2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

Happy Thanksgiving (for all people who celebrate Thanksgiving)! For all people who don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, happy fourth Thursday of the month of November. Unfortunately, we had to call off the Thanksgiving trip we had planned to Ohio (some last minute kid sickness), but we’re still having a good time in Georgia. Have a great day, everyone!

For today’s prompt, write a gathering poem. The gathering could be a family gathering, but also about any other gathering–whether human or not. Yes, that really opens things up, doesn’t it? By the way, thank you, everyone, for constantly gathering here to poem. I am truly thankful for all of you.

Here’s my attempt:

“Thanksgiving”

Not everyone has a brother
who chases storms for a living or
a father on the Republican
primary ballot in New Hampshire
and who posts videos on Facebook
he tries to tie in with his topic,
which has something to do with orb rights
or the Mayan calendar, but most
people have family they can bear
for a few hours on the fourth Thursday
of every November as they
eat up their fair share of comfort food.

*****

Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

Find out what I’m most thankful for at My Name Is Not Bob.

 

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248 thoughts on “2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

  1. Sibella

    5,747 Richard Thompson Fans Can’t Be Wrong

    It’s that feeling, like soup,
    when you’re all together warmly.
    You bubble over with words bent
    at angles those unlike you can’t see.

    The more of you there are, the less
    you feel like a fool. You’re a pack
    of fools, waving your jingling hats,
    linking your curl-toe shoes

    to dance over the edge.

    Pamela Murray Winters

  2. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    for all my girlfriends
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    (Some go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends. ~Virginia Woolf)

    once or twice
    a year we gather,
    the girls and i
    to boast and whine
    hug and congratulate
    our lives in stereo,
    reminisce and commiserate
    gossip and play the envy card,
    re-live otherwise boring lives
    through the fantasies of one another
    so that we may return to
    our children and significant others
    thankful and whole
    yet again.

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  3. Judy Roney

    Gathering Fellows

    We gather to poem, the world and I,
    in the months of April and November.
    We ponder, write, and share the angst
    of producing that poem a day.

    I like being surrounded, if only online,
    by those who write poetry and prose.
    This connection through stanzas and lines,
    gathered fellows of the word, we poem.

  4. Marian O'Brien Paul

    Ten of Us

    We gathered at my youngest daughter’s house:
    her husband, tall and lanky, black hair graying;
    his wife’s head flaunting coppery dark blonde
    waves all her own; his mother’s hair stylishly
    coiffed, colored the palest blonde. My middle
    daughter’s hair boasted the same brown-black
    ringlets she had as a child, cut to her shoulders.
    Her husband was mostly bald, a state my son,
    who is oldest, rapidly approaches. If you took
    a careful look at my own old head, you found
    vestiges of original brunette tucked up front,
    unsuccessfully fighting the wispy gray assault.
    Then the grandchildren who live in this house:
    long sand-hued hair on the eight-year old; the
    five-year old’s hair shorn and dark as his dad’s
    was when he was young. Last, the littlest one,
    a chunky version of his oldest brother – same
    color hair, but cut short by his mother to keep
    it out of his eyes. All ten heads together, bent
    to give thanks for the food-laden table before
    us and for the chance to gather once again.

  5. seingraham

    Giving Pause, Giving Up, Giving Over, Giving Thanks

    She was a giving sort, they all thought that
    In fact – in was oft heard – “she’s a generous
    “one you gotta give her that …” and they did

    But she didn’t like to lose, not an argument
    Nor a fight – everybody knew that too
    And that, as they said, gave everyone pause

    There wasn’t a soul amongst them ever wanted
    To be on her wrong side, nice as she seemed
    Most of the time – and she was except when
    She wanted something, even just to know a thing

    Then she was hell on wheels; she would pester
    And inveigle and carry on till there was no other
    Way until some poor soul would finally give up
    or give over, whichever seemed best

    But in the end, she was mostly nice, and theirs and they
    Were glad of it so what they gave usually was thanks
    Giving thanks became their mantra where she was
    Concerned – their own private in-joke, thanksgiving

  6. barton smock

    ***
    in the library of expatriates
    ***

    I am here
    for failing
    to convince
    the world
    I am not like my father.

    I am here and my country of shade
    is here and there.

    I traveled inside a book, highlighted
    yellow- mistaken for a raincoat, and once
    for a bear.

    said jesus, shadow, and witch.

