-x- Sunday Mornings -x-

Maxine Smith

I like to rise early, catching colours of sunrise
Nature is tweeting, listening with open eyes
Watch the beautiful sounds singing
Breathe in the joy the Sunday is bringing
Children awake with chaotic bliss
My Sunday morning’s, love sealed with a kiss

We add value to the children's life
By being there for them religiously
To guide and protect them
And give them valuable encouragement endlessly
We give them a sense of pride
We lift them up vigorously

mortality holds mine narcissism as checked mate,
aye disdain flamboyant indecorous loutish pathetic
self importance, yet aware one must walk balanced
tightrope, though temptation a plenti to succumb toward depravity of righteousness (not necessarily hidebound by religion, but characteristics deemed honorable as bespoke thru ten commandments) more so as secular mien, whereby life on Earth can be made paradise!

I looked out this Sunday dawn
at seasons changes subtly drawn
as imprints left on hoar rimed grass
began to fade and ice like glass
began to melt as sun broke through
on frosted webs and merging dew
with welcome sounds of seasons tread
the signs of spring began to spread.

With winter in its rear view,
And summers approach now near too.
We look to season that warms March to May,
Like a clear skies and soft breeze Sunday.
What better than a soft breeze on a sunny day.
Neither hot nor cold, just right as rain.
What more beautiful than the world in silence.
For it is only then do we truly have time when.
One can only appreciate a moment,
No duty, obligation, simply alone and,

anemic trounced welfare, rather thalassemia anemia minor
for no particular rhyme no reason just came to mind out
of the white background nsync with this accursed cursor,
yet lifetimes gone by, my younger sister (as opposed to
my eldest, which...very good makes two), though the total
nearly got compromised, when thee kid sibling contracted
the aforementioned, this more than her half life ago!

Upon greeting the day, my nose develops a tickle.
Maybe it's allergies,
Or perhaps the weather is simply fickle.
Such wondrous sunshine,
It almost beckons a shout!
Think I'll go have a cup of coffee,
Oh, right - I ran out.

disjointed though this ruff riff raff rain may sound to your mind's eye, there occurs a subconscious connection as this, that or some other person adds a complementary stanza, or two, or three producing a funky hip hop jazzy lyrical nonconformist planless rambling tricky vernacular yawping defying sense and sensibility, nor homogenization with refrains other contributors made, and essentially defies comprehension, or interpretation open to each individual reader rabbit in search for fourteen carat gold carrot.

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