poetry

THIRD MONDAY: A POEM BY SANDRA HARRIS.

THIRD MONDAY.

A POEM BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I’m on my local street

And it’s raining

It’s the second Monday in January

Not even the third one

The one that everyone calls

The most depressing day of the year

That’s next Monday;

I just seem to be having mine

A little early

That’s all

I’m wet and my back hurts

From humping these shopping bags around

And I’ve a mountain of worries

Stored up in my head

For careful use throughout the coming year

I’m starting to categorize them singly

(I’m very particular about my worries)

Fearful of losing one

Of letting one fall in the gutter

And roll away down the street like a frisbee

When a one-legged man

Whizzes past me in a wheelchair

His aura trailing behind him

Like a birthday party banner

So that I can read it clearly

‘Count yer blessings, love,’

It calls to me

‘’Cause yeh never know the day nor the hour.’

And I pack away my piddly little troubles

I’m sure that they won’t mind

Waiting another week

To be allowed out

VERY SUPERSTITIOUS… A POEM BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

SUPERSTITIONS.

A POEM BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Don’t walk under ladders

As far as you’re able

Whatever you do, keep

New shoes off the table

Spilled salt from the shaker

Goes over the shoulder

Saluting the magpie

Assures growing older

Don’t open umbrellas

While still in the house

It’s unlucky for you and

Could be for your spouse

Don’t hang a horse-shoe

With ends pointing down

The luck will run out

And you’ll look like a clown

Black cat on the road?

Hurry out of its way

And don’t say ‘good luck’

To a friend in a play

When you’re inside the theatre;

It’s rotten bad luck

Let’s hope when the chandelier

Falls, they can duck

You do have to live, though,

And not in a bubble

But, whatever you do, don’t

Set eyes on your double

Be third on a match

See the Number Thirteen

Or a looking-glass break

‘Cause your end won’t be clean

When rejoicing with friends

At the Christening feast

Check the scalp of the child for

The Sign of the Beast

Three small Number Sixes

There, under the hair

But it’s best for mankind if

You don’t find it there

Don’t kill a ladybug

Under your nose

And pretend not to notice

That murder of crows

You’re best to do nothing

Considered bad luck

Though that leaves doing nothing;

Goodnight and good luck!