  7. alana sherman

    In Temple for Jane’s Bat Mitzvah

    When I was thirteen
    my dress was white organza
    with pink polka dots and a pink sash.
    Only one girl here today has anything similar.
    The rest wear sleeveless sheathes
    neon pink or black and skin tight.
    Jane’s is black too, but for the ceremony
    she puts on a jacket.
    Her mother says she is an old soul.
    The organist, a black woman,
    gives voice to the ancient melodies
    with a gospel pulse that startles
    the whole congregation. We are here
    today to celebrate Jane’s new life
    as a woman. Her life proclaims her.
    We gather together to praise her
    as she takes her place—
    a new woman in a different world.

  8. Bruce Niedt

    Stories

    This week they’ve all converged on our house,
    the nexus of family, sons and cousins,
    aunts and uncles, in-laws, and we make sure
    the board is indeed groaning. But along with
    the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce,
    we pass around anecdotal memories,
    like the story of my son, the family engineer,
    who at five or six would construct intricate
    webs of yarn in his grandparents’ living room,
    such that it was often hard to pass through
    the house. They are both gone now, and
    he is in graphics design. At the table
    we become a collective mind of family legacy,
    and our stories catch in the intricate lacing
    of family ties, where they resonate in that web,
    sympathetic vibrations that make our distances
    seem so much less drastic.

  9. Nancy Posey

    Gather Around

    Gather around the old folks, children,
    While you have them near. Ease up 
    To the grownup table. Pay close heed
    To what you hear. Theirs are more
    Than simply stories. They’ll unlock
    Your past–who you came from, 
    What you’re made of. Ignore them
    Only if you dare. Tomorrow
    You’ll have time to play with other
    Children your own age. Listen now.
    You may not have another chance.

    They can tell stories that will break
    Your hearts, have broken theirs:
    Deaths untimely, war time losses,
    Minds unraveled, dark roads traveled.
    Listen with your eyes closed, 
    And you might imagine them when young–
    Your age, maybe younger, playing pranks,
    Afraid of spooks, tent revivals, Sunday
    Dinners on the grounds, all-day singing,
    Rabbit hunting, bird dogs, long gone now.
    Don’t be a bit surprised at tears
    Mixed with their laughter or with yours.

  10. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 24 11-24-2011

    Write a gathering poem.

    Financial Attraction

    Some started camping on Monday.
    Others lined up after Thanksgiving dinner.
    Bargains at 10.
    Deals at midnight.
    BOGO at 5 a.m.
    After cooking for several days, enjoying the meal
    with my family, cleaning up afterwards,
    laughing together at “The Muppets,” curling up
    on the couch eating leftovers while watching “Elf,”
    there’s no way.
    Nothing I could buy can compel me to join the mayhem.
    There’s nothing I want that bad.

  11. Jerry Walraven

    “Woolgathering”

    The conversation continues
    unabated
    but the words
    stop making sense
    and the line
    which tethers my mind
    to this world
    becomes kite string.
    A strong breeze
    lifts me into the air
    and I soar
    above houses
    above clouds.
    Smiling,
    I turn my eyes toward
    the heavens
    and dream
    of trips to mars
    and beyond
    and
    and
    and . . .
    Where was I?

  12. Sara McNulty

    Gathering

    Caveman gathered wood
    for fire; women gathered
    to cook spoils of the hunt.
    Squirrels gather nuts,
    bears gather to hibernate
    in winter. Humans gather–
    in a myriad of cultures,
    races, beliefs, and a multi-
    tude of personal perceptions
    of a family–to celebrate or
    to mourn together.

  13. richard-merlin atwater

    The Gathering
    Rich Atwater Nov 24, 2011 Thanksgiving Day

    She lay quietly, with drugs to ease the pain, in her own bed,
    At home, the night before Thanksgiving Day, with her children.
    Many of the twelve had arrived for the gathering, what was said:
    Was very little as we stood around her mortal frame bewilderen.

    Cancer ravished each and every portion of her body, top to bottom,
    The attending physician said: cross your t’s and i’s, how you dot ’em
    Won’t matter much for she has received the heavenly call to move on,
    Some kept watch all night, others slept in hope of Thanksgiving’s dawn.

