Today I am happy to share with you a poem written in celebration of the Thanksgiving holiday. It was written during a Thanksgiving past, when I was celebrating with my parents & friends in my childhood home.
May it warm your heart and fill your senses! I wish you, your families and friends a wonderful holiday. I’m thankful to still be writing, pursuing my passion — with the love of family and friends surrounding me.
Sweet scents of cinnamon, ginger & nutmeg
dance within this home of my childhood,
Pumpkins adorn the windows, glimpsing at
fallen leaves of orange & red hues nearby.
I am greeted with hugs & smiles,
given a place at the table and asked to
make a blessing.
Candles flicker atop the delicate cloth
covering the cherry wood,
I am impatient to taste
the scrumptious treats beside me –
candied yams, corn casserole,
soft butter-rolls, roasted turkey with dressing.
I open the prayer book, reciting the blessing
that begins our traditions.
An array of delicious confections –
apple, pumpkin, cranberry pies
and vanilla ice cream
march in precision to form a line
behind this feast.
My belly over-full, body tired and mind content,
I relax by the fire sipping hot chocolate & eggnog,
I wrote today’s poem in response to a writing prompt called “Where do I come from?” over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads The prompt idea came from the video above – a beautiful trailer for the documentary film We Are Poets. The prompt is one of many you can find there — part of an ongoing write-a-poem-a-day series during April for National Poetry Month. I come from
I come from flat lands, rows of corn in endless open fields
dark brown, rich soil and maple trees,
clear blue skies, puffy white cotton clouds, red Cardinal birds
sticky, hot humid summers, nights spent chasing fireflies
bomb pops and drippy Dairy Queen cones
“Shake your love” and “I think were alone now” on my hot pink cassette radio
metal swing sets and square swimming pools
games of Mother May I, hopscotch and kickball
freezing cold winters with frozen icicles, five foot snow drifts blocking the drive
sliding down mountains of white, tasting cold flakes and building fat snowmen
I come from Childhood and Home.
I come from heavy backstage curtains, dusty mustard yellow
a stage, warping from asbestos in the roof above
acoustic guitars, black and white piano keys
sheets upon sheets of lined staff paper, hymnals and black folders
hours upon hours of rehearsal, warm bottles of throat tea
I come from the Stage and Music.
I come from paperbacks and hardbacks, textbooks, bibles
memoirs and fantasies and adventures
journal pages smudged with pencil, stained with ink