Sprinkles on my Sunday

I like sprinkles on my Sunday
slathered with syrup sticky in grey
dripping in melted sleepy-eyed gloom
sliding down panes of my room.

It turns me rainbow gay
not to be taken the wrong way

In its darkness- I sneak a smile,
life agrees, Its been awhile.

The pungent scent of pavement
emitting its stench of sealed fragrant
plumes of sweat
musty and wet

Dissolving salty sugared beads
Once barren earth now growing weeds

Is it
drizzling a bit?
Was it
just some spit?

I think felt it on my nose
(I hate it squishing between my toes)

As though the leaden sky
releasing a bitter sigh
drools in premonition
soothed by heavy submission

Rushing she pushes a bitter wind
Herd and gather inside the thin-skinned

She peaks on her progress
breaking clouds to see her mess

sinister rays
threaten the sprinkly days
this restless phase
an extra scoop of praise

A hazy solemn Sunday treat
A lazy indulgent guilt free sweet
On a day of cleansing and forgiveness
Weather (or not) blessedly religious.




Image of painting by Paul Cornoyer (1864-1923), "The Plaza After Rain",[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Mourning of Day

Morning all day

furrowed in grey

Under the weather,

scents of wet leather,

                      splashing in puddles getting the mail.

Slapping drops smack-

in an aerial attack

stinging flesh of face

in which We are Out of place

                        amidst hurling whetted hail.

Sullen skies abide,

concrete curtains hide

the radiant sun,

sharing warmth with none-

                         displaced by mist and gale.

Trumpets pipe passing by

panes, whistling on windows, leaves fly-

blurred in the forgotten hour,

fixed and framed in a seasonal shower,

                          setting the stage for a winters' tale.

Image photo by Terry Korte via Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain), 2006