    About 530 AM the call did come as angels took her spirit on a flight,
    Yes, Thanksgiving Day my Mom left earth at 73 years 9 months aright,
    Mother of twelve children, grandmother to sixty-five, and now, years later,
    Hundreds of posterity call her Matriarch of our noble ATWATER Clan, Pater

    Noster: “Our Fathers Prayer” upon her soul this FAMILY Day, she left behind
    Tradition to believe in Jesus Christ and follow him in compassion of the kind,
    Her body lay in deep repose beside the man she knew in life who fathered twelve,
    Together await the resurrection of our Lord, deep thoughts to ponder, and to delve!

    In commemoration of the 17th anniversary of my mother’s death on Thanksgiving Day 1994.
    Eva Viola (Dyer) Atwater February 21, 1921 — November 23, 1994 resting beside her husband
    David Henry Atwater April 4, 1904 — May 23, 2004 (at age 100+)
    I’m the 4th of their 12 children.

  14. Dan Collins

    A gathering of crows

    I saw a crow
    hanging
    upside down
    loop tied
    by his feet
    over the post
    of a barbed-
    wire fence.

    “This man must hate crows”
    “No, he loves his pecans” “

    Why do poets
    love crows?
    Because
    words gather too,
    like crows to laugh
    ironically, at times
    to reveal some
    recondite knowledge
    outside human
    experience, to broaden
    understanding,
    to amuse, but mostly,
    to remind us of death
    so we don’t get too
    cocky – that’s
    why we love
    their flaw-
    less black
    feathers scattered
    across the snow
    white page.

    1. PKP

      I am delighted that I was drawn here. WOW… Absolutely exquisite. Sweet dreams when they come to you 🙂 Intrigued and fascinated by the imagery and the parallel is brilliant…

  15. pmwanken

    GATHERING THOUGHTS

    the cacophony of noise
    around me faded
    into the distance,
    the words echoing
    in my mind
    the only sound now:
    He didn’t make it.

    gathering my thoughts,
    I left that empty
    conference room,
    my quiet refuge

    He didn’t make it.
    I heard myself
    telling my boss,
    through tears,
    as I went through
    the motions of
    clearing my desk

    gathering my thoughts
    I remember
    days gone by,
    the good and the not so good

    Thanksgiving,
    a year and a half
    after the final goodbye,
    another holiday
    comes and goes
    another holiday without Dad.
    He didn’t make it.

    2011-11-24
    P. Wanken

  16. J.lynn Sheridan

    “Around the table”

    Nutcracker prances on the ol’ Victrola
    as background to Thanksgiving football.

    Twenty legs under the table twitching for
    turkey and more.

    Please pass the gravy, the dressing, the corn—

    the hummus, samosa’s, the roti.

    Pilgrim meets Southeast Asia around
    the table, southern fry bread meets
    Norwegian Anna’s cardamom rolls,
    old meets older, lawyer meets hairdresser,

    buzz cuts for dessert, Gestures and
    Boggle with after-dinner drinks,

    Jackets zipped, hugs and double kisses
    into the cold night air as the ol’ Victrola
    plays an ancient hymn of grateful praise.

  17. Joseph Harker

    Jetsam

    We’ve let ourselves wash up on the sand tonight,
    spread out on blankets with cups of white wine in hand,
    tide coming in. A calligrapher moon paints a pale gold line
    crumbling in the water. Remember the sea-borne saints,
    tonight: we watch night crowds file along quietly,
    breaths caught in the sotto strains of whale-song.

    They carry bags and baskets, and candles dripping light
    between their toes, they hold raw coconuts and sip
    life through straws. There are prayers and thoughts
    woven with orchids into long chains for their braided hair.
    They come down to the fingers of the undertow, unafraid,
    too close to drowning to stay, too close by far to go.

    We are curious and hovering just out of sight.
    Tomorrow all the evening’s evidence will be left in doubt,
    so we crane to see folded paper boats, into whose clefts
    they place lipsticks and compacts for a midnight cruise;
    tapers to guide what the petitioners have hid;
    a convoy of small and colorful treasures.

    They unfurl the name Yemanjá like a turquoise kite,
    stitched with hope: your maidens and long-legged boys,
    remember them. They watch the rising of what was begged,
    before moving ashore, where they will murmur past us
    once again. Their fleet finds the current at last,
    decked with plastic and flowers, all sailing out to her.

