Tied up shoes, with brass buttons
Blue bobby socks in her boots
Didn’t make her look the part
In fact, she looked real cute
Wowed the boys around her
Every one of them couldn’t wait
To find out who she had chosen
To take to the prom, as her date
Each day, they’d sit and wonder
As the date for the dance drew near
Then she told them where to meet her
So she could tell them all, quite clear
They stood there, waiting, hoping
They’d be the one to win the pearl
Every heart, she broke that day
For she’d always be daddy’s girl
November Writing Prompt – Brass Buttons and Bobby Socks – Day 16/30
©2018 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Photo via Pixabay CC0
Kentucky made a place for me
with nothing but a sigh
and arms to wrap around
I can’t explain
I won’t pretend
there’s more to this
more to bluer pastures –
sunsets all day long
was ne’er your plan
a way to make –
one day to come along
whistling as evening fell
carrying your song
what of then
my hand in yours –
calling stars by name
some distance from the mountains
yet near enough for rain
Kentucky wears a golden ring –
keeps my secrets well
I close my eyes sometimes
and hear the carousel
spinning top of wishes made
swirling down the night –
while not so far away
. . .
Don’t Miss this wonderful piece by Sarah!!!
“Loving you started like a fever.
It was an infection that filled me,
piece by piece.”
Loving you started like a fever. It was an infection that traveled across my body and filled me, piece by piece. But it wasn’t a kind of sickness that worried me. I didn’t know how, but I knew I’d be okay falling in love with you. And maybe, it was because I could see it in your eyes too. You loved me back. Just as intensely as I could fathom. I didn’t understand why at the time — because I was nothing but wastelands — a survivor. Yet you proved to me that I was no wasteland. I was something to be cherished.
© Sarah Doughty
So thank you for loving me
the way you do.
This was written for day fifteen
of November Notes.
by Amber Run
That Old Self-talk
I’m harder on myself than you are,
yet your judgement somehow wounds me more –
how can you possibly say that?
I say to myself.
And you say what I have been avoiding.
Yet I think I make sense of myself,
and I measure your integrity by that,
I measure myself by your commitment to me.
Whoever said this was objective?
So don’t make me laugh,
tis but a game,
a self deceit,
of looking for love, for self,
in all the wrong places,
and the damage we do to ourselves,
but not listening.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Do not miss – LOVE HUNG IN HER CLOSET
love hung in her closet