Wednesday? Word! What just hit? Just got started.
How time flies. Wednesday? Word! Hardly notice
Week half gone. Workday cries. This half-hearted
March to Friday? Now, it’s on! My vote is

We scrap our plans and scratch our heads and learn
Which mistakes were just bad breaks or maybe
Some outsider’s slick doubt rider will turn
Wins to sins, bathwater surfing baby.

Wednesday? Word! Time to pack and watch the clock.
Inner nerd won’t attack our work technique.
Wednesday? Word! Rhyme attack on rhythm block.
Buckle down? All that’s left is half a week!

Wednesday? Word! Deadlines? Goals? Looks like that bird
Has flown. Where to? Unknown. It’s Wednesday; Word!

We strut the image of God like a suit,
As if we had purchased it for ourselves,
As if our connections helped us recruit
That seamstress, that tailor, those magic elves

Who know how to fashion the image of God
Out of clay: The image of God, I say!
Some fashion designer with measuring rod
That measures that way. Like God! Out of clay!

We strut the image of God like a car
That we bought for ourselves and even deserve.
We seem unaware it’s a gift from afar
In need of a driver who knows not to swerve

Off the road, off of the straight and narrow,
Sober as a judge, straight* as an arrow.

* It’s a rhyming cliche; don’t kick the horse.
“Straight” is a relative term, of course.

Ah, it’s Tuesday morning. What can I say?
Tuesday cuts Monday’s diamond in the rough.
Monday’s for planting, Tuesday’s making hay.
Wednesday’s not for harvest. Not tall enough.

Wednesday is for watering and waiting.
Thursday is to pray for drying weather.
Friday is for harvest lest we’re hating
To spend our weekend stuck in labor’s teather.

If not Friday, then Saturday will do
To be the day of harvest in a pinch.
If hay was not dry Friday, it could be true
That hay had time to grow another inch.

Then comes Sunday, whe we all take our leaves
To come rejoicing Bringing in the Sheaves.

This one is as good as that should have been
That was pulling teeth. This is pulling for
Each other. This is celebrate a win.
That was watch your back, head down. That was war.

That one played pretend. If you trust, you lose.
They threw the game to hurt the quarterback.
That one tossed a friend aside. Hide the bruise.
He can’t hang himself if you cut him slack.

This one took a chance, now we dance quite well.
That one fooled me twice. Feigning nice. Ice cold.
Learn from these. School’s in session. Ring the bell.
That was never going to work, I was told.

They were right. That was wicked. Left a mark.
After that, this is a walk in the park.

Mincing words: We shred them, till you can’t tell
What they mean, like sausage hiding the meat.
Was that “Bless your heart” or “Go to hell”?
Too much spice, so add a little sweet.

Don’t mince words! No need to cook the carcass!
Serve in quarters showing fur and bone.
Don’t mince words! That hammer truth might spark us
To start the fire to roast those words alone.

Don’t mince words! Let’s lay cards on the table.
Tell it like we think it is, just to show
That though we’re in the dark, we’re still able
To state the case like someone in the know.

It’s easier to swallow the absurd
From a butcher who’s skilled at mincing word.

Monday morning sonnet only talks about
Itself. Nothing else has happened. We restart
The week on Monday. Reset. Old news out.
It’s the horse that comes before the cart.

Giddyup, Monday! We can win this race!
Out of the starting block, never too soon
To set priorities. All things in place.
We aim for the sky and shoot for the moon.

Then comes that Tuesday cart. Now it seems
To drag nag Monday on down the road.
Wednesday we hold shiva for Monday dreams.
Dusting off the week then trying to goad

Ourselves to redeem the week just in time
For Saturday’s funeral on Friday’s dime.

Dad played piano but put it aside.
He played clarinet but then he sold it.
All for the family that needed a ride.
He did all that he could just to hold it

All in the road. A rebel and yet,
He gave us all of his money and time.
His Whizzer, his leather, his clarinet
Were all for sale if he needed a dime

For guitars and saxes, clothing and shoes,
Whatever it took to give us a break.
He played boogie woogie, swing and the blues,
But gave it all up, that and more, to make

Our lives that much better. Thanks, Daddy Ray!
I wish I was there. Happy Fathers’ Day.

Snapshots: film, digital, watercolor, sketch,
One quick note — That’s all she wrote in the dust.
Snapshots: Finish line; who won in the stretch?
Memory in a jar; remember, you must.

A string around a finger, mark or jot.
Oil upon a pile of Holy Land stones.
Bread crumbs mark the path we nearly forgot.
Hieroglyphics on an old box of bones.

You remember your way; I’ll use my own.
Your mundane to me looks quite creative.
Notes on scraps of paper are just on loan
To the future. To the past, they’re native.

Lullaby rhyme till logic takes a nap.
It’s just a jot upon a sonnet scrap.

Low-country boil: It’s food and it’s weather.
Steamy, spicy, buttery, hot, salty.
Where cowboys wear baseball caps, never leather.
Slow and steady. Strong. A little malty.

Leather on the Bible, leather on the feet.
Cotton grows around here, and cotton breathes.
Leather in the belt, never on the street.
And leather gloves to shield the hand that feeds.

Low-country boil: Sometimes, an attitude.
Don’t be hasty. Keep your cool. Let it simmer.
Give the culprit room to show gratitude.
Otherwise, he better be a swimmer.

God had a plan for aluminum foil.
Greatest gift to man, that low-country boil.