PERCHANCE THANKSGIVING
Four centuries now since they first came here
Pilgrim foot upon our shore,
Leather shorn with metal buckle
seeking refuge from the storm.
Hungry eyes that sought advantage
migrants from an unknown realm,
Looking first to find their shelter
looking then to claim our own.
We first saw them cold and hungry
helpless wanting outstretched hands,
Needing help for their existence
seeking food from bounteous lands.
That first winter we did feed them
taught them how to plant and fish,
Showed them how to build their lodgings
all they needed, all they wished.
When disease they bore befell us
We withstood it, many cried,
Our Great Spirit told us “help them”
though it cost us, many died.
When first harvest came upon them
their great leaders summoned us,
Sit and visit, share our plenty
came we did to show them trust.
When their people kept on landing
numbers growing with the years,
Looking for their own ascendance
looking past us unawares.
Soon we struggled with our neighbors
just to keep our native land,
But their numbers kept arriving
took our nation from our hands.
David Balford, New London, NH
THE VISITING POET TALKS TURKEY
On this rural college campus in New England,
an hour of my writer-in-residence time
disappears watching students pet
a wild turkey. This bird causes controversy.
Some students exclaim, make her the new school
mascot, others chant, kill the beast, it’s lost its flock
and sounds so lonely. On this they all agree.
Her haunting warble pleads for the company
of peers as she sits for students and professors,
who form a line of pilgrimage to kneel beside
her and stroke her sable down. Something
holy is developing in front of the dorms today.
She loves the attention, trusting everyone,
even those who want to put her out of some
purported misery; an insignificant battle
of universal proportions, a turkey war
escalating quickly. Who can a turkey trust?
I must leave tomorrow, this crusade
between good and evil continuing while
I mull over my conundrum, wondering
if they will feed her turkey food and keep
her as a pet or will she fall to the contingent
of hunters who seek her demise. Oh, it’s only
a turkey you say, but I knelt before her in homage.
I saw the sadness haunting her eyes, as if she knows
she will be sacrificed, gobbling up our love
and affection like a saint. I hope she finds a warm
bed in which to sleep, eventually reunites
with her flock and overcomes her adversities.
She is the soul of the young student looking
for a place to sleep at one in the morning.
She is the soul of the gay Mormon student
who has left his assembly. She is the soul
of the student recovering from near fatal
injuries against all promise. She is my soul.
Maybe I should transport her to a new
flock near my home. Maybe she has just
fled, an overpowering Tom. Her
feathers do look a bit ruffled, you see.
These issues scatter like grain in my brain,
overwhelming this poet. I need to cook this
through with a colleague, whose door
I knock on after extending my benedictions
before the turkey. Excuse me, I whisper,
can we talk turkey for a few minutes.
But, I am stopped cold turkey realizing
I am interrupting her holy lunch hour
as I am asked, “have you eaten lunch,
if not, would you like to share my
turkey sandwich?” I stutter and utter,
“thank you, I think I’ll pass,” as the first
flickering thought of becoming
a vegetarian flashes through my mind.
Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH
THANKSGIVING FOR THE TRUTH OF THINGS
I could be a bird, I’m up so high
the lake from here is just a distant
snake of blue stretched
at the feet of mountains rising
from earth’s depths like sculpted waves.
First snow marks distant ski paths,
up above, the sky is strung
with clouds of vaporous pearl.
This distance, and this perfect peace
clears vision for the truth of human scale:
We humans are not lesser gods, that
in our wish to order everything
we should make the world a battleground
inflicting devastation on our own—
Beyond far ruins, Eden is still here—
We are not gods, but fleeting humans,
members of each other.
Through the truth of things
that we can see when we rise high enough,
we can be thankful for the good that is—
and we can forgive each other for not being gods.
Joan T. Doran, New London NH
SECOND-THOUGHTS OF AFTERMATHS
Nothing compares to a forced apology,
be it from your own tongue
or the lurking spite from another’s.
It is similar to the blessing of food
that you know tastes horrible
or know well, its inevitable outcome.
We are grateful creatures, more or less.
If not in honesty, then radically on
this Rubic’s-Cube of a crowded planet.
All the while, there exists a thank you
unsaid somewhere…could this be in you?
Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH
ACCEPTANCE
We start
Silent
As bits of
Dust
Bursts of
Dust
Stick
Pulses
Builds
Cells
Systems
Spin
A world
Our world
Alive
Inside out
Outside in
Learning
Love
Connection
Survival
Hope
Despair
Where do I belong?
I walk slowly
Toward setting sun
My skin
No longer fits
Kathleen Skinner Shulman, New London, NH
THANK YOU, I THINK
After my Mammogram I said thank you, I think to the technician. We both laughed.
Thank you for all of our wonderful rain, I think. Thank you for the exercise doing autumn chores,
I think. Thank you for opportunities to learn from my mistakes, I think. Thank you for keeping
me humble, for deflating my ego, for bringing me back to reality when my head is far far away,
and for teaching me so many lessons, I think.
I think I want one thing when someone knows I really don’t, really shouldn’t, really couldn’t.
Am I thankful? Yes! Thank you for all I have, for all I am, for keeping me out of my own way. I
will think about all of my blessings.
Jennie Pollard, Windsor VT
