Saturday! Here at last! Now I’m owning
That procrastination celebration
That I’ve lived all week, so now I’m loaning
Saturday the right to recreation.

Saturday! Here at last! Take your leisure.
Sabbath rest with a twist of laziness.
Saturday! Yours to blow, only be sure
To obscure your right to rest with haziness

Over whether you will give Saturday
To hobby, rest, refreshing sanctuary.
Or will you say you went another way,
And used it as a time of pain to carry

All the memories of things you didn’t do
And thus use Saturday for working too?

Your truth. My truth. Must be quite a thing, truth.
Live it up. Live it down. Live into it.
It’s my truth. You can’t question. That’s uncouth.
Live it out. Live out loud. Live and do it.

I guess it sets me free to spill the beans.
To tell the world how good or bad it was.
It’s always bad, this truth of mine, it seems.
It’s always good to tell it just because

Your truth, my truth, never hides a lie.
Did it happen? I say so. Who’s asking?
They did it. I just slid it in a public cry.
It’s my truth. I claim it, so I’m basking.

Jesus, Elijah, Moses in a booth:
That tiny temple heart that holds my truth.

Friday Sonnet waits at the starting block
For the starting gun to launch it with a bang.
Not quite the weekend. Long time on the clock.
It’s the saddest song that I ever sang.

Many murdered hours lay at her feet,
Sacrificial time lost to the idol.
Anticipated Leisure, time to meet
The reason you can’t afford the title.

Friday Sonnet state: Hurry up and wait
And watch the seconds ticking slowly by.
Friday Sonnet slate: Give it up to fate.
No time left so why should we even try?

We should pretend it’s just another day
And not defend it. Get more done that way.

I dreamed I went spelunking on a mountain.
A little mountain climbing in a cave.
I couldn’t bear it. Doubt flowed like a fountain
And early on the road I said “No way!”

Now was that cowardice? Give up too soon?
Or did I wisely choose a better way?
A bit of both. My dream companions swoon.
Methinks they, too, thought better of the day.

We goad each other on to do good deeds.
We sometimes follow those who make wrong choices.
So how to stay untangled from the weeds?
Heed the sage advice of inner voices.

Spelunking on a mountain? Never me!
Cautious and alive is what I will be!

Thursday’s Sonnet has far to go: Line One.
Not so far from here down on Line Two.
The week is like a sonnet: When it’s done
Look back to see if it was good to do.

If that’s so, Thursday’s worth cannot be seen
From here, the second quatrain; wait for three
For point and punchline: Is it nice or mean?
And even there, it isn’t easy to see.

Thursday is the workweek’s semicolon;
Could have ended here, but there should be more
To protect success from being stolen
Concrete hardens harder and then no more.

So I guard the week on Thursday lest I find
Footprints and initials that aren’t mine.

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.