My Brain Thinks It's Saturday

My brain thinks it's Saturday,
don't ask me why.
I looked at the window
almost ready to cry
when I realize the week
has just barely begun.
My brain thinks it's Saturday
and the week's nearly done.

Yep, my brain thinks its Saturday
with nothing much to do
except go shopping or read
or paint the bathroom bright blue.
Forget about work
and forget about chores
cause my brain thinks it's Saturday --
maybe go play outdoors.

So tomorrow is Wednesday,
Not Sunday, oh my.
Will I wake up tomorrow
unconfused and not try
to do all my Sunday things
sleep late and eat brunch,
cause I think today's Saturday --
or will I pack a light lunch?

When Saturday's Tuesday,
what's left in the week?
Four more days till my body
gets it right - dare I peek
into a new schedule
with Saturdays galore.
No, since my brain thinks it's Saturday,
let me sleep! Close the door!

Word Magic

Ah, the words, their lovely sound
weaving, weaving round and round -
oh and ah and eh and ee
keeping pleasant company
moving through the beat of time,
magic in their lovely rhyme.
Assonance you are my friend,
binding things until the end.

Ah, the words, their lovely sound
weaving, weaving round and round -
t and r and s and p
strong sounds like an ancient tree,
your beat resounds into the night
to carry meaning to my sight.
Consonance strong and true
makes the sounds do what they do.

Ah the words, their lovely sound
weaving, weaving round and round -
rhythm, made of pause and stress,
laughing child with golden tress,
you bring the magic dance to frame
meaning in its golden game.
Ah the words, their lovely sound
weaving, weaving round and round.

Sing of love or sing of pain,
sing of laughter in the rain,
sing of hope or sing a groan,
magic's in the word's own tone -
weave a dream by candlelight,
spin a nightmare in our sight.
Ah, the words, their lovely sound
make it happen, round and round.

Contemplating Helen

Run your fingers through the dusky wool, Lady,
colored rich purple by the death of snails
combed soft and fine,
oiled with the best
to wrap around your distaff
and pull into a fine thread
by the twirling of your golden spindle.

Royal purple, the color of congealed blood -
do you think of him sometimes,
the beautiful man who stole you away,
and how the blood streamed down his throat
from the arrow's flight?

Royal purple - you know the cost of its weight.
As you look upon the man who would not let you go,
who turned the world upside down
for the green hills of your birth,
where he sits, content,
king of the country he received as a wedding gift,
does the purple make you remember
the spilled blood,
the smell of fire and the sound of tears
wailed into the afterworld?

I watch your kohl-rimmed eyes,
and see your shining hair,
and your smile revealing nothing as you drop your spindle,
pull down the thread,
and I wonder what tale your own lips would give
if you, and not the poets,
had recorded your adventure.