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It seems that something has come by and eaten my Thanksgiving poem right off the Drills and Amusements board. So I will try re posting it and see if it can be allowed to stick around for the Thanksgiving week.
Changing Whippoorwill calls from the loose leaved oaks, a sound like a distant, wailing train. Chatter is scattered among the folks of the deepening fall and pre-winter rain. Brush strokes of autumn lie on the ground; willows have wept all their golden tears; days have grown shorter without a sound. The seasons are wheels in the passing years. Apple-crisp air smacks me like a kiss, tingling as pumpkin-pie thoughts unwind. Pain is the flip-side of change's bliss - it depends on perspective and state of mind. |
Giving Thanks
For the hay and the corn and the wheat that is reaped, For the labor well done, and the barns that are heaped, For the sun and the dew and the sweet honeycomb, For the rose and the song and the harvest brought home -- ......Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! For the trade and the skill and the wealth of the land, For the cunning and strength of the workingman's hand, For the good that our artists and poets have taught, For the friendship that hope and affection have brought -- ......Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! *For the ones who pour out without measure, their best, For the season of plenty and well-deserved rest, From the womb of the earth rising up from the sea; May we ever be children whose spirits are free -- ......Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! - Author Unknown -*(I rewrote the last stanza to my own liking) Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! to the unknown author for the first three stanzas. |
How does a womb rise up from the sea?
I'm thankful I don't have to watch that happening. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif |
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So we're being critical in D&A now, too? I hope not, otherwise I'm screwed.
Thanksgiving I'm thankful my country elected Obama. I'm thankful for Netflix and Romance and Drama. I'm thankful my desk is held down by the cat. I'm thankful my man doesn't care if I'm fat. I'm thankful for tolerant, generous friends who view my faux pas through a rose-colored lens. I'm thankful for poets in Drills and Amusements who lighten things up with their jokes and effusements. |
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Earth's womb rising out of the sea was not meant to be literally visualized, of course. Off to the kitchen for the next 24 hours. Hope everyone has a good Thanksgiving. Anne |
Battleground
Thanksgiving morning, Ed came out at eight And mobilized his Saturday routine. With ear cups on, behind his garden gate, He filled his blower up with gasoline. Ed’s leaf bazooka roused the neighborhood. Unconscious, he advanced with his campaign To raise his lawn above the greater good. He straightened out his yard sign for McCain. |
Funny one, Rick! I think Ed lives in my neighborhood.
I wanted to leave our Obama sign up until Thanksgiving day, but my husband decided it would be best for us not to gloat into the holidays. McCain got about 75 percent here in "red" Bay County, FL. But the state as a whole turned blue, Thank God! Thanks for posting the amusing poem. Anne |
Anne, it's not my own poem, but it's my favorite fall poem.
Hope that's okay. When the Frost is on the Punkin by James Whitcomb Riley 1891 When the frost is on the punkin' and the fodder’s in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin turkey-cock, And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, And the rooster hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it’s then the times a feller is a feelin’ at his best, With the risin sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock. There’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— Of course we’ll miss the flowers and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; But the air’s so appetizin’;and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a picture that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock. The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries—kinda lonesome –like, but still A preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in their stalls below—the clover overhead!— O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock! Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin’ ‘s over, and your wimmen-folks is through With the mince and apple-butter, and they r souse and sausage too! I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and the’d call around on me— I’d want to commodate `em—all the whole indurin’ flock— When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock! |
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