Because of Thanksgiving (I guess), PoeticMeditations has once again graciously allowed me to guest post my latest poem for which I am truly thankful. Not only that, I was also graciously invited over for a delicious Thanksgiving dinner for which I am doubly thankful for. Now that I’m stuffed, I’m seriously thinking about changing my nom du plume from “Not Really Struggling Poet” to “Not Really Struggling Stuffed Poet.”
BLACK FRIDAY MADNESS
By Not Really Struggling Stuffed Poet (formerly known as Starving Poet)
Grumbling and cursing, shouting and screamin’
Shoving and pushing to start the holiday season.
Losing one’s mind over insanely low prices.
Violence and greed are just two of many vices.
Queuing up early in the wee hours of the morn.
Once inside, bouncing around like kernels of popped corn.
Grabbed a flat-screen TV – have a bigger one at home.
One fell on top of a shopper and broke an ankle bone.
Don’t even know if I want it, but that’s not the point:
Can’t leave empty-handed after elbowing my way into this joint.
Black Friday marks the start of the season to be greedy.
Forget about the Salvation Army – it’s not about the needy.
Thank goodness for the retailers who want me to spend, Spend, SPEND.
No time to think about peace on earth and good will towards men.
(All rights reserved ©2014)
Photo: BBC News
Don’t want to end up an obituary page, but another Pulitzer-prize winning poet has passed away. BBC News article here.
(Image from en.wikipedia)
From a tiny spark, it consumes and grows,
Turns mighty forests into hellish infernos,
Races about with foot so fleet,
Destroys all in its embrace of heat,
Like passion’s flame that burns so bright,
Quickly dies the pure, white light,
Yet, at its touch, can heal and purify.
From the cold, gray ash, new life shall spring,
And once again, the lark will sing.
THE WOOD THRUSH STILL SINGS
Through long, lonely days and longer, lonelier nights,
By candle light, through darkest hours till dawn’s first rays,
I will continue to craft my songs through thirst, hunger
And neglect – not a single farthing for my labor,
Only the cold indifference of this uncaring world,
For even when it’s hungry, the wood thrush still sings.
Good news for all you Dylan Thomas fans out there (myself included): it was recently announced that one of his notebooks was found. His mother-in-law had given it to the housekeeper to burn, but she decided to save it from the flames. For the CNN article go here.
An idle singer of an empty day,*
Free as the wind and drifting like a cloud,
Pockets empty, but heart so full, yet light,
Ambling carefree through leafy woods and glade,
Whistling along with the merry wood thrush,
Feasting on the violet’s fragile beauty,
Chasing the joy of each passing moment;
Into crystal words, distill their essence.
Against the shady poplar trunk, at ease,
While merchants go about peddling their wares,
As people toil for their daily bread.
What was, was.
What is, is.
What will be, will be.