    We can’t claim allegiance to this shorebound rite,
    but we know what it’s like to be lost, and to be found.
    To float; to beach. So much driftwood in this world, and we,
    we are the billion particles some deity parent has hurled
    out to dry. And we all find our thanks to be sent,
    orbiting each other, these nights at the edge of the sea.

  18. RJ Clarken

    PS – Robert – hope your sick kid is feeling better. And Walt, hope you’re okay.

    Sorry I don’t have much time to read and comment, but working in retail at the holidays combined with hosting the holiday gatherings at chez moi kinda fills most of my time. I’m [yawn] crashing now…but anyway, here’s to everyone at PA enjoying a little of the season’s folly…with no regrets.

  19. RJ Clarken

    No Regrets

    “No party is any fun unless seasoned with folly.” ~Desiderius Erasmus

    ‘Tis the season for foolish wits:
    a time for gathering, so let’s
    make it merry, like silly twits.
    Let us sing our risqué duets
    and do what we will. No regrets.
    “Tis the season to be jolly.
    The last one standing wins all bets.
    Welcome to this season’s folly.

    ###

    Note: The form is Huitain. Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving. ☼

  20. PSC in CT

    Had some surprising & beautiful company first thing this morning at breakfast. 🙂 Only just getting around to putting it down on “paper” (sort of), now. Hope you all had a great Thanksgiving — if you celebrate Thanksgiving today — and a wonderful day, anyway (if you do not). 😉

    Deer Visitors

    Unexpected gathering
    early morning guests
    wholly uninvited
    welcome nonetheless

    cautious, silent seekers
    early morning light
    wary, watchful, lovely
    hiding in plain sight

    1. PSC in CT

      Oh my! What a nice surprise to find all these great comments! Thank you, Pearl, ina, Numue and Sara! It was such a great way to start the day — (I posted a bunch of pics of my “deer inspirations” on facebook) — and so lovely to find all your sweet comments, days later. Thank you again! 🙂

  21. Buddah Moskowitz

    Seen and Unseen

    If I gather
    all my good deeds
    seen and unseen,

    then subtract
    the sum of
    all my bad deeds
    seen and unseen

    and total it up,

    and then stand it
    next to one man
    hanging on a cross,

    no matter how
    I size it up,
    I’m not worthy,

    but still
    I’m welcomed in,

    so
    I give thanks.

  22. Jane Shlensky

    An after-dinner blank verse, meditating on where all that food we consumed today comes from.

    The Source of Things

    We thought of harvest as a thankless time
    Made of hard work and aching backs and legs,
    Beginning and ending each day in dark
    Exhaustion, ‘til the gathering was done.

    The berries and fruits sat in jars, preserved,
    The garden vegetables frozen, canned,
    All tubers dug and laid on cellar flats,
    All cash crops finished, sold, and land laid by

    For yet another year, gold corn and grains
    Taken to mills for silage for the cows,
    Bees robbed of honey, fall grapes making wine,
    Plow horses growing furry in the chill.

    A farmer plants a seed and waits for it
    To take possession of itself and bloom;
    Crops fruit at their own time, some summer fare,
    But sometimes all at once, like a design

    To force each farmer’s family to save
    All manner of sweet rest for winter fires
    Weeks hence, dreaming of what true leisure is
    While hearts and hands and minds throb with the strain

    Of bringing bounty home and tending ground
    That gave us plenty—food and labor both,
    So that when we sat close around a meal
    Made sumptuous by raising up each dish

    From seed to fruit to harvest, we knew well
    Just what it takes to make a table groan
    With God’s own bounty cooked by loving hands,
    Turning our thankless toil to thanksgiving.

  23. Michele Brenton

    Safe.

    What is the combination?
    Dancing , laughing, teeth-bared necessities
    revelling in my failure.
    I can’t keep numbers in my head
    they enter my eyes and the pain
    is not what they do but what they mean
    and what they do not say and never will.

    Singing, smiling, comforting my fears.
    words come from inside and fill my life
    a bubble wrap of endlessness.
    I will never pop every one and they will
    always be everywhere and everything I am.
    Even in silence they speak and I know
    you hear them too though maybe in a different key.

    Books become corridors I will never leave.
    Chapters, windowless rooms where I view eternal vistas of light.
    There is more in a single full stop than in a vast peninsular
    and I lose myself in punctuation whenever I pause for breath.

    What is the combination?
    A mouth opens and closes and sounds
    wander across the air.
    I am gazing again at the brilliance of eternity
    and it is everywhere.

