Long Thanksgiving day Poems
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It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving,
Despite the turkey meal,
If I missed Arlo Guthrie’s song,
My husband at the wheel.
For every year, Thanksgiving Day,
As it approaches noon,
We find the FM station
That’s all set to play that tune.
It’s part of our tradition
As we take our turkey jaunt
To join with Arlo as he sings
About that restaurant.
The words are mostly spoken
And it’s twenty minutes long,
But it’s a way to join my past
And present, with a song.
For flashing to the 60’s
In the way that that song does,
Reminds me of those days gone by
And life the way it was.
If someone said one day I’d sing
With my kids ‘bout the draft,
It would have sounded crazy
And I’m sure I would have laughed.
On Turkey Day, we did just that,
Our voices at full blast;
And I thank Arlo Guthrie
For that linkage to my past.
(for Paula Swanson's "Traditions" contest)
On this day of Thanksgiving,
A time of year most favorable
For a heartfelt reminiscing
Of those things for which I’m most grateful.
For the Father’s perfect love,
And the Son, Eternal Logos;
For the Holy Spirit from above,
And Our Lady Theotokos;
For the Church who does restore us,
And the Scriptures she maintains;
For the saints who came before us,
And the martyrs who were slain.
For my husband’s heart of gold,
And my family who’s always there;
For my silly cat, so hot-and-cold,
And my car that takes me anywhere;
For my home, a refuge from the storm,
And my job that lets me eat;
For the clothes that keep me warm,
And the shoes that shield my feet.
For the day which gives us sun,
And the quiet dominion of night;
For the summer’s carefree fun,
And the winter’s tranquil might;
For the light that corrects and guides,
And the dark that lets it shine;
For the joy we cannot hide,
And the pain that shapes and refines.
For the triumphs that make my heart sing,
And the trials that keep me grounded;
I am grateful for everything,
For by blessings I am surrounded.
Every November, Harlem hums
coquito chilling, collards cooking,
a holiday approaching
that never sat right with me.
Before the parades, the plates,
my mind slips past the pretty lies
we paint over pain
and calls it “Thanksgiving.”
I think about Columbus
the way they crown him a hero
when really
he sparked the unraveling
of my whole bloodline.
Taino shores stained red.
Africans dragged into ships.
A continent bent under the weight of his footsteps.
And every year,
I whisper the same wish:
“If only I could turn back time…”
That’s when the sand rises
lifting out the sidewalk cracks,
spinning into an hourglass storm.
Suddenly I’m in 1492,
staring at the moment
everything went left.
Columbus stands on his deck,
smug, boots tapping out the rhythm
of centuries of sorrow.
And my whole soul wants to stop him
one push,
one word,
one shift in the timeline.
But the sand flickers
and replaces him with worse.
A conqueror history hid
because his cruelty
couldn’t fit on clean white pages.
He doesn’t want gold.
He wants erasure.
The sand darkens.
Across the ocean, Africans fade
not freed,
just gone,
executed on their own soil
before they could ever become ancestors.
The Caribbean I know
Bomba drums,
Taino caves,
abuela’s laughter in Loíza
collapses into dust
so fast I begin fading with it.
I reach for Harlem
its stoops,
its music,
its cultures braided like my own DNA
but my hand slips through the city
as if I’m a ghost
in a world that never had a reason
to make me.
If I change the past,
I erase myself.
I erase my people.
The sand spins like it’s teaching me
with every grain.
Then suddenly
a softer shimmer.
The scene resets.
Columbus steps off the boat humble,
listening.
The Taino greet him without fear,
teaching him how to walk the land
without breaking it.
Years later, Africans arrive
not in chains,
but in hope.
By choice.
Bringing rhythm, language, strength,
building a true America
with the Taino
side by side.
The hourglass rights itself.
Harlem returns
alive, loud, imperfect,
but real.
And I breathe.
I can’t change the past.
But I’m the proof
that my ancestors made it through
anyway.
We celebrate this Autumn feast
and do you remember when
the turkey was the main event
of a holiday come again ?
Family came from near and far,
I remember that this was so.
Talk of what this holiday meant,
yet the turkey still stole the show.
Times remembered through a child’s eyes
yet I think it must be the same
where throughout all Thanksgiving days
nothing rivals the turkey’s fame.
I would like to think that you agree
but I cannot speak for you.
Does the turkey hold the honored place,
will your heart to it stay true ?
(Written for Donna Golden's Turkey Tribute contest)
Is it gone, dissolved into thin air?
No, yet it falls short,
merely needed, quietly required.
Is it far beyond reach?
It is lost.
Uprooted, dislodged, cast aside,
vanished into the void, strayed far from home.
Scarcely present, desperately needed,
discarded to the winds.
Set down upon feet that are not its own,
abandoned entirely, left behind to wither.
Curled small, diminished by scarcity,
verging on non-existence,
softened by fragility and weakness.
Absent without leave,
lost along a twisted path,
pushed to the rear, left to trail behind,
taken outside and abandoned to the dark.
Absence upon absence—it is not here,
nowhere to be found beneath the skies,
unmarked in the records, unwritten in the log.
