This early morning, Thanksgiving day before the dawn is bright, I contemplate by candlelight our family so afar.
Quiet am I now, as memories come and go. Travel to another state, the table set for many. Generations past. Grandchildren now grown. Scenes of happiness and laughter, dancing in my head.
Sun now risen, our day to share begins. Warmly we embrace, so thankful for each other. Later we shall sit to sing our family’s table grace. Only two place settings, two voices raised in song.
Thanksgiving 2020’s essence remains the same, thankfulness for God’s abundant blessings. Unique this year, we also have requests. We pray for more kindness in our troubled world and healing in these Covid times.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, and my friends and family, on this Thanksgiving day.
Hearts take the hand. Trump failed. Dummy hand hapless in play.
Donned in camouflage revealed as the ill-literate. Sees no value in a paradigm shift. Pair a dimes? Chump change. No interest in cents at all. Narcissistic I-land, far off shore.
You are no sire, no knight with Excalibur. Rather bellicose bellyacher night or day, wielding tweets perched upon a thin wire, manufacturing a storm.
Hailing, thundering, “MY RAIN” even as it is about to end. Drowning in the fetid swamp created by your squalls. Your reign shall cease and the sun will shine again.
Linda is hosting OLN at dVerse, where we can post any poem of our choosing: no prompt. I decided to engage in a bit of word play and ended up with a political piece – perhaps a poem of witness again? Photo from pixabay.com
I am a product of white privilege. I hula-hooped and pogo-sticked through youth scholarshipped through college on the debate team married, bought a house, and had two children. We had two dogs who roamed our big back yard. a vegetable garden and raspberry bushes. Our kids had good friends, played board games took music lessons, learned to drive, went to high school swing choir competitions. They went to college, married, bought a house, and had kids who took music lessons and walked to school. None of us had the proverbial picket fence, but sure seemed we had everything else. I had no idea there was a Green Book.
At seventy-three, I am appalled, frightened, and petrified for this country. I applaud all who take a knee and decry the knee that pressed, without mercy, on George Floyd’s neck – 8 minutes and 15 seconds of deliberate hell. I decry the lack of justice for Breonna Taylor. I decry the narcissistic occupant whose utter disregard for science, truth, the environment, the letter of the law, sacrifices made by our armed forces, has decimated the moral fiber of this country, left us with 200,000 lives lost to Covid. And the number grows. Yet people follow this self-centered prat, gather in enclosed spaces no masks, no social distance, cheer on this person masquerading as our president. The occupant who doesn’t give a rip about them ~ except to keep him in power. I write, I speak, I donate to senate contests, and I WILL VOTE. I maintain hope in the good. That is my protest.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Grace asks us to consider protest poetry.
Ship of dreamers
homeland left behind.
We cross vast seas,
anxiety churned by pitching waves.
we stand tall,
crane to see her torch.
Hands clasped, excitement peaks.
Grinning widely we circle round,
as she comes into view.
We are joyful Swedes,
ready to begin anew.
Brian Miller, founder of dVerse, helps us celebrate the pub’s 8th anniversary today by providing the prompt. He wants us to capture a moment in our poem, reminding us that moments come with a context. The happenings before and after the moment. Today I write motivated by a Hallberg family photo, taken in 1906, at the moment Hjalmer Hallberg and friends saw the Statue of Liberty, when coming to this country from Sweden. I write in the first person, trying to imagine this moment.