How sad it is that it should be,
For catching up with poetry,
To meet, this month, the thirty spot,
The chances, now, are not so hot.
For yesterday, entirely,
We lost our electricity;
And when with pen I have to jot
A poem, well, I can do … not!
So now I will just have to see
What can be churned out speedily;
I am behind an awful lot …
Will writing now end in a blot?
For Day Twenty-Five of GloPoWriMo one faces dealing with spaces. A box was suggested, but it has to be small, definite, and meaningful to me. I think this qualifies.
A swap done as a little boy
With cousin, for unwanted toy,
Gave me a box of many tricks,
With sliding secret panels, for
To open; and I made false floor;
There many memories I store,
Like silver card-case filled with pix.
Puff-adder fang you’ll also find,
And my first watch, which will not wind,
(The Heads Dad flew to, without me,
And bribed me with it, for, ‘tis true
‘Twas school time when that flight he flew,
And take me with him would not do,
But I opposed vehemently.)
Some medals inside there remain,
My first dog-whistle on a chain,
Harmonica minute in size,
And lens for microscope packed there,
Together with a note-book, where
Find codes and drawings penned with care;
Small diary provides surprise.