Quotes about week, page 8
The last visit and conversion…
Here lays my grandmother
A week from: Death.
The gentle archetypal, type of grandmother
Who nursed my cries; made all things better.
Here lays, my grandmother…
In that; week before their heinous lies….
“Spoken in hellos but not goodbyes”
In that week before her untimely: Death.
Before; her cloak of life fell silently away bereft.
In isolating surrendered breaths…
In hopes and prayers…
In hopes; never-ending…
In words that were formed:
Like crusts of bread.
Floated in the mouths of the living…
Where once it was lovingly said.
That our own increments will rise conversely…
And speak from; our own deathbeds.
Shall we not all of us…
Then one day, converse, with the dead.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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It Is Always Difficult To Begin The Week
IT IS ALWAYS DIFFICULT TO BEGIN THE WEEK
It is always difficult to begin the week
One's body is lost in a previous sleep
One's mind is still held down and back
Into resting -
The world is bleak
It is empty and difficult
I am empty inside
I have nothing to do
I have too much to do-
Still I must begin
I will do the usual routine assignments
Slowly I will get back into the motion and mind of my work
I am already trying now-
Even a small effort should bring forth suggestions for further effort
It will take time
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poem by Shalom Freedman
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Into The Last Month Of Winter
Into the last month of Winter and the wattles cloaked in yellow flowers in bloom
And pink flowers on the camellias and yellow flowers on the broom
And all through the night the white backed magpies sing
On the third week of August coming up to the Spring
On the third week of August in the Southern Hemisphere
One does have a sense that Spring is quite near
The paddocks and parklands are looking quite green
And fragile pink flowers on the fruit trees are seen
Into the third week of August and birds sing in the rain
And all through the night frogs sing in pond and drain
And in the calm of the night in the parkland nearby
The breeding spur wing plovers in their territory cry
And all through the night on the moonlit gum trees
The songs of the magpies carry in the breeze.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My Neighbours Proclaim I Am Not A Christian
My neighbours say I am not a Christian...
because I rarely proudly go to church
weekly week by week proudly as they do.
Yet I worship God spend time with God...
every day we meet still have so much to say
while God’s poor suffer daily for them I pray.
Worship for me cannot be but once one day a week...
among those already happy proudly saved
while in the wilderness still cry our Lord's lost sheep?
Sermons for those already saved these words do not stay...
where Holy Spirit and I walk among sinners weak
my energy dissipates as I run the race to ease pain of sinners weak?
This may be all in vain I unseen do as their cry...
comes to me ever anew but with their pain I remain
for the flock has shepherds many these poor have not any?
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Always Another Sunday
There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?
Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.
Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.
Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
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poem by Patti Masterman
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Saturday Evening
Safely through another week,
God has brought us on our way;
Let us now a blessing seek,
On th' approaching Sabbath-day:
Day of all the week the best,
Emblem of eternal rest.
Mercies multiply'd each hour
Through the week our praise demand
Guarded by Almighty pow'r,
Fed and guided by his hand:
Though ungrateful we have been,
Only made returns of sin.
While we pray for pard'ning grace,
Through the dear Redeemer's name,
Show thy reconciled face,
Shine away our sin and shame:
From our worldly care set free,
May we rest this night with thee.
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poem by John Newton
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Three Weeks
Week one may span eternity as Time
Effect and Cause entwine in timeless thread,
Ending endings, - sequencing sublime
Karmic conscience wakes from fountainhead.
One week begins a journey which, through rhyme,
Now overflows from fiction, looks ahead,
Extends to fact - intact can mountains climb.
Words worlds link, inklings ink and paper wed,
Expelling inconsistencies as verse,
Empowers threads whick knit what’s said, what’s read,
Knows no inhibitions, must reverse
The litanies of habit most rehearse
While heart to heart, once far apart, are lead
Over storms to calm as cares disperse.
Week three we welcome now with open arms
Each greeting each will meet sweet dreams sans dread,
Efforts rewarded soon shall be instead.
Kaleidoscopic and eternal charms
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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0243 The Second Coming
This first August week, the geraniums
are flowering their second flush:
they braved last winter, huddled like cabbage stalks
so as to be inconspicuous
to the meddlesome and sterile fingers of frost,
then burst into abundant life, as did the pelargoniums,
with a blatant generosity or hymn of praise as if
to prove some point we'd overlooked
about Creation.
Last week, dead-headed like a battlefield,
they fell back into themselves, exhausted,
as if they wanted a long summer holiday,
to last right through to autumn's fall;
only, this week, to bear a second coming:
yet changed: their petals paler, exquisite,
water-coloured like shells fresh from the waves,
or the most delicate painted porcelain or
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Beans and Potatoes
Seventeen years on the graveyard shift
Retetitive work leaves her hands in pain
Swollen are her feet, fifty hours a week
leaves her body drained
Week to week pays of nothing more than minimum wage
Making ends meet is a constant strain
Beans and potatoes
All she has to show for her pain
A cigarette on her midnight break
As every muscle continues to ache
Knowing when arriving home her work is never done....
Wake the kids, rush them to school
Only then the real work has begun.
Grabs her pail to tend the garden crop
In the Kentucky mud, only the best potatoes she will shop
Put the beans on the stove, peel the potatoes,
Feed the children, tuck them into bed
Only then her work will stop
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poem by Carl Leiland
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Siren's Dance
She's a psychopath, now married to a geek,
Who brings the bacon home every week
From working as a local data dork,
While she just loves not doing any work.
I wonder why I loved this girl at all,
She is always thinking big but acting small -
She's better off being married to a geek.
It isn't love or honesty she seeks -
She only takes the most that she can get -
The little dork is just her little pet.
For if her equal were to challenge her,
She'll see her real self and want no more
Of all her games, control and jealousy.
But she'd rather be a little girl,
Living inside her childish little world
With a much younger prepubescent geek,
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poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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