Phil Brown -  journalist . writer . poet


Phil Brown

journalist . writer . poet

articles . books . poems

Poetry

by Phil Brown


On Sunday

On Sunday I am the viper
they cannot kill —
the tongue, the wicked tongue
that won't be still.

I'm the bats flying
to and from the belfry
and a wondrous rainbow
over all the earth.

Also, I've just noticed a dearth
of love and, therefore, am Buddha,
spreading it selflessly
in showers of lotus petals.

I'm a real swine to boot
who is nasty in traffic
and gives short shrift
to nervous girls
behind shop counters.

Oh Sunday, I am, at my
leisure: a toad squatting in the rain,
a preacher exposing himself in a park,
a hobo with a home at last,
a birthday boy, beaming at life,
a wife, bedraggled,
a bored husband
a wedding of worlds,
a fool.
And a king
in a realm of cushions.

Between naps
I could conquer continents,
help unite people,
put out garbage.

Might even light a fire or two?
Oh boy! Sunday is such fun!

And now I can hear,
wafting across the back fence
the familiar sound of a man whimpering,
as his wife, who has lashed him to a pole,
beats him mercilessly.

"I love you," she cries.
"This is the best thing for all concerned."

Meanwhile, children are breaking things everywhere
and nobody will listen to me
as I rant from my loungeroom.

Everybody I know has left town.

Later, I go out and take coffee
at deserted cafes,
trying to shirk television and religion.

Then, I walk along the beach
and a fish floats, belly up, by the shore
as I drink in the last sunny dregs
of Sunday.

 

by Phil Brown


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