And you know I do,
And so does my unicorn,
We both miss you, dear

Oh no,
Tha’s done it again,
You wrote thee bet out,
With thee lucky pen,
Oft to bookies,
To do some collecting,
hopefully without,
Your lass suspecting,
She would have a fit,
If she knew thee gambled,,
Rising debts, her mind,
Permanently scrambled,
She worries,
As every penny counts,
Not enough coming in,
By all accounts,
A little win sometimes,
Here and there,
Makes the losing,
Easy to bare,
Though so many times,
That sinking feeling,
when horse has lost,
And left you,


not all winners when it comes to gambling and the amount of lies deceit that goes on to hide the problem.

M y love is like a red, red rose
Y oung with the dew-kissed promises of spring.

L aden with unique perfume,
O n a slender stalk it blooms
V ery near the edge of a sunlit garden,
E ndlessly transforming but always the same.

I  offer you this rose in hopes that
S someday fields of them will shine.

L oving you turns ugly weeds
I nto rare exotic blossoms that
K iss the summer breezes with their scent
E ven as they wither and turn brown.

A bsolute perfection is my love and this red flower.

R each out and touch this rose I offer-
E very thorn is gentle and not sharp-
D o  not fear of hurt from it.

R ather fill your senses with the joy of it,
E ndlessly fresh within your hand, and never
D ying, only changing to become more sweet.

R eceive this gift I bring to you and
O nly let me be that rose
S o  that my soul lies in your hand and heart for all
E ternity.
<< >>

The title comes from a traditional folk song.  The rest of it comes from me.

He has been taking
the same lunch box to
work since I was born.

Some how it was just
as magical as my music
box because of his love.

It's about the size of
a dictionary but it has
a sticker on its shoulder.

I always ask him to tell
me the definitions of
words I do not know.

I use to tape pictures
of me and the family
dog in it's darkness.

I often hoped he
looked at the pictures
after he gave thanks.

I always waved to
him good bye from
a window in the house.

I long to curl up
his lunch box just like
his newspaper.

He always put the
TV dinners in it which
was a mystery to me.

He always honks
from his jeep in
response to my wave.

I saw that he always
treated his lunch box
like it was a passenger.

Now I make him
salads that don't even
fit in his lunch box.

I truly do hope that
his lunch box never
ever falls apart.

And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.

Happy writing!

Napowrimo 2017   prompt 25

At dusk when the
moonflowers show their
faces to the silver stars.

At dawn when the
monflowers hide their
faces from the golden sun.

You will find me
under the shadow of the willows,
dreaming of him as he recites
verses of poetry to me.


Sending vines of thorns
to grow upon high stone walls.

  - I will touch every star in the sky...

 1d Jimmydon

Dreadful experiences
The weary heart holds
Traumatic memories
Cling to the soul
Holding them in
Who can let go?

I come not
Seeking empathy
My pain has
No room for grief

This constant
Emotional turmoil
Bleeding me
Flooding my thoughts
Disturbing my dreams
Leave me be plural
In this singular scheme

Traveler Tim

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