  24. cstewart

    Gathering

    Shall We Gather At The River?

    We gathered at the river,
    For walking to the islands,
    Or building a pontoon,
    Or a campfire,
    For solace and solitude,
    To fish and swim,
    To explore quietly.

    To stand back from the flood,
    And watch warily to see if,
    We had to leave the house,
    In a boat.

    To look at natures bounty
    Of signs,
    And animal’s wanderings,
    Watch the turtles sunning,
    To drag our boat up the river,
    Three of four miles,
    Over rapids, and shallows,
    Just to float back down,
    Laying on the bottom,
    In the sun.

    The Lewis Family said that

  25. Jane Shlensky

    Shepherd

    Some sensitivity to saving strays developed in him
    when he too was out there in the woods
    scrounging for hand-outs and songbirds,
    sleepy lizards and slow grasshoppers, his eyes
    huge in his thin face, his fur worried by briers,
    a one-time housecat tossed on hard times
    by a thoughtless owner who had perhaps
    fallen on his own.

    Now our purring friend waits at windows and doors,
    sometimes escaping for an hour or so, back
    into those woods and sheds, where he gathers
    the lost and needy cats home, meowing and
    dancing on our deck, lifting their tired paws up to us,
    claiming our house and kibble as their own.

  26. Walt Wojtanik

    A GATHERING OF HEARTS

    The seeds of love hava been planted,
    nurtured and cared for, and there
    for the picking. The harvest is bountiful
    and caring words are plentiful when hearts
    are joined over distance and space.
    Happy faces pressed together in
    a kiss of love’s hearty fruit. A beautiful
    expression of the affection so given.
    And given in return. I yearn for your
    caress; soft touches to soothe my soul.
    I crave your kiss; a tender buss to seal
    all that we feel. I want you to have and hold;
    untold sentiments to cement our love.
    Above all else, I give thanks for you.
    You are the holder of my heart,
    gathered to you by your loving hands.

    HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO THIS FAMILY. IT”S GOOD TO BE “HOME” FOR THE HOLIDAY!!

  27. taratyler

    love all the gatherings! hope all are enjoying the day!

    Talking Turkey
     
    “We call this secret meeting
    As time is by us fleeting
     
    “The hour’s drawing near
    We need a volunteer
     
    “Who will be the bravest
    To sacrifice and save us?
     
    “We can’t leave this to chance!”
    “Why can’t we make a stance?!”
     
    A voice comes from the crowd
    “Who said that? Speak out loud!”
     
    The masses split in two
    To show Bartholemew
     
    “If we all stick together
    He won’t grab a feather!
     
    “Let him choose a pig this year
    Then we can do a jig and cheer!”
     
    Ooos and ahhhs, a “Sure! Why not!”
    “Let the pig go in the pot!”
     
    Unanimous the turkeys gobbled
    As in their midst the farmer hobbled.
     
    Tho they had such high ambitions
    The turkeys scattered, forgot their mission
     
    Big fat Tom had met his end
    The rest bowed heads for their dear friend.
     
    Maybe next year…

    1. Walt Wojtanik

      Sara, You’re a beautiful soul, in a gathering of beautiful souls. I thank you and all my poetic friends for your well wishes and concern. Today is a better day, and I am full of peaceful feelings. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

  28. Janet Rice Carnahan

    A MISSING FEAST

    It is Thanksgiving,
    And to not be a turkey,
    I truly wish,
    I could read everyone’s poems,
    Hear your message,
    Feel the emotion in your work,
    Appreciate your titles,
    Celebrate your well crafted verbiage,
    Rejoice in each word choice,
    But busy I am . . .

    Oh, where is my yam?

    How I wish I could encourage,
    And uplift all ideas,
    Applaud your creative urges,
    See the one very special aspect,
    Of your writing,
    Pick that one highlighted verse,
    Salute your style every once and awhile,
    Wouldn’t want to step on any toes . . .

    Where are the mashed potatoes?

    I’d like to look through the whole assortment,
    Seeing who is new to the site,
    Stop by and acknowledge how much courage it takes,
    To get out here,
    Post your poems, state your name,
    And hope there is, at least, one person,
    Who notices one day and writes a note to say,
    A friendly, “HI” . . .

    Did someone move the pumpkin pie?

