Quotes about weekday, page 2
Living For The Weekend
I awake eyes half open
Trying to survey the room
Making sense of where I am
A place I know too well
Through the curtains I watch
A half moon cross the sky
While car doors open, close
Engines start and drive away
A train passes into the distance
On the nearby line
I lay there waiting to rise
Shower, dress and catch the bus
Then sit there listen to music
While I stare out the window
Each street, people passing
Its another weekday morning
Another step in the old routine
I reach the office, hang my coat
Switching on the computer
I leave it bleeping into life
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Sunday Morning
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.
poem by Louis Macneice
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Far Rockaway
"the cure of souls." Henry James
The radiant soda of the seashore fashions
Fun, foam and freedom. The sea laves
The Shaven sand. And the light sways forward
On self-destroying waves.
The rigor of the weekday is cast aside with shoes,
With business suits and traffic's motion;
The lolling man lies with the passionate sun,
Or is drunken in the ocean.
A socialist health take should of the adult,
He is stripped of his class in the bathing-suit,
He returns to the children digging at summer,
A melon-like fruit.
O glittering and rocking and bursting and blue
-Eternities of sea and sky shadow no pleasure:
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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Scenes from a Parish
The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.
brings old folks out
from bungalows
around the church.
They move like caterpillars
down sidewalks,
some with canes,
some on walkers.
Young Father Doyle says the Mass
and is renowned for giving
homilies on weekdays
superior to homilies
heard in other churches
even on a Sunday.
After Mass, he goes back
to the rectory to care
for a mother older than
most of his congregants.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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These Winter Sundays
Chinese New Year Eve
i would always hear those banned
crackers blasting away
the old year at the stroke of twelve
- welcoming the new year
by breaking the law
at the first opportunity -
but then Chinese new year
is about frightening away
the nian monster with the ear
splitting sound of fire crackers
as well as to create all the
excitements for the new year
new year though always dawns
on me as if the mystical dragon
has swallowed its fiery ball
to leave the day without light and colours
a jazz piece without its saxophone
and scintillating piano notes
a white world without the
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Start of a home invasion
On a weekday evening
while some people,
were watching the late comedy show
on television, laughing or smiling
when others were dining out romantically,
falling more in love
with candles sparkling
while their eyes glittered
when the extended show
at the cinema Nuevo was almost ending
which was portraying
Romeo and Juliet from Britain by satellite
when a father had helped his son
prepare for the next day’s mathematics test,
the family had already had their evening prayers
a loving husband had kissed his wife goodnight
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Teachers Honor
If you think they're places I won't go your sadly mistaken.
If you think I'm afraid to offend I'm not.
Intentions are blurred by a cascade of words.
Everyone more heart wrenching then the next.
I will confess to the world of my secrets, embarrassing moments, and just outright wrong things I've done.
I will be equal in the humiliation, just so you can see it is not meant to get you angry but teach.
I've always been awe inspired by those who are barely noticed except when your a kid.
Every weekday you listen their sermon as they preach, some more fun then others.
They should all be on a plaque the same place our war time vets name sits.
They deserve as much honor if not more.
They are both the creators of good and evil.
The devil and angel sits on child shoulders, and it is their job to point them in the right direction.
And with so much grey area it is sometimes so hard to tell what is right.
Still decision are made with true guidance.
And when one makes a mistake their treated with the utmost hate no matter how frivolous it might seem.
Why because that is our kids.
A mother bear will destroy with razor sharp claws and giant paws.
So where is the honor, where is the respect? ? ?
These questions I ask because I went to school and since I have left I haven't seen their names once no where mentioned.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Those winter sundays
a single's sunday
bachelor's sunday
lonely as the sun
bright, warm
yet cold as ever
echoes of deserted morn park
reverberated
in lonely hearts
winter's sunday
a bachelor's sunday
the lonely walk
between the skyscrapers
that hid the sun
making the day drowsier
more melancholy
the heart, slayed
bobs up and down
in an ocean of wish
too big for this little frame
the mind tries cheering itself up
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The poet
The poet does the prophet's deeds;
In times of need with new life pregnant,
When strife and suffering are regnant,
His faith with light ideal leads.
The past its heroes round him posts,
He rallies now the present's hosts,
The future opes
Before his eyes,
Its pictured hopes
He prophesies.
Ever his people's forces vernal
The poet frees,-by right eternal.
He turns the people's trust to doubt
Of heathendom and Moloch-terror;
'Neath thought of God, cold-gray with error,
He sees grow green each fresh, new sprout.
Set free, these spread abroad, above,
Bear fruit of power and of love
In each man's soul,
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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Yellow-Covered Almanac
I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling
To daughter Susie’s stylish house right on the city street:
And there was them before I came that sort of scared me, telling
How I would find the town folks’ ways so difficult to meet;
They said I’d have no comfort in the rustling, fixed-up throng,
And I’d have to wear stiff collars every weekday, right along.
I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water;
I like the racket and the noise and never tire of shows;
And there’s no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,
And everything is right at hand and money freely flows;
And hired help is all about, just listenin’ to my call –
But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.
The house is full of calendars from the attic to the cellar,
They’re painted in all colours and are fancy like to see,
But in this one in particular I’m not a modern feller,
And the yellow-covered almanac is good enough for me.
I’m used to it, I’ve seen it round from boyhood to old age,
And I rather like the jokin’ at the bottom of the page.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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