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SUNDAY KIND OF POEM

By c j, www.PoetryPoem.com/heartunes    Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime

Tim McGraw on the stereo
Have a headache
It can go
Wearing my youngest son's
Pair of old worn out
Cut off pants
Sitting outside writing these rants

Neighbor through mowing his lawn
While I still need to get to
Getting mine on
Justin and his dog, Bella
Left in a Chevy pickup
Hear some pounding of another neighbor
Getting some shingles up

Cool breeze blowing through
This little Hell-Town
Just glad to live another day
'Round
Here
Where no one really minds
If I live alone
With this music
I call divine

Wanted to make it to the
Church today
But I felt too sick
At Nine A.M.
There's always other Sundays
Amen!
Out here on the back lawn
With my stinky little dog
She's laying on he grass
Getting her guard on
To bark at any little thing
Please don't bark yet
Until this headache leaves
This old brain

Saw Levi Friday night
Buying beer at the
Pendleton Store
He was going to the mountains
Shouting out youth
From his fountain of fountains
Right through his eyes
A kid, but a nice guy of guys
That I am glad to know
It's the kind of thing I have let go

But I can love him anyway
Just like his momma does today
A couple blocks over
He'll find some sweet young lover
That he never has to be embarrassed
That he caressed
But he gave me hope
When he was drunk
And said I was hot enough to grope

You may think what I write
Is silly
You may think I am a little
Crazy
You may think this town's nothing
With a poet writing like lazy
On a perfect Sunday morning
Let me give you a warning
It's my town now
And I keep coming back
So don't think there's anything
It lacks
On a perfect day

And if you do
Head on out
Be on your way
Long gone
While I play these songs
And write these poems
Where my heart longs
For the people here
And to know them
And to learn to love them
As much as I do my own children
Because a town can grow on you
As the garden I planted in
This Helix ground

So you come visit here
As Sunday morning's
Coming up and around
The bend
Where the breeze, the mud
The weeds, the sun
Won't leave you bummed
If you stay here long
Enough
They'll become your
Best friends
Make you tough
Penatrate your heart
As you are a part
Of this Sunday morning's
Wave
And somehow
This town
Will save you from
Yourself

A country kind of wealth
Worth the weight of
A ton of gold
When you're 16 in
Your mind doing fine
To the Sunday morning shine
Of here
Wishing your Sunday is going as dear.


7/222012 1156 cj








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