Yet once considered, once weighed as enough,
truly sufficient,
measured and perfectly complete.
It is found—it is met—
right here in this very space.
Yet he is gone, she is gone.
The waters have washed through; what was, has departed,
yearning for home, longing for where it belongs.
Never to return, never again,
borne away by shift, surrendered to abandonment,
forgotten and ignored.
One who never knew the path of learning,
no traveler on this road.
Land of plenty supplied Pilgrim’s poverty,
Shared first thanksgiving meal in civility,
Suffering hearts survived time of dire distress,
Seeking religious freedom from tyrant’s transgress.
Our heritage is rich in blessings from above,
God showered America with His vast love,
As we reap, may we share, before God bow to say,
“Lord, help us voice thanksgiving prayers every day”.
Harvest sown, seed thrown from expectant hands of praise,
Harvest grown, golden fields of grain stand fully raised,
Harvest born, filled to brim in God’s storage sheds,
Answers prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Thanksgiving date a day life is costly given,
True worship pleasing to the One who has risen,
Not measured by one day each calendar year,
But by gratitude of heart and service sincere.
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise – you are not
For you wobble when you walk
And gobble – gobble - while you talk
Oh thee! Of stubby legs
Neck hanging in a bag
Of skin that sags and sags
How can you face another day?
Oh thee! With girth rotund
With wings of nearly none
Your flight is but a funny run
Some chase you just for fun
Oh thee! Of feathered frock
Bird of paradise - you are not
As you lie on chopping block
Ending up in cooking pot.
But come Thanksgiving Day-
Everyone will gladly say
You are by far - the finest bird
That God has ever made.
Inspired by: Donna Golden’s contest: Tribute to the turkey
2nd Place
Thanksgiving Day with prayers of thanks and blessings
Hue of warmth and rich amber and scarlet crowns losing
Ardent colors gleam beneath the trees as the golden sun is burning
November cool days are filled with gratitude; fields being prep for planting
Kempt and newly tilled, bare brown earth ready for anew birth of seeding.
Scrapbooks are soon opened as a reunion of family and friends are gathering
Grandma is in the kitchen preparing a feast with all the trimmings for Thanksgiving
Impatient children filled with enthused laughter and amusing bantering
Vibrant autumn accent a horn of plenty cornucopia, candlelight quivering
It’s exciting, gathering around the table to feast on golden-brown turkey that’s waiting
Nestled with stuffing, pumpkin pie golden brown and spicy sweet most appetizing
Grateful of bliss and blessings dear family and friends bring
11/5/2016
Around the grown up table bowed in prayer
Familiar faces etched upon my mind
Back then, I never thought the love we shared
Would be so rare, to be one of a kind
How blessed we were in fam'ly fellowship
When kids would play outside 'til called to eat
We held our backyard football championship
While moms and aunts swapped recipes for sweets
And then we'd form a circle holding hands
Each one would say what they were thankful for
As faces disappear I understand
The love we shared will last forevermore
Thanksgiving Day we'll gather once again
I'll say I'm thankful for my time with them
After required Thanksgiving Day
and depressing night
I awoke surprised
by release into ego-homelessness.
What could sad night despairs mean?
Reiterating loss of grateful identity
mysteriously disappearing through this habitat's coldly absent roof
of sacred grace
space.
Why would capital depression,
RightBrain suppression
and historic patriarchal suppression
suddenly gang up more gracefully,
less threateningly,
on ZeroZone ego-homelessness
freely chosen
before rudely thrown out
for lack of paternal place.
RightBrain fullness of soul
remains ZeroZen timeless re-identification
with one empty homeless side
without exterior shelter.
But, for how long could eternity reweave
temporary housed DNA souls
becoming Earth's healthy resilient lifeline?
Advent invites homeless nurturing adventures
into matriarchal kindness, silent advances
into wildly blind blizzards
binding sun's enchanting rainbow promise
watering returns to Earth's temporary spring sanctuary
refueling DNA's homeless
yet robust
absence of perpetually living boundaries
Toward, rather than against, Earth's healthy wealth
future identity transgenerating
transubstantiating temporary sanctuaries
in humane health-identity space,
Earth's co-arising sacred time
of ego's non-sectarian summer
for ecology's ecstatic climate climax.
Mutually homeless failing falling theology pilgrims,
EgoYang and EcoYin polypathic souls
overshadowed
by Earth's great green sanctuary
assigned to re-study timeless regenetic root systems
playing WinWin ZeroSoul revolutionary games
for homeless trusted identity, sheltering
from wildly wounded wandering
within chronic asylum anxiety,
Lost in lonely inside forests
quaking,
outside breaking
patriarchal fake-sanctuary voices
inside cooperative matriarchal wombing choices.
A lot of cold windy Dad talk
trumped
in each infant WinWin womb
by Mom's resolute inside nutritional walk.
Homeless ego child
re-connecting inside this eco-womb,
preparing to journey home again
by sacred light of wintry advent's dawn
After thanksgiving days
and depressing night
re-awakening surprise
of ego's wandering
health-rooted adventurous soul
revolution dawning in darkest brights.