Thanksgiving Poems

We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

I could list the gifts I'm thankful for and write until next week.
My health, my eyes, my darling wife, granddaughter's rosy cheeks.

Treasured friends that, if I called, would say, "I'm on my way."
A precious mother that, lucky me, turns eighty-one today.

Children I'm so proud of, sisters that make me smile,
little ones that call me Pops; my list could reach for miles.

A soldier in some foreign place, assuring liberty for me,
a sunny sky, a frosty morn, a blue-green shimmering sea.

I'm thankful that in this land I love, we're free to disagree,
where we aspire to so much more than mediocrity.

I keep this mental list of gifts and add to it each day,
like God's unique and precious love, whose patience never sways.

A similar list, I know you have, so think on that awhile,
and be thankful, friends, that every day our gifts outweigh our trials.

Ever since I can remember,
on the fourth Thursday of November,

long before the crack of dawn,
early on that frosty morn,

flurries and leaves in wispy winds,
as our mother's long day begins.

Placing pumpkins beside the front door,
setting the table for twenty or more.

Into her cozy kitchen she goes,
creating tradition as only she knows.

A muffled clanging in our heads
as we still slumber in our beds.

Then, as if by some magical spell,
spicy, sweet scents begin to dispel.

Aromas in the atmosphere rise,
waking our senses and opening our eyes.

Cinnamon, saffron, nutmeg, and sage.
Stuffing the turkey, she's setting the stage.

On the stovetop simmering away,
delicious side dishes are at play.

Deep dish apple and pumpkin pie
rest on the windowsill nearby.

Family and friends begin to arrive.
Some a bit tired from the drive.

Children running in and out.
Happy laughter all about.

The smell of turkey sweeping the air.
Thanksgiving time is finally here!

Out of the oven all golden brown,
her turkey is our table's crown!

Dad, with his big wide grin,
slices the turkey nice and thin.

Smiling with her dimples so sweet,
she knows Thanksgiving is complete.

Now we give thanks to the Lord above
for this bountiful blessing made with love.

Many Novembers have come and gone.
We try to carry her memories on,

but the one thing we can never replace
is mom's sweet smiling dimpled face.

Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh, 
warm and cozy on Thanksgiving Day.
Happily blushing, we went on our way,
the children restless, yearning to play.

Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go.
Down a lonely lane, toward the snowy mountain,
around the pond where skaters bond
and wishes wait in the old stone fountain,
past the farmsteads and withered fields,
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields.

Now with our steed strong and staid,
we made our way through the glade.
Past the rustic cider mill,
along the coast and up a hill,
then onto Main Street, straight on down
through the quaint, romantic town.
Toward the chiming, white church steeple,
past the storefronts curbed with people,
in the wake of the Pilgrim's boat
at the stern of Santa's float,
behind fairytales and candy lands
as the sidewalks sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands.

From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
a side street sleepy, virgin white.

Hazy lamplights lit our course 
and into a trot sprang our horse.
His hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels,
while in the shops from whose windows shone
a snug inviting yellow tone.
There flashed the goods that Santa would leave
under the tree late Christmas Eve.
The clothes and toys wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows.

Now past chimney smoke and picket fences,
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
here old Victorian silhouettes abound.
Through a dash of snow we smoothly wound,
the atmosphere around us festive,
thus within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace.
Folks enjoyed a simple pace
while others gleefully strolled about
amid the maize and wreathes without
amid a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse.

To our delight, there soon arose
a savory ambrosia for the nose
from tables fragrant fare adrift,
which gave our souls another lift.

And so it was with a sigh
through the scent of pumpkin pie
that we would fly into a sky
powdered with pink through leafless limbs
to a house bright with gold and flowing with hymns.

The wind pushes down the road, a warm breeze
just warm enough.
Thank you for a word...a whisper.
So many colors surround, leaves falling, carpeting a soft path.
Thank you for a life of memories, so full and bright.
A time of transition, neither summer nor winter,
a time of rest,                             
a moment to contemplate.
Thank you for your patience, at times undeserved.
A thought, a subtle gesture,
a warm fire, an ever dimming light,
a time to gather together.
Thank you for being summer, and I winter,
yet we always meet in the fall.

If a turkey will make a wish
It would be a long, long list.
It will give you all sorts of reasons
To change that turkey tradition.

It will wish you change your mind
Of having a turkey when you dine.
It will wish you'll crave for seafood
Or tell you crabs would be good!

It will wish you have a toothache
So mashed potato is what you'll pick.
Or wish that on Thanksgiving Dinner
Only vegetarians will come together.

Yet, people come and they insist,
"A turkey dish is just the best!"
Poor turkey, it will just yell,
"Oh dear, please take away the
November in a year!"