Below is the poem entitled Why They Call It Thanksgiving which was written by poet
Kershaw. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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The unmistakable scent of damp wool coats drying,
Has a pleasant way of mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee,
Every seat in the livingroom is full, everyone watching TV.
Twenty four hours of, what else, football! football!!! football!!!
Parents and Uncles and Grandkids and Aunts, Sisters and Brothers and Kids,
New Boyfriends or Girlfriends whose names you can't remember,
The men and a couple of the "Grownup" girls gather on the glassed-in porch,
At halftime, to take a little shot of cheer and to remember other days,
Missing Dad and enjoying my mother's laughter and comforting her tears.
The immense dinner that gets better every year; don't ask me how.
Fixing a plate to take to Mrs Stuart who won't come, although she is welcome.
Past ninety she has no family left and is too proud to "intrude".
And Robert is home unwounded and safe, Our Son, my little boy no more.
Thank You Lord.