John-Ward Leighton

(A laugh at my expense – for being so artsy-fartsy)

Head phones on deep in jazz song.
Hot chocolate just the drink for this late.
The day stretches out like a beautiful woman
her eroticism revealed in the eye of the poet.
She is just being she and doesn’t know it.
This is the how we come to be, would she stretch this way
if no one could see?
Saturday is dead
Long live Sunday

Sunday is the Queen of days;
feminine in so many ways.
Lazy walks along the beach
or around the park
it’s not beyond our reach.
Commune with Mother Earth
and enjoy the day
Saturday is dead
Long live Sunday.

My cameras sit loaded ready to go
images imagined and unexpected
with no small detail rejected
it was always so.
Nat King Cole sings a song from the past
and I approach the sweetest part of the cup.
I sip to make it last,
as I type and to the music sway.
Saturday is dead.
Long live Sunday.

“Surely there is more”
said the greedy poet.
“Saturday is gone you just don’t know it”
“Don’t let it go to your head”
and with a dismissive fart
she went to bed.
The poet sighed, “Someday”
Saturday is dead.
Long live Sunday

This poem prompted the response, “Poem Things” ~ ©Copyright January 15, 2006 by Billy Willbond