stomachs
And fingers in our brains,

This is nothing
But a Sunday all bent.

Wrapped in Sheets

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 27, 2009 by dc

I roll around the bed,
Smuggling time and grumbling,
The less I do
The more I fall,
Wrapped in sheets
And calling for conclusions,
Terminally confused,
A drugged cat in a basket,
The sound a rocking chair makes,
A joke called Sunday.

Poetry.net

Drifting Sundays

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 10, 2008 by dc

The rain and the cold beats outside,
Warmth is the sound of our voices,
Confusion is a distant song,
The weather relaxes with time
And to hold you is to know
All is right with the world.

The fat couple in the nearby KFC,
Complaining about the sanitary conditions
And the scarcity of ketchup
Are but a distraction to us now,
A titillating diversion
To a love that holds us tight.

I never thought I would sleep with a smile
And wake without moaning
Till I drank tea in your bed
And let Sundays just drift,
Reading magazines over your shoulder,
Kissing your neck
And thinking of nothing but us.