[Anne Bryant-Hamon]

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.

[Anne Bryant-Hamon]

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.

[Janice D. Soderling]

How does a womb rise up from the sea?

I'm thankful I don't have to watch that happening.

[Laura Heidy-Halberstein]

Originally posted by Janice D. Soderling:
How does a womb rise up from the sea?

You've never seen a prolapsed uterus, have you?

[Michael Cantor]

[Rose Kelleher]

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.

[Anne Bryant-Hamon]

I'm thankful my country elected Obama.

That's for damn sure! And that the election was over before the mingling of American families tomorrow!

I'm thankful for poets in Drills and Amusements
who lighten things up with their jokes and effusements.

And that too. Wish my man didn't mind that I'm fat. Actually, he does, but still loves me in spite of the fact.

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

[Rick Mullin]

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.

[Anne Bryant-Hamon]

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

[Donna English]

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!