I wrote the poem below on Thanksgiving Day when I was 17-18 years old. I was living in the small town where I went to high school. Estranged from my parents and working at an ice cream factory, the night shift, to pay bills and survive.
I was remembering my own Thanksgivings at our run-down shack and then later, the home we built with our own hands. It contains some of the experiences of that time, a young boy would have witnessed. Also, I see the flavor of Irving Layton, one of my mentor poets, in this piece.
“Have compassion for all beings, rich and poor alike; each has their suffering. Some suffer too much, others too little.” - Buddha
You can take your own meaning from it. For me, it was the beginning of a voyage that little by little discovered the importance and even primacy of compassion. If we should learn anything in our short time here on planet earth, compassion is it. It should be pumped with each movement and pulse of our heart. BE COMPASSIONATE.
We, homo sapien sapiens - we are at the top of the heap in terms of safety in life, our wealth and security while alive. So we too, have a responsibility to be compassionate to all living things - removed we are from the stark struggle and brutality of nature.
I’m firmly convinced that compassion is the wellhead of true “beingness”. Each day, hold it close to you and act in its name. It will enrich you. It will never let you down. If you see, experience evil in this world - you’ll always note the absence of compassion there. Compassion is the only way to a “human” life. The only way to be a man/woman honoring the timeless energy that vitalizes all.
One way toward compassion is to continually have gratitude and be thankful for your life, what you have, how and who have helped you, and more … So for me, Thanksgiving is a powerful day of the harvest season that gives us the opportunity to say “thank you” and step forward more firmly into compassion.
I thank you for reading my words. Here is my poem.
Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.
Thanksgiving Day
I remember well
those bright dead days of autumn,
how my brother, the great white hunter
crushed the wee head of the partridge
he had winged.
Crushed it slow and rhythmically
with the heel of his heavy boot.
How the farmer, ‘cross the road
filled the burlap sack
with sure and steady hand.
Filled it with a litter of pups
and flung it into the
cold, clear water of the crick.
I remember
how my grandpa, at the dinner table
sucked and gummed his turkey
with intense joy and abandon.
The juices edging out the sides
of his eager, hungering mouth.
How my young friends and I
squatted over the chilled stiff fly
and with the delicate hands
of surgeons or lovers to be,
slowly one by one
pulled each leg out from under
its soft blue body.
I remember well
those cool receding days of autumn.
I remember so I give my thanks.
My thanks not a sacrifice to a glaring Moloch
but only,
thanks that I am a man
and not anything else.
Giving Thanks