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Onward Christian soldiers
Lord’s day
and I mine with my pen
no time for war
Poems on the topic: sunday
Poems on the topic “sunday” on Poets.by.
Khayyamesque
Lord’s day. My Lord preached:
“To whom much is given, of him
much is required.”
I took her to my Lord’s wine garden
where I was exceeding free with her
and she free as me.
Sunday morning
all the morning to herself
and a gown for me—
the paper
Monday Syndrome
In the fleeting moments that fall
In between fleeing from one task to another
At the back of my mind, desparate, I wonder
How to freeze Time to an eternal Sunday!
Ploughing on Sunday
The white cock’s tail
Tosses in the wind.
The turkey-cock’s tail
Glitters in the sun.
Water in the fields.
The wind pours down.
The feathers flare
And bluster in the wind.
Remus, blow your horn!
I’m ploughing on Sunday,
Ploughing North America.
Blow your horn!
Tum-ti-tum,
Ti-tum-tum-tum!
The turkey-cock’s tail
Spreads to the sun.
Songs of Faith in the Year After Next I
The day I like the least is Sunday,
And after that, I don't like Monday,
And after that, I don't care whose day
Tuesday is — I don't like Tuesday,
And after that, let other men say,
"Pooh," and "Bah" — I don't like Wednesday,
And after that, my very worse day
Is — in short, I don't like Thursday,
And after that, my evil-eye day
Is — the fact's, — I don't like Friday,
And after that, I won't grow fatter, say.
Because they have a day called Saturday —
But the day I like the least is Sunday,
And after that, I don't like Monday,
And after that, I don't care whose day
Tuesday is, I don't like Tuesday,
Mr. Wells
On Sunday morning, then he comes
To church, and everybody smells
The blacking and the toilet soap
And camphor balls from Mr. Wells.
He wears his whiskers in a bunch,
And wears his glasses on his head.
I mustn't call him Old Man Wells--
No matter--that's what Father said.
And when the little blacking smells
And camphor balls and soap begin,
I do not have to look to know
That Mr. Wells is coming in.
Miss Kate-Marie
And it was Sunday everywhere,
And Father pinned a rose on me
And said he guessed he'd better take
Me down to see Miss Kate-Marie.
And when I went it all turned out
To be a Sunday school, and there
Miss Kate-Marie was very good
And let me stand beside her chair.
Her hat was made of yellow lace;
Her dress was very soft and thin,
And when she talked her little tongue
Was always wriggling out and in.
I liked to smell my pretty rose;
I liked to feel her silky dress.
She held a very little book
And asked the things for us to guess.
Happiness
I ASKED professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an
accordion.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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