Wednesday, November 27, 2013


My friend, the poet, sends two fine poems.  The first made me smile.  The second sounds a more serious note.

Wild 1, Early Riser 0

something breaking
crunch   scraping    bang of metal
oh! out of the edge of sleep   cold
recognition     awake
just ice removal beyond the window
that time of year now   officially
    screaming   cursing     must get up to see
ha! knew there were some around
further out of town
wild turkey attacking the man
clearing glazed, dusted suv
count nine of them flitting  dancing
annoyed by salt spreading truck
do not speak this dialect
of poultry   just the sound objecting
   “wicked oppressor,  wicked oppressor”
as Tom takes another run at handy human
wielding broom at feathers black and brown
        not connecting
root for the not genetically engineered
sleek and sturdy birds
hatless in a fresh wave of freezing sleet
count his running retreat to lobby
a win for the wild ones

(Marthe G. Walsh) 

Most Call It Thanksgiving …

Where there are humans, there are holidays,
celebrations of hunt, harvest, hubris
or just hope that harsh facts will cede to better ways.

With bonfire, sacrifice, feasting and prayer,
remembrance of triumph, thanks given for
seasons or old cycles washed in soap of new care,

the wanted, the wilted, both lost and found,
seem to crave reprieve from unsteady stream,
ordinary existence of life on this ground.

If one does not join in, heed herding’s call,
suspicion abounds, hints that rejection
lurks in lone contemplation, spoils for a joy fall,

but no, no, it is just a choice, a taste
for still moments to reflect and to think,
to note and to notice what was gained, what laid waste.

A Pilgrim is stranger, traveling light,
lost without some injustice to balance,
some truth to discover, some old wrong to set right.

It will not be grim, my Thanksgrieving fast,
for I am glad of many things, and, too,
aware that tradition can help oppression last.

(Marthe G. Walsh)


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