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Lines for the National Day of Prayer
bless chair and picture
rice in the evening
and being ordinary
bless error and air
the company and lead
shit and hole
o state make me thankful
Poems on the topic: gratitude
Poems on the topic “gratitude” on Poets.by.
Thanksgiving Fisher
all around the great dead oak
as darkness falls
a fisher dances
hunting white-footed mice
a dark sine curve
against the snow
that is also somehow able
to freeze for long minutes
crouching pouncing
coming up empty
it is only i sitting across
the frozen pond
who leaves feeling
fuller than before
filled i suppose with seasonally
appropriate gratitude
Thank you
i thanked you for helping me
i thanked you for staying with me
i thanked you for caring when nobody else did
but i never apologised for leaving you
Thank You
Dear Water,
Thank you for being more than
just a substance composed of
chemical elements.
Thank you for quenching
my body's thirst for you everyday with no effort.
Thank for rolling down my cheeks,
carrying my emotional baggage
whenever i can no longer carry it.
Thank you for being a great conductor of sound
when everything around me is silent.
Thank you for teaching me that even though it's barricated,
I can still get to the other side through the cracks.
Thank You.
Friend
Dictionaries are books of revelation.
You never knew what words really meant
You took them for granted
You assumed
You had always thought so
You thought that’s what people meant
Until told otherwise by the dictionary.
Shall we look up the word, ‘friend’?
The word, in my hitherto life I have used
So wantonly.
I assumed it meant what I thought I felt
For certain individuals I liked more than others.
Certain individuals who were in my thoughts
More often than not.
Those for whom I felt affection
Those for whom I ached
A Traveler True.
A traveler never forgets
The trees that gave him shade.
A traveler never forgets
The streams that quenched his thirst.
The paths he trod
The winds he rode
The grass he slept
The rocks he leant.
To remember and to be grateful
Is the way of the traveler true.
And –
The trees and streams,
The paths and breeze
The grass and rocks-
They too, will remember him.
As he passes-
Heart of the World
She's not much for recipes. The bowl sometimes
invites her, and she oils it, cracks a duck egg
or two, throws in a bit of stock or well water,
maple syrup and leavening, and says to it:
sit there and I'll be back with something for you.
"Something" might be a beet leaf, or an apple,
or a spray of young mint -- once it was a whole
handful of chives. Chopped and thrown in,
the whatever might vanish under oats or rye,
buckwheat flour, or crumbs from the last loaf,
and then salt -- late, so as not to insult the yeast.
Last, she may tug the spelt barrel from beneath
the counter, and dip a porcelain bowl into
the cool brown powder five -- six -- seven
times. She stirs the makings between heaps
Or Otherwise
Beets are a thing, she mused; all summer
Every seed she'd planted out refused
Every opportunity to sprout, but
Those in flats thrived, just as those
Seedsmen told her they would not.
As for after they were transplanted, well!
Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.
Even so, some were left not quite finished
As the gophers waddled away, and
Those she was grateful for. She brought in
Her greens; made wilted salad; then
In winter came across again the muddy half-moons.
Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,
Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.
Making the Soul's Re-acquaintance
It seems you must give up your long-term lease
On being right and wronged, righteous and hurt.
No doubt there's someone else who would be pleased
To lord over that haughty piece of Earth.
Move to a cottage of humility,
Cross-breezes, and a pantry full of jars
That hold your faults, preserved for scrutiny.
Live with the wretchedness of who you are.
Chop kindling from the stump of your assumptions,
And ask forgiveness from each simple wall.
It won't be long before you sense resumption
Of basic gratitude for life, for all.
Of course you'll want to pray again, poor sod.
But keep it basic: pray there is a God.
Rhapsody
I am glad daylong for the gift of song,
For time and change and sorrow;
For the sunset wings and the world-end things
Which hang on the edge of to-morrow.
I am glad for my heart whose gates apart
Are the entrance-place of wonders,
Where dreams come in from the rush and din
Like sheep from the rains and thunders.
Friends
Now must I these three praise--
Three women that have wrought
What joy is in my days;
One that no passing thought,
Nor those unpassing cares,
No, not in these fifteen
Many times troubled years,
Could ever come between
Heart and delighted heart;
And one because her hand
Had strength that could unbind
What none can understand,
What none can have and thrive,
Youth's dreamy load, till she
So changed me that I live
Labouring in ecstasy.
Debtor
So long as my spirit still
Is glad of breath
And lifts its plumes of pride
In the dark face of death;
While I am curious still
Of love and fame,
Keeping my heart too high
For the years to tame,
How can I quarrel with fate
Since I can see
I am a debtor to life,
Not life to me?
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