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Prose Poetry Thanksgiving Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Thanksgiving

These Prose Poetry Thanksgiving poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Thanksgiving. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Thanksgiving poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Queen of my Heart Part 1

The queen of my heart lies here in state today, and my heart throbs,
Breaking like the darkness of any day, when she rose from her bed
And through rain and cold found her way in peasant haste and garbs
To scrub the pots, the clothes, the floor so her castle was fed.
I cannot regret her life, nor the hard gales of familiar poverty
It was her choice. My mother, Esther Jackson, in her simple life
The mold that makes great women virtuous, and wore the purple silk
Only few could see. She taught us them, nay, made us hard for strife:

This merchant ship that brought home bread, drank tea without milk
That we could form the fool in school; her hands were not afraid 
To work and we learnt the royal value of industry, and took pride
Like her in doing simple things well. Against our selfishness she laid
The whipping of her tongue, and kept the best things she had inside
For strangers she expect to come. She wasted no oil, and used liberally
The rod of correction, pleading in our ears the cause of the poor
So that even a Balias, unwashed, unloved, found favor at her door.  
When she told us to blow out that "Home Sweet Home" lamp, surely
You know she was saving oil, that she may have something to give away
And we may learn a person is never too poor to give, for bounty
Is not from the hands, it is from the heart. I loved this woman, the way
She prayed, calling each name and action to God, praising him happily,
And full of thanksgiving for each pound of flour and codfish she
Was able to cook at dead of night. You cannot measure her industry,
Tilling the soil, or raising hens and children, you do know her here
Whose fingers fumbled through arthritis to sew her children clothes
Who stood like a man, machete in hand, to fight the one who would dare
Disrespect her gate or threatened violence, the thorn upon the rose
Command respect, and her beauty a fragrance we can still smell today.
Our lamp never went out, our clothes had no holes if we cared

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paying the High Price of Gas

I feel a blockage has occurred...
It must have been all that stuffing and Turkey bird...
The gurgles, the rumbling, the passing of gas...
It’s beyond my control ,Oh dear, please let this pass...
We have guests you see...
So I don’t have the privilege to just get up and flee...
No one should ever be in this state...
And I should never have put so much on my plate... 
Cause now I’m paying and to my demise ...
The rite of passage has been denied...
I feel like I may blow up and explode...
It’s times like this when you miss the commode...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Orange Gourd

It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, orange Gourd.....
 known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in  Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh  dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a "Majority Call"...
This is “ my “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention "MY" name, everyone gives a cheer !!!
So without  further adieu  ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and receive the first slice....




Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Still Around

I had cancer a while back 
and  at last year's  Thanksgiving I threw a football and I 
could barely send it a couple of feet
After a tasty Thanksgiving feast 
this year I picked up a mini football
and played catch for about 45 minutes
And man, did that feel good!

Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Grateful For All Things

When I think of all the things that we should be grateful for
I am uneasy, because we take most things for granted 
And sometimes even forget to say thank you.
We sometimes overlook the little things that often
make our day.
Worrying about other things, which has gone on
yesterday?
We sometimes neglect those, who love us most
To be bothered by those who do not care
Be grateful for the little things in your life, 
That could eventually grow into greater things
There is so much to give and so much to receive
But remember to be unappreciative can alter your thrill
All things has its season and there is a reason for the
things that has come your way
But in all things give thanks, knowing you are master of
your fate
For God has put this power in your hand.
Don’t let the negative things in this world ruin your faith 
For God has given you the positive things in life to make 
you great.
Be grateful for this place, for the simple things in life
And for all those who have impacted your life, by showing
you a better way.









Copyright © Pauline White | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Birth of Thanksgiving

Back in the year 1621...
Began a tradition, for everyone...
It started with fleeing from religious persecution...
As a group from England sought a solution...
They landed in Holland, but to their demise...
Which after a while brought quite a surprise...
Found their children attached to the ways of the Dutch...
And by their standards, considered frivolous and such...
Threating education and morality...
Which was the original reason why they did flee...
They set sail again, all one-hundred and ten...
Young and the old, women and men...
Where they were going, no one knew...
Not even the Captain nor his crew...
On a large wooden ship , they sailed out to sea...
And for sixty-five days, not all did agree...
So after landing, a meeting was held...
The name “Pilgrim “ was chosen, and no one quelled...
Winter was devastating, so many died...
And of the one-hundred and ten , only fifty survived...
On March of 1621...two Indians appeared...
They both spoke English, so no one feared...
Samoset and Squanto taught them trapping, hunting and planting of corn...
So the next years’ winter, they would all be well fed and warm... 
On the fourth Thursday of November, before the snow fell...
The Pilgrims and Indians, or so I hear tell...
Sat down to a feast fit for a king...
On this the first of a “ Thanksgiving “...


Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark November

Dark Novembers

It’s the silence that is killing
this cold November chilling
Natures beauty with frost, stillness, color but no sound.
A wiser woman knows the inner temperature of the soul paints the
landscape to match their own
a fool discovers the surfeit of despair

This Thanksgiving day bleak, weak, sick, sad, still, quiet, reflective
I had not to give the love you sought so you walked out,
And the past knew you were to come…
And like a reverberation of the all the relationships I’ve known
 The past and to come will follow the ripples of that first stone,
I cannot love you in November I loved you all the months through
September, many decades upon each, watching entropy teach me the ways
to age…
I make no sound but inside screaming
Nature may be jesting in her seeming to mock whole
the lamentation of all the secret silent sorrows of each soul.

Copyright © Toni Orban | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ApplefortheTeachor

 ApplefortheTeachor 
ApplefortheTeachor 
 
MAS come on down front you have been chosen by the frozen tender tundra to eat the 
apple i can give her. Staccatto beating in the background leaning to the south moving in the 
night polish wont make green apple to shine. The love GOD has for all of us in is SON Jesus is 
also inside us in our Souls inside our Spirit. He did this even though none of us are worth this 
a freely given gift. Something that opens up inside us each and every day. Better then the 
food we eat the apple red and green. Better then what people give on Christmas Day the 
packages wrapped and placed underneathe the tree dont open that dont shake it up dont let 
Johnny see. Perhaps its all the things that boy has stored up all year long some new toy he 
saw on television laying on the lawn. He never picks it up now or plays for very long. This 
Christmas please think of how the Son Of God must feel when we ignore his gift to us. I feel 
so guilty of his love inside this green forgotten apple in the bucket in the snow. Sorrow not 
the answer the apple catches worms so the food stored in the bucket doesnt turn to molded 
into love when I get hungry having none I go to cuppoard never barren there. I cannot eat 
much fruit anymore but mix the trail will fill me up when there is none to find in town. For 
CHristmas is two missing weeks after Thanksgiving missing one. SUnday on the November 
twenty nine untill Friday December Eightteenth then back for three more days then Monday 
the eleventh of January I solidify for more solid days activities perhaps the apple won. Bright 
red and polished up for teachor loves. Look for me with love. 



Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One More Thanksgiving

The Snow Camelia hedge row is in full bloom. Lovely white as newly fallen snow against waxy dark emerald green.  The sun broke the horizon in a pastel pink but very swiftly turned to a clear horizon.  The area where the sun ball rises is a golden glow. Thank you God for a chance to live another day and another Thanksgiving.  Now surrounded by sounds_crows, roosters, and a bird sound that is just chir-rup really mimics a cricket but not.  The cold is penetrating saying go inside escape the cold go to a warm place. Once again God thanks for a warm place to go and its comfort.  The ambrosia needs to be made, getting breakfast, and four people need to get ready. The sun is touching the top of the trees and duty calls come..

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thank You God for not getting that job

First of all whenever I have to give my personal information, I always feel violated 
This is one time I cannot save my little privacy 
Since I have to be honest
Since I have to show openness
Since I can't be rude

I have to show that I love being around people 
Team work, group power, crowd cheerleader et all
Yet most of the time I just want to be alone, writing 
Don't get me wrong because I love other people's company 
I love the threads, the ties and the ligaments of human...ity
I also love the inspirations others give me

After the interview I felt so horrible 
I called one of my friends and cried my brains out
But she was busy so she couldn't talk much
I begged her to call me back because I was so stressed
Then I went to another friend's house
And there I cried about all my fears and worries 
She listened and comforted me
She herself can't even a job, yet she gave me a shoulder to lean on

Thank You God that I didn't get that job
Because:
I appreciate my friends even more
My trust has grown stronger
I met a new friend as I was leaving this other friend's house 
I now have new play pal, more play dates
I conquered the strong urge to drink because at that time all I wanted was alcohol to put me to sleep, until tomorrow 
I also resisted the urge to eat junk 
   I don't want to say that I don't have weight issues
But I have some work to do, I the stress eater
And most of all, I thank You as was able to go outside, breathed the fresh air, enjoyed the cool weather and played a little bit

          And I wrote these words
          My healing therapy 
          I know if it's not today, my dream is still valid
          There's always tomorrow

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I am deserted aged man

I am deserted aged man,
Searching something,
Fills my lonesome life;
Sitting in chair outside bungalow,
With 4 luxury rooms and 5 maids;
Surrounded by virgin mountains,
All greenery exhilarating view;
fluttering cool dancing lake,
making vibrant teasing sound;
birds sitting on tree too don't spare,
Sing a song " O' lonely lovelorn man,
impish world isn’t for you;
It's for couple live in love;
We watch you sit all alone watching us,
We sing and revel in pair;
Cool breeze too attacking me,
Says, you are so cool,
Bring someone who warms you up; 
you lonely worth no mountains, 
it’s a heaven meant for family man;
You can't savor nature's bliss,
unless U’r happy man;
promising thoughts blew my mind,
I have no one share my thoughts,
In this old age, 
have no one I can live for;
Not even kids, 
they send greetings full of stupid quotes,
And say thank you papa, 
you are inspiration of life,
In all occasions receive 
junk greeting cards,
Sometimes dump them In waste bin,
I lived for wife and for kids,
Did not remarry was a mistake;
life is Sahara totally dry;
In old age no one wants,
How long carry old age curse;
Many aged suffer, 
severe life worst than me;
they dump aged in old age home, 
send rubbish greetings,
Happy birthday, father’s day,
Happy Christmas happy new year, 
sparks pain of already injured; 
World is mean live or not, 
They don't care; 
Greeting cards are no worth, 
You stupids don't know, 
Aged man only needs, 
Someone listen the story I have; 
we aged need no much, 
but good memories and
a glimpse of kids to live rest of life...

