Only on Sundays

Hidden beneath a pile of laundry like a soiled secret

sunk under a sink full of dirty dishes, a sodden regret

pinned between the grocery lists, some guilt

swept away by the mop and the broom, a bucketful of unfulfilled wishes

sucked in by a vacuum cleaner, all enthusiasm

held down by a pile of files, weighty questions

drowned by different voices, creating cacophony

skulking behind the laptop like a scolded child

sulking underneath the smartphone, a lone desire

lost in the amazon forest of eking a living

life is bruised, battered and bypassed on weekdays;

days that are chockablock with the art of surviving

and then…

a night of languid rediscovery

unrestrained giggles, tousled heads,

teenage tangle of lanky limbs on my bed

brighten my late, lazy morning

as I follow a flitting butterfly,

trace the delicate veins of fallen leaves

inhale deeply the fresh smell of grass

and listen to an old forgotten melody

I feel life unhurriedly seeping back into me

I finally come alive on Sundays

to tackle the days that follow.

47 thoughts on “Only on Sundays

  1. Hahaha.. To tackle the days that follow.. Perfectly described.. Each and everyday, the other days must be feeling so ‘julius’ of the Sundays.. πŸ˜‰πŸ˜†.. Awesome one Punam, as ever.. πŸ˜ŠπŸ‘ŒπŸΌπŸ‘ŒπŸΌπŸ‘ŒπŸΌ

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I feel the lightness and deliciousness of the moment you are able to experience on a Sunday, after all the cares and responsibilities (and associated feelings) are done and dusted for the week. It is truly a poem of two parts and in the second I really felt like the weight was lifted off your shoulders. Fantastic!! ❀️❀️

    Liked by 1 person

  3. What a fantastic contrast here Punam, wrapped in wonderful imagery. I love that phrase β€œthe art of surviving”. Just another wonderful poem

    Liked by 1 person

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