Sunday, Sunday
Sunday Mornings! UGH!!
After the flurry of action during the past month, I’m feeling’ kinda pooped.
Living with the memories of fifty years together while I talked about and performed the memories that are my book, “Chasing a Butterfly,” at book launches and signings, turned out to be both exhilarating and a lot tiring.
One seems to expend that much extra energy preparing and performing, and so much less time sleeping. For sleep comes in snatches when you’re on the go.However, I think the exhilaration wins out.
During this same time, there were meetings to go to, poetry groups to attend, new people to meet. I have met so many fine people during this time.
One such meeting was one I had wanted to attend for a long time, but its title put me off: Poetic Justice. I thought I would have to have a law degree to qualify for attendance. I thought I would have to be erudite and remarkable, while I am simply folk and I write for the people.
Besides, they meet in the morning. Ugh! Sunday! Ugh! SUNday!! Morning!! Double Ugh!!! Tripe Ugh!!!!
Courage!
Well, I screwed up my courage and set myself the challenge. All for the cause. Whip than damned Alzheimer’s, any way possible.
I even wrote a poem about it to perform for them.
Turns out, it was a grand bunch who simply accepted me.
Anticipation. Don’t we wind ourselves up about that?
Turns out I had second thoughts about “Sunday, Sunday,” my poem. It wasn’t erudite enough after all. I read something else.
But here is “Sunday, Sunday,” because touting my book of memories about my love and my loss to acceptance has proved to be a positive experience. And it brought back memories of my childhood. “Sunday, Sunday” includes such memories.
It may be a bit on the rough, unfinished side, but sometimes the glitches are part of the performance.
SUNDAY, SUNDAY
H. W. Bryce
Sunday morning, bright and early,
Scrubbed and polished in Sunday suit,
Dragged unwilling, feeling surly,
Off to church in polished boot.
Sunday morning, Sunday morning,
Sunday morning reserved for church,
Little boy says more like mourning,
But he goes to avoid the birch.
Parents live like proper Christians,
Upbringing children is their mission.
Little boy not asked permission,
He wants to commit sedition.
Come hymn time, stand up for Jesus,
Our poor boy can’t sing a note,
Ribs are sore from father’s elbow,
Church ain’t gonna get his vote!
Foot gets itchy, drives him nuts,
Off with boot, scratch while elders smirk.
Now he’s for it, no ifs or buts,
No doubt his butt will meet the birch.
Father, mother both embarrassed,
Red-faced parents feel standing hit.
Little boy, though feeling harassed,
Remembers love is the Bible writ.
Sunday, Sunday sudden cloudy.
Sunday morning reserved for church.
Little boy’s feelings are quite dowdy,
Fearing for but never getting wicked birch.
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday morning,
Reserved for church, not for sports
Where so many spend their scorning,
Priests and clerics feel faith’s aborts…
Sunday’s not for business meetings,
Nor for your guilty conscience test,
It’s for coffee’s deeply steepings
Sunday’s for a day of rest.
Goodnight now.
For your reading pleasure:
Friesens http://bit.ly/2jQpFxS
Amazon: goo.gl/nexsF4
#dementia #Alzheimers
PHOTO from the H. W. Bryce album
#Alzheimer’s #Care Giving #Dementia
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