ABOUT THANKSGIVING

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)