Seven Days of Russell (full crown)

(Russell J Turner)
This year I used the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With various words from various songs by various artists

1) Blue Monday

...as Monday rolls the wheel around once more,
with memories just sailing out of reach ‒
a ship, a harbour, some forgotten beach ‒
to ride the tides of what has gone before.
But history is not a one-way door
and memory has much that it can teach
in sympathy, in imagery and speech,
in how to navigate an unseen shore.

So kick your boots off, dance beneath the Moon,
and make your plans for all that is to come ‒
those future days that stack up one by one.
It may not happen now, but pretty soon
the Fates could weave a pattern, could conspire,
when Tuesday enters, roaring like a fire...

2) Ruby Tuesday

...when Tuesday enters, roaring like a fire ‒
to banish lies, to tear illusion down
and wear the spoils of battle as a crown ‒
the one-armed, wolf-meat, warriors leap higher,
all balancing along a narrow wire
and wrestling wrongs wherever they are found.
The Gods are gathered at a circus-ground,
dispensing sin and error to the pyre.

But who could ever hang a name on them?
They bicker over meaning and intent
until the dying flames dissolve and then
a silence falls as argument is spent.
For there is one thing they all wish to see:
the new dawn’s magic, Wednesday’s sorcery...

3) A Wednesday Car

...the new dawn’s magic, Wednesday’s sorcery
that haunts this earthly city’s cracks and peaks
with words to tie you down or set you free,
to liberate those lemons, dogs and freaks.

In Greystone, Woody shines but cannot speak
of all he’s been and all that he has done,
while Pete recounts the wonders that he seeks
and Johnny simply laughs and gets his gun.

Now Bobby rides electric wheels for fun
as Sylvie weeps for what she helped create,
yet Joan cannot regret what is to come ‒
a whole wide world to circumnavigate.

She whispers softly ‘just fuck off and sing’.
She knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings...

4) I Lost Thursday

...she knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings
I packed it all up in a sleeping bag
Lettered with the lines and hues of flags
Obstinately flying in the wings
Supernatural, spaced out cats and kings
Tripping tales of homelessness and skag
They talk in tongues to tell the world their rags
Hope lies bleeding, tangled up in strings
Underneath this cinematic sheen
Repentant/not repentant afterthoughts
She measures all the fantasy she finds
Deep in panopticons I often dream
Absolutely everything and naught
You know that Friday’s always on my mind...

5) Friday on My Mind

...you know that Friday’s always on my mind
you know tonight is when I spend my bread
you know tonight is how I lose my head
you know that sanity gets left behind

we tumble through the caverns of the blind
we travel via Ariadne’s thread
we cast our candles for the recent dead
we meet where past and future intertwine

she carves her secrets in an ash-wood box
she dances prophecies of air and earth
she paints a brightness fading into grey
she sings against betrayal by the fox
she weaves a tapestry of coming birth
she orchestrates a drive-in Saturday...

6) Drive-in Saturday

...she orchestrates a drive-in Saturday
where headlights scatter moments in the dark
of some forgotten retro picture park ‒
a crash course for the ravers gone astray.
While music underscores, romantics sway
with fingers fumbling for a vivid spark
illuminating one clear question mark ‒
is this the truth or just a pixel play?

So flex our wings, and measure out our lives
in congress on the solid side of here ‒
the streets where bodies meet and passion thrives
above the stones, beneath the starry sphere.
As night dissolves, reality survives
the sounds of Sunday kicking into gear...

7) Sunday Morning

...the sounds of Sunday kicking into gear ‒
celesta grooves like bird-song through your brain,
composing all the pieces that remain,
unmaking themes of restlessness and fear.
But doubt and paranoia reappear
despite the lull of Nico’s last refrain,
that small insistent itch occurs again ‒
Watch out! The world needs just another beer!

The morning slides into a muddy mist
with rivulets, not torrents, at its core.
The afternoon a myth of lips unkissed
that broken-hearted wanderers explore.
But evening shyly seeks another tryst
as Monday rolls the wheel around once more...

RJT