This is the thanksgiving season. The folks in Canada celebrated their Thanksgiving on October 14 and the folks in the United States will celebrate their Thanksgiving on November 28. The poets here offer thanks for many things.
Baby Elephant
Gabrielle Blair
Little Elephant, you have come home,
Millennia miles survived on bumpy roads,
Swaddled in blankets, tethered in a box.
From freezing North, through swamp and desert land.
Gnarled cacti, witnessed your fleeing crate,
Bored border guard with sniffing dog gave scarce a glance.
Wild Life inspector, stamping permits, let you pass,
Too cold to venture out of doors.
Another left his glossy book of color photographs,
“Endangered Species” in glittering colors read,
Curious to count your ivory teeth,
He pried your jaw and peeked inside –
Announced them to be plastic!
How could it be? Impossible! We said.
Baby Elephant, Grand Baby Pachyderm,
You’ve found your place in your new home.
With wrinkled skin stripped bare,
Sporting seven shiny coats of mahogany lacquer.
Your keys, indeed are ivory, the expert said.
Brass pedals and hinges gleam like gold,
You do not look your eighty years of age.
And when you’re played again,
Memories of those who coaxed sweet sounds from you
Will fill the emptiness their passing left behind.
Baby Elephant, Baby Grand is here!
******
Blue Skies in New Delhi
Susa Silvermarie
Blue skies in New Delhi,
something the young have never seen.
In Punjab, people cry to see
a view for decades blocked—
the snow peaks of the Himalayas!
In Krakow the Tatra Mountains
have emerged as if newborn!
The canals in Venice are clear
enough that fish swim visible.
In China, a miracle of birds
are heard in the street once more.
Everywhere the winds
are going innocent again.
Infrared photos show
the air scrubbed clean again,
of us, of us.
We must remember this,
We can regreen our earth,
It can be done, we’ve seen
the planet more than ready
to return to harmony and balance.
You say you can’t imagine it?
Quick, look now, look now.
We must remember
blue skies in New Delhi,
snow peaks of the Himalayas,
reborn Tatra Mountains
the miracle of singing birds,
quiet humans contemplating
what we’ve done,
and what we now can do
to find our natural way again.
******
I Feel the Pleasures
Mel Goldberg
This is my eighty-eighth year
I feel hope in daily pleasures,
driving to town in heavy traffic
with hundreds of other hopefuls,
the sun through the window
warming me in the car,
poems I read that bring me joy.
All this and the roast in the refrigerator
with the small potatoes that I love.
The world may be facing destruction,
the climate may be getting hotter every year,
but the man came to reconnect my electricity,
and I have a new computer.
******
Kiss of Thanks
Susa Silvermarie
Though my country is the world,
I rejoice to reside in Mexico,
where GMO seeds are outlawed,
where same-sex marriage is welcomed,
where gender parity in every election
is now enshrined in law.
Though my country is the world,
I rejoice to reside in Mexico,
where the bells and the birds
and Lake Chapala waves
make my morning orchestra,
and people smile on the street.
When I open my eyes from this life,
when radiance rushes in,
when the state of being I came from,
welcomes me back
from the world that was my country,
I’ll throw a kiss of thanks to Mexico!
******
My Heaven
Catalina Gutierrez
My heaven you are made of velvet.
From velvet are made your sunsets.
The time you stop. Everything in beauty you transform.
Yor sunflowers bloom in my inner, they magnify me.
They are Subtle in me.
In my present everything anew becomes.
Your silence is melodious, virtuous, you turn everything into music.
From nowhere you emerge in me, in my chest you submerge.
Beautiful in my eyes you are.
Your verses run through my mind…your afternoon illuminates my present.
You are a note of life in my unconscious, in my unconsciousness.
Of velvet you are made of my heaven.
The night comes to me. The moon grows in me.
Autumn, you come back to me.
******
Whatever Comes Next
John Allet
I’ve got crumpled clothes
And a rumpled face
With wrinkles etched all over the place
I have knees that creak
On our cobblestone streets
I have hair that’s going
And hair that’s gone
And hair that’s growing
Where it doesn’t belong
I’ve got hands that fumble
A tummy that rumbles
I’ve got skin so thin
I can see right in
I’ve got jars I can’t open
Foods I can’t eat
Meals without burping
Are a special treat…
But I’ve got a mind that’s set not to dwell on regrets
Knows that life is shaped by sunrises and sunsets
And has experience enough to steer the next steps
So I’m looking forward to whatever comes next
*****
On Becoming A Memory
Allison Quattrocchi
“What happens, happens and then you are gone.”
“Brief but spectacular.”
“Life comes with an expiration date.”
Such thoughts dance with the diminishing days
Revolving, evolving – like a movie life plays;
Chocolate and ice cream and myriad adventures
The landscape of living — its infinite sensations
Frequent the memory as age advances
Revealing how I have lived.
Retired now, feeling less relevant,
Less tolerant of toxic behavior;
Rejoicing in the peace alive in me,
Not needing anything I don’t savor;
Grateful and loving just to Be,
Able to take time to really See,
Until there will be just a memory of me!
******
One More Game
Mel Goldberg
Sitting at his table the 90 year old
international chess champion
faced Death in a dark hooded robe.
“A game,” the old man proposed.
“If you win, I’m yours
If I win, I get another year.”
Death smiled. “That’s a change
from the usual pleading and begging.
Not to say the tears and wailing.”
“Well?” the champion said.
“One month. That’s the best I am willing to do.”
A board with ivory chess pieces appeared instantly.
The old man stared into fiery red eyes
concealed by the robe. “Black or white?”
Death chuckled. “I always play black.
Tentatively, the old man advanced his king’s pawn.
Death countered with a similar move.
The old man brought out his knight.
Death responded similarly.
Then the old man moved out his knight’s bishop.
Death smiled. “The Evan’s gambit.”
“Yes. Kasparov played it successfully
against Anand in 1995.”
Two hours went by. The only sound
was the clicking of chess pieces
against the tiles on the board.
“Five moves to checkmate,” said Death.
When the old man knocked over his king,
he smiled and said, “Good game.”
“You are smiling. Are you not angry?” asked Death.
“Nah.” The old man sat back
and folded his arms. “All I really wanted
was one more game.”
******
River Rx
Susa Silvermarie
Gestate in the dark
sitting by the river.
Be quiet, enter quiet,
the quiet of the river.
Come back from the past,
Come back from the future.
Give up the global addiction,
Give the river your fear.
Let the river have your thinking,
Create yourself while you listen.
Create the world in the quiet
Do your part in the dark.
Float in the birth canal,
everything unknown.
Listen to the riversong
Tune yourself to the river.
Inside the quiet sound,
feed the world your love.
******
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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