Sunday Morning Blues

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

I wake up. The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space. And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

SUNDAY MORNING BLUES

By Al Garcia

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

A day to think and pray and contemplate.  A day to wonder, mediate and recollect.  A day to ask if only I had taken the other path.  A day to hear church bells ring, choirs sing and whispered words of acclaim and adoration.  The ritual of a Sunday morning celebration.

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

Picturing a field of color, filled with daffodils, honeysuckle, marigolds, petunias and bluebonnets swaying in the Texas breeze.  Recalling the eyes, the mouth, the hands and arms that cradled me and guided me.  Remembering the feeling of complete contentment and tranquility on Sunday mornings past, when I was hurried to get dressed so as to make sure to get our usual Sunday pew.  Memories of long-ago Sundays frozen in my mind.

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

Visions of faces and places, and flashes of moments long gone, awaken my spirit and flood my soul with laughter and joy, as well as the anguish of loss and despair.  A moment of silence, a prayer of thanks, the music filling the air with the beauty of sound, reigniting the passion of life.  Sunday mornings, the rite of passage to another wonderous day, and memories to be made.

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

How I miss the days of Sundays past.  I miss the times of sitting round the table, hearing words and laughter that I now forget, but that my mind recalls in images so real and alive.  I miss the family visits on Sunday afternoon, and sharing my Aunt’s homemade pie and chocolate cake beneath the shade of the old oak tree.  The Sunday way of life I knew. 

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.

I am awake again and the bright Sunday morning sunshine takes me back.  Back to carefree days of youth and vigor.  Days when dreams were born and wishes did come true.  When dreams were reflections of a simpler life and simpler time, and wishes could come true if I just looked up to the sky and wished upon a star.

I wake up.  The sun shining, the wind blowing, and the world still spinning, revolving and evolving in its melancholy dance amid the cold and black expanse of perpetual space.  And I once again wake up to ponder and to wonder as the Sunday morning blues invades the confines of my mind.  And I begin the Sunday ritual of my life again.  Remembering my past, living for the day, and wondering and pondering about the path that lies ahead.

My melancholy Sunday blues always make me long for all that could have been. 


Submitted: June 06, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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