Moandays and Gargoyles

A sweet Sunday ends, the night is daft

Dark and in the distance, Monday waits

Like gargoyles, peering at mortals below

Whilst they mark those who they choose

Gargoyles, ugly ones

I hate Gargoyles, they are hideous but fathom a guess what else is ugly Mondays, ah the bane of the week

If I had to pick either

I would, neither

The mango tree next to my house bears some lovely raw juveniles, and a mix of infant mangoes

I bit one earlier today on my Sunday evening stroll, it was bitter, tasted like the upcoming Monday

I should have been a horticulturalist 

Growing mangoes, in my yard, back in my village

Away from these gargoyles and Mondays

Visiting farmer's markets, selling vegetables

About gargoyles though

Let me wonder, why does someone make them 

Those gargoyles perched on the edges of buildings

I wouldn't want my creation to be hideous 

And scary the least

But Mondays, the sludge of drudgery 

That no one likes, worse, I was born on one

But then I nurse the woes of the silly awry planners

Hoping to save a few pennies, creating money grabbing fronts

Called customer portals

Mondays, gargoyles, my lack of having studied harder hits me often

I now spend time, wishing the night doesn't fade

Lest Monday arrives

But it will, I guess I will chase my own gargoyles in the morning

Terrible ones

But then again, I love my misery

It makes life a tad meaningful, these paradoxes and challenges

It keeps life interesting

I grow bored of mediocrity quickly anyway

Nothing less than being under duress works

Adds a lovely smile to my soul

So come Monday, we will be fine

I have prepared myself to handle you just fine

But you Gargoyles, you stay clear away

I have nothing to do with you all

Antithesis

Twenty minutes, to witness traffic

And a head that aches with hypertension

The night's cold is a blessing

But the terrible roads are a curse

I woke today, and there was working

Spent in ramblings just to earn my pay

The evening could have brought me calm

But the transit is making me restless

I hate stepping out of the house

The woods may be lovely I know

I don't subscribe to the feels of such love

For being out of home is what I hate

This though I can bear after all

A friend is always nice to see after ages

Maybe deep within me there is warmth

So I brush of the evening and its cold

By the balcony, watching the bee eaters

I spend Sunday mornings at my balcony, annoyed mostly

The chirp of bee eaters ruin my sleeping in

I groan six times out of nine and still drag myself out of bed

Make coffee and go to watch, these little green tiny bee eaters, fluttering

Whizzing past often before my face

I sometimes wondered, if I could speak to them

I hoped someday to ask them to postpone their morning rituals

I did today, but it seems to be a quandary

You see, there is a golden Magnolia tree

Hosting a few of the other varieties

Of chirpy lasses and stubborn lads

Wanting to build nests, or feed their had (little birdies they already have)

Apparently those non bee eaters, the drongos

Have a schedule to keep is what I have been told

I moved in last year, to this block of my home

These birdies have here forever flown

So I must not fret, ask for a reconsideration

And silently watch these green bee eaters in action

And sip my coffee, thank the universe

Call it a lovely restful Sunday