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thank You For Lesser Blessings

I pray to The Lord to thank Him,
for gifts He provides each day.
A prayer of thanksgiving to Jesus,
for the blessings He sends my way.

I thank you Lord for the lesser things,
and not think it so odd,
for I know that even the smallest,
is given by The Grace of God.

Thank you for a stove and a pantry...
for a blanket, pillow, and bed...
for clean sheets, warm covers, and pajamas,
and sending my daily bread.

Thank you for washcloth and towels...
for soap, a tub, and sink...
for tube of toothpaste and toothbrush,
and a faucet of cold water to drink.

I have taken so much for granted,
hardly given it much thought,
but from now on I will pray to thank you Lord,
for these lesser blessings wrought.

I have prayed a prayer of thanksgiving,
for provisions The Lord has given;
may we promise and always remember,
to be grateful thankful children!


Milton L. Delgado
February 19, 2008

Copyright © Milton Lopez Delgado | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A CHRISTMAS TREE

This Christmas I want to be,
The symbol of a Christmas tree.
The symbol of love, hope and goodness,
As the past years have been full of darkness.

This Christmas I want to be,
The joy brought by a Christmas tree.
The joy that fills the emptiness and pain,
The joy that saturates the exosphere as rain.

This Christmas I want to be
The togetherness brought by a Christmas tree.
The unity that knits families together,
And the bond that keeps families stronger,

This Christmas I want to be,
The smile brought by a Christmas tree,
The smile that radiates people’s faces,
And inundates families and different races.

This Christmas what will you be?
I hope you can also choose to be something to me.
Be to someone a Christmas tree,
And at least this Christmas, let’s fill people with much glee.

This Christmas I want to be,
The salvation of a Christmas tree.
The birth of a sacred virgin’s child,
As the future savior so meek and mild.

This Christmas I want to be,
The optimism of a Christmas tree,
Putting all the bad things behind us,
We can look forward to a future were love will always find us.

This Christmas I want you to be,
The special thing you will like to give to me.
Be the gift and the nicely adorned treasure,
That can surprise my heart without measure.


MERRY CHRISTMAS & A PRESPEROUS NEW YEAR

Copyright © Jacob Osae | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eddie Arnold At Two AM

My fingertips are black now
From the picture in the obituary
It brings me back
To the day before thanksgiving
And I'm sorry that I wasn't there at the end

My cowardice runs deep enough
To hit my bones
This town isn't big enough
To hold all of my ghosts
So lets spend tonight
Singing along to warped 45's
My sins would kill you
If you were still alive
I used to have these secrets
They ate me up inside
Now we're out in the open
A pale fires replaced my bright eyes
And I'm sorry that I wasn't there at the end
It all ends in tears anyway

Copyright © K.M North | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thanksgiving Prayer

Our Father,
We thank thee for the beautiful spread upon thy table top
We thank thee for the family reunion for those that are able to stop
We thank thee for the brilliant sunset and glorious sunrise
We thank thee for the birds, bees and butterflies in the skies
Please remember the ill 
And the elderly ones with those incredible pills
Please remember those fighting for our cause
Even the people here needs a memory stick to pause
We care for those even when we do not know how to show it
Everyone needs a hug and kiss every now and then to love one another
and just talk, fellowship and sit
Love makes the world go round
Even when the world feels upside down
We know this is the major key
For we love you, me and thee
We thank thee for the turkey, and prayers for our kin
Amen.

Copyright © Joan Harrell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Dead Poets That Yet Live


 For Dead Poets Who Yet Live

The earth swallowed you—
spitting out seeded words
 to linger like dusty books; 
pages yellowing on rotting shelves.

Like your blood,
your ink well has dried—died.

Tomorrow 
we go in search of mangers—seeking 
the resurrected word—crying out.

Old poets—at last—die; but
their words are reborn
in the pregnant minds left behind.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill

Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill 

Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light 
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face; 
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.

Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising 
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.

Streaming through, flows a river Brazos 
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching 
Mountain top promise land dreams.

Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—



To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
 Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs 
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.

The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective: 
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home… 
So it’s home again and home again for me…”  
My Hill—My home…My family tree.  Here I grew; here I be.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016