    If I could I would skip through and visit with known faces,
    Drop by and share what I love about your lines,
    Or what I notice you prefer to write about.
    Once again appreciate your unique take on a prompt,
    Feel your words, enjoy your humor and understand your pain.
    I would feel that great connection again, that warm exchange.
    Laugh with you and smile and hang out with you all awhile,
    Sadly I have no extra time to do such a thing . . .

    Who has hidden my stuffing?

    If I could slow down and catch my breath,
    I’d swing by and thank Robert!
    Tell him how amazing this month has been!
    Share with him how incredible his poets are,
    I would tell him how valuable his writing style is,
    For showing us all what is possible with poetry.
    If I had the time, why I could even rhyme!
    But to open up more time, I haven’t got the key,

    Oh NO . . . now I have lost the turkey??

    I would echo again how lovely it is that all poets,
    Are each doing their best and bravely choosing,
    To put their words out there!
    Which, is an amazing step and act of courage,
    It takes real gusto to just do that much.
    Everyone has already won just by showing up,
    I would stand tall and applaud you all!
    But I simply can’t, I must scoot . . .

    I haven’t located my bowl of Jell-O with fruit!

    And lastly, I would revisit the joy of friendship,
    With the poets who have touched me the most, the longest or the deepest,
    Just to name a few, Wonderful Walt, Marvelous Marie Elena, Sweet Hannah, Pearl Girl, Mike Grove, Daniel Ari, Cara Holman, Laurie Kolp, Amy B.L., De Jackson, Kit Cooley, Domino, Andrew Kreider, Patricia Hawkenson, PSC in CT, Jane Penland Hoover, Kim King, Paula Wanken, Michelle Hed, Sara McNulty, Buddah Moskowitz, Jacqueline Hallenbeck and RMA and many others too! Thanks for all your giving!
    Because of your kindness, compassion, support, good humor, genuine care, fun, spontaneity or Wonderful back and forth dialogue, you have all made a difference,
    So thrilled to be part of this troop among such a talented and wonderful group!
    Why we could stop and bring to peace any army, battalion or navy . . .

    Ah, time to run . . . I am totally out of time for the Thanksgiving Day feast . . .

    And because I have been on a “roll” . . . the family is eating without me . . .

    Oh . . .

    GOOD GRAVY!!

    1. jane hoover

      how I love your ending – good gravy – one of the required elements of any feast of the Penland Clan –
      And this post is delicious all the way through – delivering the thankfulness amdist the stressful – always intertwined – hope you caught up
      got your fill

    2. PSC in CT

      Ahh… so sweet, Janet! And such a thrill to be “lumped in” (not lumpy gravy!) with such a fine & impressive group of “peeps” & poets! Hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful — (pumpkin) pie-in-the-sky! 🙂

    3. Marie Elena

      Totally fun, and totally Janet!! I agree with PSC … thankful to be included with such a wonderful group! Thankful for your ever-uplifting heart, Janet. Who couldn’t ever stay in a bad mood with you in their presence? <3

    4. PKP

      Oh Janet … Just delight- full … If my eyes weren’t closing I would attempt to do the same..but I’ll have to be satisfied with just publicly stating my appreciation to you and for you – as you revolve sparkling on Janet Planet 🙂

      1. PKP

        There is nothing “aside”
        about all here poetic
        each soul mused risen
        and joined on our lyrical
        street drenched in words
        a joined chorus
        consistently drawn
        consistently renewed
        inspired and embrace
        I am simply
        thankful for you all

        Happy Thanksgiving
        and a special hug for Robert who created
        a home where we all could gather, build,
        continue traditions and share and merge
        pieces of our soul.
        Very special this place
        and so very much never
        an aside….

        With love to all … I am more than I was before I found you all 🙂

      2. Janet Rice Carnahan

        All your kind and sweet comments truly move me to distraction!! How I love the art of attraction to distraction! It seems to move my world! Ok, now I am talking in circles! It was a long day with food, football and a fun run on the beach with the kids! Thinking of you and your presence here at this site . . . life is so good with joyful connections! Thank you, sweet poets, each and every one! 🙂 Always! Happy, happy day to you!

  29. Arash

    Treasure

    Licking the streets and panting, he came
    around the corner. Stopped. And rested
    by the bend. Whistling now, he gazed
    down at the treasure he had gathered
    at his feet. Dead leaves, plastic bottles,
    broken pieces of glass, papers, dust,
    and entangled in bare electric
    wires, a navy blue severed head.

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